THE DOCTOR'S IN?

This is the time of year for reviewing the past year, celebrating the birth of Jesus, and filling out new patient sheets at the doctors.

I gather up my list of medications and vitamins with all the care I would give to mom's grocery list for Dicoskey's market. They then give me my "'new" patient form to complete. I still think the purpose of this is to keep you from noticing the magazine about the "Red Sox Miracle" or the one headlined, "Nixon Resigns".

Recently I negotiated a compromise with our dentists' receptionist. I could read over the questions and mark "no change" if appropriate. I did so right after the question: date of birth?

I like to sit in the corner of the examining room. From there I can see when the doctor removes the chart from the rack outside the door. I love it when they scratch their head - trying to remember who the hell I am.

I recently mentioned to a doctor's assistant that, after several visits, I did not recall ever meeting the doctor.

In about 6 seconds the doctor appeared - in scrubs - was extremely hospitable and offered myself and my family weekend passes to Disney. I appreciated the sensitivity but it was innocent - on both sides. The day I see the PA is the same day the doctor operates.

Our family physician doctor has a practice comprised of mostly seasoned patients. My favorite doctor day visit is "The Senior Human Chain Bracelet Dance". The lab tech finally comes out from the lab. He/she reads from a clipboard the numbers of the "not too patiently waiting" patients who are now permitted to come inside to have our blood "drawn."

Then, like the 7 dwarfs heading off for the mines, we shuffle off inside the hall to our assigned chairs. One guy picked the wrong chair. They hauled him out of there by his ear, re-scheduled him for a different month. and wouldn't return his shovel. Me? I just hummed "Whistle While You Work" and the real audiophyles among us joined in.

On my last visit there was one new nurse and two student nurses in the blood lab.

The student nurses assigned to me pulled his blue plastic "sanitary" gloves out of his pants pocket and pulled them on his flabby hands. The first swab he obtained when he missed the vein fell to the floor when he tried to drop it into the trash container. It remained there. After three tries to find a vein my student called the nurse for help but he, was busy overseeing his attractive female postulant.

Patients were now starting to rock in their chairs. Nobody would dare head for the bathroom as they feared losing their designated chair. Many wished they had chosen fresh Depends.
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I finally inquired about the use of the rubber ball and introduced the "Holy Trinity" to tapping the patients wrist or forearm to assist vein location. My suggestions appeared to baffle them.

They had an epihany, called for a doctor and found he was busy. Then they made a committee decision to bring in a leech to search for a vein of mine they could use.

I won the "name the leech" contest. I chose Stephenie Meyer.

BOUND TO HAPPEN

Let's face it. We all knew it was bound to happen.

A rumor is "afloat" (as you will) that a petition has been sent to Baseball Commissioner Bud Seligs office demanding a name change for the Pittsburgh Pirates. (PP)

It was filed by a group claiming to represent The Pirates Of Somalia. (TPOS). The gist of the petition is that the PP are giving TPOS and pirates everywhere a bad name due to it's obvious lack of a winning record and aggressive behavior on the field of play over several years. (Note they say "aggressive" not "offensive".)

They reference the consistent unwillingness of PP pitchers to pitch high and inside as just one example in support of their conclusion. They also speak to allowing outfielder - and leading base "stealer" Nyger Morgan - to be shipped off to "The Washington Generals" (sic).

Frank Drake IX, the spokesperson of the group, claims: "The "softie" identification with the PP name is also a constant affront to our members as well as their ancestors."

He cites the willingness of several sports teams to make changes of their previous names in deference to the demands of small indigenous native american groups who "apparently were shut out of casino largesse and had a lot of time on their hands".

(It was interesting they did not observe this fate has yet to have befallen the Washington Redskins - whose owners adroitly argued they were named after a vegetable - clearly a half baked allegation -but one that received massive legislative support.)

Drake included a tape of a sample negotiation demand conversation with Greek shipping magnates: "We are the Pirates. You have to give us 10 million dollars if you ever expect to get your hijacked oil tanker back. Otherwise, we will set it on fire." You then hear the sound of raucous laughter from the Greek shipping magnates, followed by a dial tone.

It seems the shippers made the same misidentification that is the focus of the petition. They assumed it was our PP, a floundering sports organization that appeared to be seeking non-reportable income for the purpose of becoming "The New Pirates Of The Caribbean". (TNPOTC)

It was an honest mistake.

You see, the shipping owners have relatives in the food concession business in Pittsburgh who continue to return to their native land on vacation. Each year these relations have loudly lamented the lack of any agressive behavior by their beloved PP's - resulting in decreased fan attendance and a dramatic fall off of Baklava sales at the stadium.

TPOS in their petition do cite as an encouraging example of promising local piracy the possible unwillingness of the PP management to open their books to the people of Pittsburgh. They concede it certainly would be a positive sign - but perhaps a case of , "too little - too late."

To further this argument they remind Bud that neither the performance of the team nor the actions of it's ownership seem to have attracted his interest, let alone the other MLB owners.

The following scary but plausible closing argument was related to us by an individual privy to the negotiations, but not authorized to speak publicly:

"Due to the association the name "pirates" now has with your sports team, we have become the Rodney Dangerfields of Larceny (RDOL) . We simply are getting no respect.

It's getting tougher and tougher to make a dishonest buck! Should you fail to capitulate to our demands, the only viable option for us may be to purchase our own MLB team - recoup our losses - and enjoy the anti-trust protection afforded others."

We should point out the petitioners were not without their conciliatory advances at first. Noting Pittsburgh's fondness for outlandish alliteration in the form of the Pittsburgh Pirates, Penguins, and long departed Pipers, etc; they offered alternative choices.

They suggested as a more accurate name selection: The Pittsburgh Pansies, Pip Squeaks, Pushovers, Pee-Wees, Putrids, and P---ants, as well as what seemed to this writer to be another valid alternative name choice.

Drake claimed that should their petition be accepted by MLB and, what they saw as an absolutely appropriate substitute name be chosen, they will voluntarily erect a statute in honor of the long suffering PP fans : A 17 foot "Plaster of Paris Pigeon" to be located in the middle of Market Square.

I say, "Go for It. It's good for tourism and it would be "a steal".

NOT TO WORRY

Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is around the corner. You couldn't have missed it. It was in all the Walmart ads.

So, you pulled out the outdoor extension cords and Christmas trimming lights you store together and discover all the cords look like the first spaghetti you made as a young bride or anxious bachelor.

Hint: never pack the lights up on New Years Day when you have a New Years Eve hangover. You have enough on your mind just trying to figure out how the hedgehog got in your bed.

NOT TO WORRY # 1. Be like us. At our home we're as prepared as the Pentagon.

About a week before Thanksgiving we pack all the cords in a large cardboard box and haul them over to the local daycare center. They become the focal point of the Annual Thanksgiving Puzzle Contest. (ATPC)

The kids are split up in teams of three - with a teacher or volunteer assigned to each group as a timer. All the various cords are covered with nap pads before the contest starts so no child can inavertently start unwinding them in their mind. (We have some really advanced kids in our daycare center who are taking calculus as an elective)

The teacher blows a whistle and the puzzle solving begins. If a few kids on the teams are temporarily members of the remedial puzzle solving group - maybe due to a poor attention span or boredom - but are great sleepers - that's when the nap pads come in handy once more.

NOT TO WORRY #2. Prizes? That's the genius in this whole scheme.

About eight days before Thanksgiving you thaw out some of those fruitcakes Aunt Martha gives you annually. You know, the ones you shove in the freezer cause you never know what to do with them.

Ah ha! You're starting to recognize the classic "two-fer": Even weird Aunt Martie can't get upset should she discover you were willing to give up your Christmas goodies to feed hungry kids.

NOT TO WORRY #3. Remember those are the same tummies that can digest edible crayons, cat food, and colored snow. Kids are tougher than you think.

Be sure to pick up your unentangled cords the morning before holiday recess. You'll have the trimming done in about 15 minutes. Guaranteed!
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Hope you had a great Thanksgiving.

" And Bingo Was His Name"

Writing a blog is good therapy for an aging senior like me. I also discovered that playing Bingo with my wife at our community clubhouse can be similarly stimulating.

Like everything else there have been several alterations to the game of Bingo since I last played. It seems they have given up on putting the kernels of corn on the squares and abandoned the use of those little plastic chips too. Nowadays, in order to play efficiently you need a dauber about the size of a Hebrew salami. Fortunately this old Irishman found one with green ink.

My introduction to Bingo was the annual Fireman's Fair in my hometown of Forest Hills, Penna. I didn't play much there but mostly labored as my Mom's good luck charm., standing erect behind her until she won her first Bingo game. As you can see, Mom was Irish too.

As a kid I thought Bingo was really called "Aw, s--t!, as that's what I heard at the end of every game. I was sure many of these Forest Hills women of the late 40's & early 50's were former resistance fighters in Poland and Denmark during WW II.

Last week I discovered the rules for Bingo, had changed more than "Strip Canasta". There are more patterns and games of Bingo than this mind can handle. There are diamonds, 4 corners, , diagonals, full card immersion, corner squares, secret numbers, and "quickies".

The latter held my interest until I discovered this meant the Bingo caller rapidly shouts out the numbers without furnishing you with the corresponding 5 letters.

I now realized I had lost any command of the Bingo language acquired in my youth and was clearly a member of the remedial Bingo class in my 55 and over community.

At one point we were informed by a very nice blue haired lady, who I refer to as the Bingo Gatekeeper, that the next game to be played required the use of the secret number "4".

We're all getting older and some of us don't hear well so we can easily become confused. Therefore, I listened carefully as the gatekeeper patiently explained to us this meant that any card space ending in the number "4" was a "freebie", and need not be recorded.

That was fairly easy for me. It reminded me of a twist on a popular beer drinking game at Pittsburgh weddings in the 60's. However, it evoked several acts of verbal desperation by some of the hearing impaired and fellow remedial class members with whom I empathized.

The gatekeeper was not as forgiving. After fielding several questions her previously patient gaze had turned into a stare that would have melted Tupperware. "Does that include "34"?", one woman in the back boldly inquired. The gatekeeper replied , "That would be it, dear", and appeared to be honing her stare, apparently fearing she would not reunite with her spouse until 2010.

Seemingly immune to the increasing change in the gatekeepers attitude, as well as the fading hour, the woman continued with her verbal assault, "Would that be number "54" as well?"

The gatekeeper's eyes were now dissolving the cover of the Naugahyde chair in the far corner of the room. "YOU BET-CHA!", she replied in a tone suggesting she was a fraction of a second from loudly requesting a "pricecheck".

"I have a 74. Can I include that too?", the player bravely continued. The gatekeepers' orbs were now glowing and the separation in the floor tiles beneath the woman's folding chair was widening.

"FOUR, FOUR, FOUR! Any number ending in a 4."she screamed out of desperation. She then chugalugged her Gatorade before slumping into her own chair, upon which she had previously been standing.

Noting that I had the number "44" I wisely hesitated to inquire if that meant I got two free squares

Instead, crouched like Quasimodo, I resumed my preassigned duty of daubing each one of my squares ending in 4 as well as the number "62", which was awarded to us posthumously.

I was totally confused. When we entered I had been furnished two 4 card sheets . This was far more than the three cards with which my mom entrusted me as a child. This was the "big time."

My ignorance proved to be a disaster in the quickie game or when we had to try to fill up all our squares with dauber dye. I hit the back of my wife's left hand and wrist several times during the evening. I also ruined her faux Gucci watchband, and knocked over her Creme Soda and my Dr. Pepper.

Wait till they see all those green spots on the table under my paper thin cards.

I don't think we'll be invited back.

If you get a good one - - - - - -

We love living on the Gulf side of Florida. You get a pretty good mix over here. The night life is good down in Sarasota- you can cruise out of Tampa - and there are a bunch of Steeler fans down here in Bradenton.

There's also a lot of farm land. Near our development there are several cows that use a former fruit farm as pasture. Bella, our Chihuahua, loves seeing them up close and thinks they're big dogs. Bella doesn't know a lot about animals. Guess I don't either.

Recently a fellow I met down at Geckos invited me over to his farm. I had just sat down in his farmhouse with a cold sarsasparilla he proffered when a three legged pig appeared from behind the couch I was occupying.

When my friend came back from the kitchen I inquired about the pig and noted to him that I observed it only had three legs.

My friend said, "Yep, that's a very unusal pig. I doubt we'd be having this conversation if it hadn't been for that pig. As you know, we get a passel of rain down here. With a farm this size we have to deal with a lot of mud. One rainy day I got too close to the edge of the pasture road. The tractor slid suddenly, flipped over, and pinned me underneath."

"Wow", I exclaimed. "How'd you get out?"

"Well, that's the strange thing," he said, sucking on his Dr. Pepper. "It just so happened that Chitlin, the pig you asked about, saw my predicament. I was too far away from the house to call anybody. I was getting concerned as it was getting dark and my leg had started cramping."

"Yeh, I'd have been scared too. I mean, how much help can a pig be when you're in a fix like that?", I asked.

"Well, that's just the thing I was thinking then. But, you know, Chitlin sat down for a while cogitating on the problem. Then he got up, put his head down and boar straight ahead; if you'll excuse the pun. He proceeded very carefully to dig a narrow trench from the roadbed and under the tractor, spitting mud right and left. His plan worked and allowed me to extricate myself without being crushed."

"That's one extrordinary pig", I said, in awe of the pigs perspicacity

"Yeah, but that's just the beginning. One time we were all sleeping and the kitchen caught on fire. The smoke was so thick you couldn't hardly see the front door to escape. Darned if that pig didn't smell the smoke, come to see what was going on, and then head butt the door in. This allowed the smoke to clear and we grabbed his tail to escape safely, looking for all the world like a human charm bracelet."

"Incredible!", I exclaimed.

"Finally", he continued, "there was the time the Feds were sneaking around the out buildings where we kept the still and Chitlin got wind of them. He set up a sort of a pig posse and he and the other pigs chased them guys plum off the land.''

He paused. "Of course, then we realized we needed to take evasive action and we moved the still into a cave we dug under the kitchen floor. By, the way, would you like another? It won't take me but a minute."

Finding I was having difficulty in identifying any of the primary colors on the Afghan spread across the arm of the couch, I declined graciously and quickly got back to the conversation. "I've never heard of anything like that in my whole life. But, tell me, why does Chitlin only have three legs?"

My friend put his thumbs under his overall shoulder straps and proudly exclaimed, "Well , you know, if you get a good one like Chitlin you just don't want to eat him all at once."

Don't know about you but it made perfect sense to me at the time.

(This blog has not received a P.E.T.A. seal of approval)

Who would know?

I bought a new car recently from my local GM dealer. It was time. My Henry-J was on it's last legs and I was having a devil of a time locating parts.

It's been a while so I was amazed at the amount of paperwork to be signed in the dealership and the volume of material contained in the two customer manuals they furnished me. One was a detailed book describing the entire vehicle. The second was sort of a "how to get started" instructional guide that covered the highlights, such as how to get out of the car.

I hesitated to go any any further as we Sullivans don't like to read directions. However, I admit I was curious what this could possibly be all about. There was a powerful lot of information in those books - and a lot of big words. In addition, even after seeing the pictures in the manuals I had trouble finding the matching locations in the front of the car. They all looked alike to me.

There was this one interesting section that discussed the skinny dill pickle shaped rod they had inserted into the left side of the steering column and that kept getting in my way.

It appears this was designed more for a multi-tasking adult. I didn't get into all the details as I'm a sort of "one step at a time kinda guy". However, I was impressed that the darn thing would wash your windshield and make the wipers go faster. I thought, "Who would know? What will they come up with next!" I put the book back in the trunk as it was clearly way over my head.

Don't get me wrong. I really do love the car despite the fact I don't understand it much, but, that annoying clicking and the church bells I sometimes hear are starting to get to me. After much thought, consternation and hesitant exploration, I concluded the noise has something to do with the pickle. I decided to question my peers in this "experienced adult" community for their input.

Driving the two blocks up to the Florida "old f--t" weekly Friday breakfast meeting at the clubhouse (so people could see my new car) I inquired of the other seniors at my table about the strange noises I was hearing. While many of them affirmed they too had experienced this annoyance they appeared to be equally frustrated and unable to explain their origin. I felt bad as clearly I had caused them to have their knickers all wrapped up in knots.

Sidney Lipshitz, our college "edjicated" neighbor, who lived in one of the big places up back, offered, "sometimes if you pound on the steering wheel real hard, the noise will stop!" Angus Furbush, the new resident from Iowa nodded his head in agreement - perhaps too vigorously -as this caused his face to plummet into his oatmeal and a prune became impaled in his right ear.

Finally, desperate for some "good" answers , I reluctantly took the car back to my dealer's service foreman. His name was "I.M. Goodratchet," according to the uniform label embroidered just above his vinyl pocket protector.

"I.M", I said. (I felt I could call him by his first name as I paid a bundle for the car.) "I've got a problem." He stopped his efforts to reglue the McCain/Palin sticker back onto the Service Limousine's rear bumper, and appeared to be really puzzled as I described my discontentment with my new purchase and the noises it made. His tanned forehead was wrinkled up like.

"It's your 'tern signals', he barked.. Not being the dimwit he suspected, I smartly replied, "That makes absolutly no sense. How many birdwatchers are there down here to justify the expense?"

Now, he really was puzzled. He walked me to my car and directed me to the passenger seat as he got behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition and began to turn the pickle up and down causing it to start that infernal clicking sound.

He then patiently advised me that the purpose of the clicker was to alert other drivers as to where and when I was intending to turn the car. I looked at him in wonderment and inquired, "For what reason? Doesn't my winding down the window and sticking my arm out accomplish the same thing? This is just one more unnecessary doo-dad to jack up the price of the car."

Funny though, you could tell he seemed to have been around as he explained to this old timer why I no longer had to use my proven and well tested technique to signal my turns & stops.

He advised me that by "playing with the pickle" one of the front or rear lights on either side of the car, as well as the side mirrors would light up and advise other motorists what I was going to do. He said the clicking sound was to let ME know what I had done. That's when I lost it!.

I clearly told him since I was the one "doing the doing" I really didn't need some irritating noise to confirm my actions to me. I also explained to him that he was wrong, "I have seen many drivers who rolled down their windows and signaled other drivers with their finger". I also added, " I have never, ever, seen blinking lights coming from the front or rear of other cars out on the road - let alone showing up on their mirrors."

He shook his head sadly and softly whispered, "I wouldn't be surprised". Then he disappeared into the Service building, leaving his unattached bumper sticker behind him.

Now, I was the one who was confused, but, as I slowly reviewed our conversation and repeated his words I finally concluded, "You know, 'I.M.' just might be on to something here. I can't wait to tell the guys at Friday's breakfast meeting."

Look, I want to assure you that I'm no evangelist preacher. I'm just relating this story to you as a concerned citizen, but, think about it, if this lack of knowledge is going on in Florida, it could be happening all over the country.

That's dangerous stuff man!

"I'm not a lawyer, but - - - -"

When Charles Dickens visited this country many years ago he described it as "The most litigious country in the world". Charlie would have loved it in 2009!

Now, not only do we have attorney commercials seemingly non-stop in Florida, with each firm pleading their case for signing up, but we also have actors encouraging folks to call someone who guarantees to "FIND" you a doctor or an attorney.

While I think it's a brillant premise, I'm puzzled. Did attorneys stop advertising on the back of your phone book?

I'm retired from the insurance claims end of things for about 10 years now, so I admit to some bias - and that's not necessarily bad.

Unfortunately, I continue to be amazed at the gullibility of some people who are willing to listen to the law firms rhetoric only and not think for themselves.

It's not that they can't. I met many good folks with whom I discussed a settlement who were every bit as bright and usually more communicative than a few attorneys with whom I had contact. Ah, but you see, the injured people were usually discussing just one case - their own.

I enjoyed those one on one discussions and I was fair. These were the folks who were "doing the hurting", not the attorney. They were people who deserved my empathy and understanding. Fortunately, I worked for a company that understood this - insisted we pay what we owe - and were consistently ranked as one of the top companies for customer satisfaction.

Yeah, I know - that can't be. Right? We all know insurance companies are evil. Why? Because some attorney ads tell us that they are. When was the last time you saw an insurance company ad that put down attorneys? So, who is it that you want to believe?

Why, when you are the person who was hurt, would you consider sometimes giving away over 1/2 of the money from an insurance settlement? In a recent USA article addressing the cost of litigation the writer spoke of injured claimants who had to pay out 54% of the settlement to their attorneys for fees and administrative costs.

The amount didn't surprise me as much as the fact that a media source would allow that information "to see the light of day". Frankly, in my experience, that's rare to see and I never could figure out why. The news providers always seemed so anxious to tell you about the amount of the settlement. (Ah yeah, there's that bias thing again.)

This is a great country and people should be able to make up their own minds - if given the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately, a lot of good information is out there that people never get to see or hear.

Knowing how much time you have to get an attorney, if necessary, is a good first step in using the brain that God gave you. In Pennsylvania you had two years. To me, that seems more than sufficient for the average Joe or Joan to figure out whether or not they believe the insurance company is acting in their best interest.

What's the hurry?

By the way, I get a little uptight when someone in a TV ad is talking to the camera as they are driving. To these old eyes, they don't appear to be looking out to be sure they know where they are going.

But, YOU can be!

What Makes You Smile? - # 2.

This is an effort to concentrate on the positives in my life - while continuing to sneak in my - "I can't believe this" in further blogs.

Here's more of what makes me smile.

1. The look on a child's face when someone pulls their number out of a hat or Becky's paper bag and they find out they won. When they run up to the front of the room to secure their prize you could turn off the lights. Their smile would light up the room.

2. Any Pittsburgh Post-Gazette on line video that contains sportwriter Gene Collier's dry wit.

3. The picture of 6' 4" son Bruce lying on our lanaii with our 2.4 lb Chihuahua, Bella sitting on his chest.

4 The sight of an elderly man with a cane increasing his "stroll speed" step- by- step after getting out of a car so he can reach the Gecko's restaurant entrance before his wife - and hold the door for her.

5. My wife Phyl's excitement when she discovers a new recipe and immediately does a mental count as to which ingredients she needs to buy to make it happen in our home, NOW.

6. Looking at pictures of the earliest snowfall at Penn State since 1901.

7. A simple joke like the one in this most recent Reader's Digest. A Junior High student complains to his teacher that another student has called him that "e-word". The teacher has never heard of the E-word and seeks clarification. Under his breath the student replies, "idiot".

8. Receiving a newsletter from former hometown legislator Ron Marsico back in P.A., relating how Pennsylvania politico's finally balanced the budget - after a period of over 100 days. It's true that "sometimes the more things change - the more they remain the same". But, we're here - they're not; and folks, "that's a smiley face!"

9. Exchanging Facebook Observations with Grandaughter Cassie, our new "Farm Owner".

10.Phyl, Bella, and me, riding in a golf cart we just purchased that once was owned and "ridden hard" by a recently deceased friend "Hank". That's a look up in the sky and "Thank You God" moment.

Pittsburgh-That Dirty City.

When it was first called "the dirty city", it deserved the criticism. That's a long time ago.

Since then, many favorable magazine and newspaper articles about the City of Pittsburgh have been written. Monday Night football games have captured the grandeur of the city on "light up nights". The views from the stadiums and blimps are also well publicized.

Even people who reluctantly got off their duff and visited the city for a wedding etc., come back with high praise about my old home town . Those priviledged enough to fly in, rent a car, and then drive out of the Fort Pitt Tunnels and into the "burgh", are simply dazzled by the sight laid out in front of them. And, they haven't seen Point Park, cable cars, or Andy Warhol's museum.

The truth is that "the burgh" wasn't always so pretty.

Picture yourself as a kid in the 40's or early 50's, travelling by bus or streetcar into "dun-tun" Pittsburgh. Your clean white shirt or blouse turned dark gray from the time it took you to get off the bus or streetcar stop until you walked to McCann's restaurants front door.

Forget the sunglasses. You couldn't see the sun through the smoke filled sky.

The Chamber of Commerce did all they could for shoppers. They provided an abundance of department stores: Gimbels, Hornes, Rosenbaums, Frank & Seder's, & Boggs & Buhls.

If you didn't want to miss getting together with a friend, the usual safe meeting place was under "Kaufmanns Clock", outside the great 13 floor department store, and a city landmark for years.

As a kid, I'm not sure I realized Pittsburgh was a dirty city. I had so little with which to compare it. I summer vacationed in Wilmerding - the home of the Westinghouse Airbrake.
You didn't wear white shirts there either.

In the early 50's bankers and politicians got together, started Renaissance I, and the city's transformation was soon in high gear . Pittsburgh really "cleaned up it's act" when the dirt culprits, the steel mills, started to shut down and were replaced by research facilities.

Regretfully, we sometimes forget that those same mills we knocked, their owners, and above all, the workers, also made us Pittsburghers what we are today. Throughout, the one true constant in my love of Pittsburgh is the residents. They truly made it a 'special place' to live and many of them came from generations of those hardworking millworkers.

When my wife, "Phyl", first accompanied me to Pittsburgh on "Barry's Personal Tour" I said to her, "I'm going to guarantee you that when we go into the first restaurant you select, a patron will strike up a conversation with you within three minutes." And, they did me proud.

Do you remember when you were a kid and your Mom taught you how important it was to make a good impression? Sadly, that first memory of Pittsburgh still remains in some folks minds.

We are two Pennsylvanians, now living in Florida, who heard a couple of senior women talking about Pittsburgh the other night. One, the "travel expert," who sounded as if she was from New Jersey, referred to it as "that dirty city". We shook our collective heads and vowed to make a return trip to Newark someday to see if they, like Pitttsburgh, got their act together.

For those of you who think purchasing the rearseat of a 53 Chevrolet will preserve what you remember as "the good times", I suggest a trip to Pittsburgh instead. See downtown, don't miss the Strip District, and make it a point to get out and about. The neighborhood towns are fantastic and the people are still great. You can wear your white shirts and blouses without fear.

Pittsburgh is a beautiful, friendly place to visit and an even better place to live.

A lot has happened in 50 plus years and we're not just talking about those Chevy memories.

So, what do I know?

I took some time to read a full page USA Today interview with Andrew Fauci, the federal government's top infectious disease expert. The interview responses were well stated and informative, including the reasons that seniors are not on the priority list for swine flu innoculations. It took a while to digest .

I now find it was a waste of time seeing as how last month that incredibly informed medical expert Bill Maher tweeted to thousands the following: "If u get a swine flu shot ur an idiot."

Apparently Maher, an incredibly bright and funny man, has determined this is yet another example of government overkill similar to the response to the 1976 swine flu outbreak at Fort Dix, New Jersey. We vaccinated 45 million people and 500 of them got the rare neurological illness, Guillain-Barre. Dozens died.

Look for Billy's scholary treatise in next month's New England Journal of Medicine.

Recently I read that in a August, 2009 University of Michigan poll, only 40% of parents planned to get the shot for their children. It is said that some parents are even planning "flu parties" to expose their children to the H1N1, a virus from which worldwide 4,000 deaths have been reported.

You may have missed this if you were deeply entrenched in the latest Stephanie Meyer book about vampires.

Call me crazy. I was wrong about both Vietnam and Harry Truman's eventual legacy - but, I'm still more inclined to listen to the "so-called" expert than a very entertaining political comedian.

Now, if Barbra Streisand had said it: that's a whole different matter.
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OK, people are upset that the first pictures coming back from space following this mornings intentional 7,000 MPH crash into the surface of the moon seeking water are reportedly a little fuzzy. Ever try to watch a football game on TV when it's raining?

One can only assume this is Arnold's final attempt to obtain water for his parched California constituents. Unfortunately, an extremely gifted space-wise friend of mine with an industry sized telescope just called to inform that at the time of the crash, - -- (wait) - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - -
"The Moon Was Over Miami".

Sing along with me, gang.
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The Des Moines, Iowa Public Schools stated recently that 4,500 of their students owe $133,000.00 for unpaid meals at the start of the year, much of it from previous years.

Des Moines schools bar high school students from getting a meal without paying and limit middleschoolers to 2 or 3 days. It is reported that some schools give a student who can't pay for the regular meal an alternative meal of a cheese sandwich and milk. Des Moines does not do this as they do not want the children to "stand out", says the school system spokesperson.

Doesn't the stomach rumbling already do that?

Folks, it's only a matter of minutes before some fitness jerk on steroids, leading the fight against obesity, tweets that the only correct remedy is to weigh and measure the height of every child.
This is a "panacea" whose time has come. Obviously, if the kids fail the height/weight ratio test they will be denied what may well be their only meal that day.

But. look at the bright side: their psyche will not be affected nor their diet ill served by consuming an overdose of dairy.

Hey, you need money Des Moines? Why not head down to the local bailout bank in your community and see if they can come up with a few sheckels to remedy your problem? If that doesn't work, call NASA. They are bound to have a billion or two to spare, but, that amount could be "watered down" by now. (groan!)
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While it's never been verified, Senator Everett Dirkson allegedly stated, "A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon it adds up to real money." Now, the good senator could say, "Trillion."

And, we still can't figure out how to get it to where it will do the most good.

What Makes You Smile?

For me, it's a lot of things I think I never took the time to look at but do now because I'm
retired and have a lot of time to do so. I worry that as I get older I have allowed so many
little things to upset me instead of taking the time to take a good look at the underlying reason.

So, this blog is to give me - and possibly you - a chance to explore some funny things that
accompany our new maturity. I say, "Hey, bring on dem lemons and you'll see some great
lemonade."

#1. I loved the recent blog by friend Harry and his use of his car fob to stymie any of us on the same wave length. It's funny that we don't take the time to ask, "Hey, what's wrong with this picture - when the trunk lid keeps opening after I've closed it?"

#2. I love the humor associated with the overwhelming passion a member of our family has in defending her "grand old party". Her passion is amazing if somewhat illogical at times, but that still brings a smile to my lips and occasionally a desire to respond. Now, the latter is truly humorous. Like, whatever I say is going to make a whit of difference.

#3. I still love to see a small child who has "almost" mastered the art of walking - and has now taken on the art of running.

#4. I love to watch my peers, the senior grocery store customers, who having lost some of their tactile proficiency will drop a piece of fruit or a vegetable onto the grocery floor. The humor part comes when, before they pick it up, they look both ways, replace it in the pile, and put a fresh piece in their cart.

#5. I love to sit out on the patio of one of our favorite restaurants and people watch. I particularly enjoy the couples who are obviously on their first date. They bring a lot of smiles to my wife Phyl and myself. A dead giveaway they are dating? They actually talk to each other.

#6. I love to watch our Chihuahua, Bella, staking out her territory in our neighborhood. C'mon gang. Eleven pees in one block is truly ridiculous - but, funny.

#7. I love to watch the first returning snowbirds who appear to be disoriented after the long trip .They foolishly take it out on the restaurant servers until they get it together and rejoin the rest of us seniors. In the meantime the servers just keep smiling. Then they go back into the kitchen and beat the tar out of a raw chicken or a piece of veal.

#8. I love the freedom I never allowed myself to just wear whatever. I truly believe argyle shorts and plaid dress socks are going to make a comeback. What's fun is buying and wearing a pink shirt and what a great time for it: Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

#9. I love the way I can find humor in something my wife says or does but fail to see that same humor when it's me "doing the talking" or "doing the doing".

#10. I love the security that owning a 2.4 pound Chihuahua gives us due to her willingness to keep us safe from a potential attack by butterflies.

Politically Correct

My Dad was right. Age does give you the confidence that you can say almost anything without fear of reprisal. Much of the material or strong opinions expressed in my blogs come from stuff I've simply stolen from others. In that way I'm sort of the Milton Berle of bloggers.

This blog is no different - it's from an E-mail and it made me laugh. I hope you do also. I translated it into the first person.

It's time for me to finally become politically correct. I will no longer refer to Kentuckians, Tennesseans and West Virginians as "hillbillys". In all future communication they shall be recognized as "Appalachian- Americans".

But, I'm willing to go even further down this slippery slope: That woman I was dissing because I thought she was a dumb blonde has now become a "Light-Haired Detour Off The Super Highway".

No longer will I refer to someone's wife as a "nag". Now, she's just "Verbally Repetitive".

I will resist saying about some female that she "has been around". From now on she is "A Previously- Enjoyed Companion".

When I hear someone refer to a woman at a bar as a "Two-Bit Hooker" I will correct them and advise that she really is helping our economy as a "Low Cost Provider"

I will share my affinity for being politically correct in describing the male generation as well:

Those thought to have a "beer gut" will now be correctly referred to as a "Liquid Grain Storage Facility".

If I see one of my peers making fun of me on a dance floor I will remind him I am no longer to be considered "a bad dancer". Instead, I prefer to be thought of as being "Overly Caucasan".

While we have observed many young men who appear to be "balding" - my new sensitivity will alert me to describe them as being "In Follicle Regression".

The Eagles fan I met up at Firkin's & Fox as we were watching the Steelers/Bengal debacle will no longer have to suffer my insults and be referred to as a "Total Ass". Now I will tell others he has simply developed a case of "Rectal-Cranial Inversion".

Finally, when I see young impressionable adults titter and refer to seeing some guy's "crack" hanging out of his pants I will instruct them to forever think of it as "Trouser Cleavage".

Just think of me from now on as your personal "PC Dude".

At the risk of - - - - .

At the risk of looking like his PR guy I again recommend a visit to Harry's blog:
http:///www.harry2335.blogspot.com

His latest entry discusses something to which I can relate. It will also impact anybody who has lost someone as the result of a vehicle accident.

While I did not have the same accident experiences as Harry, I do remember climbing into many a wrecked car seeking documentation for a claim investigation and never getting used to the blood spatters on the broken windshield or the hair jammed into it's cracks.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons I become frustrated with people who slow down to view an accident scene which is surrounded by and attended to by much more qualified individuals that most of us. It puzzles me whether these people are seeking a thrill or just a story to tell.

Maybe these folks should also follow Harry's advice. It's just not kids I'm targetting here.

Before going any further it's important to make clear that I really do like kids and am impressed with so many that we meet when we go out to a restaurant or imbibe a little wine at Geckos on 70. Most of the servers are far more mature than I was at their age. and they do a great job attending to the whims and sometimes silly complaints of us seniors. Heck, they even laugh at our jokes.

But, some of the "youngins" still don't get it. So, this is for them.

I recently received an e-mail that was alleged to be from a speech given by Bill Gates to a high school class. I'd like to share the 11 rules contained in the speech:

Rule # 1: Life is not fair - get used to it.

Rule # 2: The world doesn't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.

Rule # 3: You will not make $60,000 right out of high school. You won't be a vice-president with a cellphone until you earn both.

Rule # 4: If you think your teacher is/was tough, wait till you get a boss.

Rule # 5: Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger flipping: they called it opportunity.

Rule # 6: If you mess up, it's not your parent's fault, so don't whine about your mistakes, learn
from them.

Rule # 7: Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes, and listening to you talk about how cool you
thought you were. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent's
generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.

Rule # 8: Your school may have done away with winner and losers, but life has NOT. In some schools they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as MANY TIMES as you want to get the right answer. This does not bear a resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.

Rule #9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you FIND YOURSELF. Do that on your own time.

Rule # 10: Television is NOT real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.

Rule # 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one.

Now, as a friend liked to say, "Before you get your knickers all tied up in knots" (OK, an o-l-d friend) and start getting defensive regarding the exceptions, please take the time to think about how many of these so-called "rules" really do make sense.

I truly love and am proud of my kids as well as those I inherited via marriage. However, I wish I had shared a few of these rules with them as they went through some of the same struggles we did in that cross over bridge to adulthood.

The rules suggest that maybe a few of them might even have even gotten through to my generation.

Of course, we were much too busy debating whether we were going to support the Whigs or the Tories in the next general election.

I've Got A Secret"? (Revised)

Years ago, in the late 50's or early 60's, my family enjoyed a game show called: "I've Got A Secret". It was fun and a lot more interesting than "Test Pattern", my kid's favorite.

The show's original premise was simple. A guest walked out and allegedly whispered his secret to the host before the secret was shown to the audience and the viewers at home. The panel then had an allotted time in which to discover the nature of the secret via careful questioning.

Of course, that's back when we still had secrets in this country. Today, two or more officials, speaking on condition of anonymity because they were not authorized, would have let the cat out of the bag and your secret would have been a no-brainer. You'd have to do 10 minutes of shadow pictures and sneak off the stage.

In this age of information overload it's tough to keep a secret. Information is power, and we've got a lot of insecure people walking around who are dying to know the latest scoop so they can reveal it to someone else - and maybe move up a couple of notches in the world's order.

Did you think that all of those people you see driving around with their cellphones held in a death grasp on their ear are merely checking to see if Mom wants anything from Walmart? Get real! These people are digging for information.

What makes it worse is they're convinced YOU will give it to them. Today, people will ask you the strangest things about your personal life. I met one guy who, once he knew the identity of the company from which I had retired, demanded to know how far up in the company I was.

Even though I had nothing to hide, telling this guy anything would have been like trusting Lucy Ricardo to keep a secret from Ethel.

Despite this awareness, too often we seem to persist in our own unrelenting, maybe unknowing, effort to obtain information and reveal it at any cost to someone we're trying to impress. We've become like The National Inquirer of our neighborhood. It's become nutty.

We watched a guy on I-75 the other day who was using the car's steering wheel as a fulcrum so he could drive and text with both hands. Let's get real here. Did you ever see Karl Wallenda stop midway across his tightrope, and put down his pole, so he could take a call?

You might reasonably ask, Bar, "How do you know about all this stuff?" Sorry, if I told you I'd have to kill you. Maybe when I'm anonymous.

Please don't call or text me. I'm watching Nic at Night. Sheriff Andy is at home, on the phone, and is just about to tell Barney something really important. I hope Aunt Bee ain't (sic) listening in on the party line. I'd be so disappointed. (TPFIC)

TIME TO BUY DIOGENES NEW SANDALS?

When I was a kid in junior high school, I recall reading about a Greek philosopher by the name of Diogenes who had a problem with dishonesty. I decided to look him up.

I found a site proclaiming "The Teachings of Diogenes". Here's one story: "On one bright clear day, Diogenes was walking up and down the market place, holding a lighted lantern high in front of him and peering around as if searching for something. When people gaped and asked what he was doing, he replied, 'I am looking for an honest man'.

I thought, "If the ole boy is still out on the hunt, maybe we need to take up a collection to purchase him some new sandals".

Did you ever hear, "If you could have dinner with any one person alive or dead, who would you choose?" I don't recall seeing or hearing Diogenes' name mentioned. Understandable. Who wants to sup with some wise guy who has a hangup on honesty?

One man I know might . That's my friend Harry who writes about such subjects and does so straight from the heart - with no qualifications. His blog can be viewed at http://www.harry2335.blogspot.com/.

Here's my two cents worth from todays USA Today. It seems that on 9/11/09, eight years to the day (9/11/01) and the intended attack on the Pentagon, the Coast Guard, apparently unbeknownst to any non-military person in the country, decided to have four Coast Guard boats run a drill in the Potomac River to practice repelling a waterborne attack. (Hey, timing is everything!)

The story continues: "Broadcasting on an open radio frequency, Coast Guard personnel barked, If you don't stop your vessel, you will be fired upon", then; "we have expended 10 rounds."

CNN, apprently not having anything to do until Larry King brought on his next group of "15 second Hall of Famers", was listening on a radio scanner (apparently, not a Big News day) and overheard the Coast Guard. They concluded the worst and went live with the bogus news.

The Coast Guard was unapologetic, saying it's drills were so routine that it didn't need to warn anyone. CNN was also unapologetic using the lame defense that the Coast Guard hadn't warned it away from the story. The Coast Guard's response may not have been too surprising. With our fine military protection today we also get an enormous ego.

But, by their response, CNN completely ignored that their job was to report the "truthful" news, not the "so-called news".

The code in medicine is "to do no harm". The rule in journalism has always been: "it's more important to be right than to be first."

It appears as if CNN was more interested in getting the scoop than making sure it was true and when they found out it wasn't, they simply chose to ignore their actions or take the blame. Why?

Answer: Maybe, they are convinced their response was not lying - but "spinning" - and in their minds that was perfectly acceptable in today's society. If so, are they right?

If you related the story to many in this great country, and asked what both The Coast Guard and CNN did wrong , I'm not sure they would be able to tell you. If they responded at all, they most likely would have shrugged and replied: "I really don't see the problem". That's not unusual when the "Ten Commandments" are viewed by many as "The Ten Suggestions".

If you don't believe me, or think I'm just some old f--t, try volunteering or responding to an invitation to be a speaker on the subject of Ethics at a breakfast, lunch, business seminar, or company workshop. I did so for a few years and heard some fascinating responses to my scenario questions, just as I did when I was editing a column on the same subject.

Honesty, and doing the right thing, start with simple acts of kindness, civility, and taking responsibility. They are as simple as what actions we choose to take when the phone rings at home. Do we say to our kids, "Tell them I'm not here?" (That wouldn't have worked in our house as the kids would have said, "Dad said to tell you he's not here.")

One of my favorite business scenarios was : "Is it OK to use the company copier to print off music for the church choir? The company has so much money and the church so little". Sometimes, we even got into the copyright issues.

I did like a co-workers answer when questioned about stealing off in the afternoon to get a haircut because the barber wasn't busy; "Hey, the hair grew on company time."

Sorry, ladies and gents, I'm convinced brussel sprouts, regardless of what a TV chef calls them, or what sauce he puts on them, are still brussel sprouts and will never taste good.

For a change wouldn't you like to hear this response from a public figure, celebrity, or business entity, when asked about a perceived lack of judgement?: "I'm sorry. I (we) just screwed up. There is no excuse. Hopefully, I (we) have learned from my (our) action(s) and will take the proper course of action in the future."

Chances are, you won't. Some smart attorney will counsel them and advise that it would be a valid and harmful part of Discovery in the trial; that he/she assures you is bound to follow.

Now to be "perfectly" honest (sort of like being "almost pregnant"), if you run into that old Greek , walking down your street, carrying his lantern , still wearing his torn and tattered sandals- as he distained all forms of luxury - he would be much more qualified to discuss the subject of honesty than this writer. But, what the heck. It's a start and might get me into heaven.

Please don't stare at Diogenes' sandals. No need to add "peer pressure" to all the other things he's wrestling with these days.

ALL GROWN UP?

When I was a kid my dad decided that to toughen me up he would take me with him to funeral homes for the viewing of friends parents, family members, etc, most of whom I had never heard of.

Most times the other visitors consisted of people who knew Dad when he was younger. They would revel in telling stories about his athletic prowess - particularly as a basketball player. At that point Dad would say, "Barry also plays basketball.", thus resulting in the familiar question, "Are you as good or as tough as your Dad was?".

Not sure I ever came up with the right answer, but, back to the point of my story.

The Funeral home trips were similar in nature to other "therapies" he devised: removing the rats from the traps he had set in our basements, sticking my finger down my throat to induce vomiting when I was sick, and insisting that I end a hot shower with a cold one, to supposedly, "close the pores".

Actually, I didn't much care about the status of my pores; however, I feared if I told him so, he might start throwing me out in the Pittsburgh snow at the conclusion of a shower. Yeah, that would have toughened me up for sure, Dad.

I'm sure the worst "man-up" exercise was the funeral home visits wherein Dad insisted I had to touch the hand of the corpse. Those were some cold dudes, but I admit, it was the last thing I did at more than a few viewings, particularly of those folks with whom I was particularly close.

Now, I'm not sure any of these routines really toughened me up but somehow, I knew better than to ask for a doll at Christmas.

Like most people I know, I am not a fan of attending funeral homes. Nor, do I find solace in knowing a hospital is a needed part of life. Having watched my Dad, a former father-in-law, and a grandson spend their last moments in a hospital has done little to enhance my attraction to them. In the first two instances I was the last one to see these folks alive.

One old memory of attempting to visit my Dad in a hospital rehab facility, not being able to find him, and finally discovering him in a narrow hallway, slumped over in a undersized wheelchair, facing a wall, left me with more than a few emotional scars.

I should note that both my wife and I have gone through a couple of back operations so I'm not ignorant of the improving quality of care one receives in hospitals nowadays. However, going to visit someone in a hospital has always been a little bit of a challenge. I guess one doesn't have to be Sigmund Freud to understand why.

That is, until recently, when God decided it was time for me to venture forth in "the world of tough guys."

A neighbor friend of ours, Hank - in his mid 80's - called me for some assistance one morning a month ago. He said he was having trouble walking and asked if I could come down to assist him in getting out of the house and climbing into his daughter's van when she picked him up to go to the ER. He refused to have an ambulance pick him up in front of his home.

I was happy to assist and decided due to his frailty to accompany them to the hospital. I stayed until the x-rays came back and revealed he would become an in-patient as he needed a hip replacement. His hip gave out that morning for reasons that were unclear.

When they operated on him they discovered his natural hip had disintegrated, the result of extreme arthritis. As it turned out, Hank needed two operations on the same hip in 12 days, as the first one didn't take.

We were all concerned and, my wife and I, along with all of his friends, neighbors, and family members, threw up a lot of prayers due to his extreme breathing difficulties that required him to be on oxygen constantly. There was a question whether or not he could survive a ventilator post-surgery.

He's a tough old goat and pulled through well. We might not have been so surprised at the results, including his tolerance for rehab, had we possessed some prior information.

We learned that the pain he had before the operations was constant and severe. He never complained to anybody. After the revelation as to the condition of the hip we were all amazed as to the resilience and high pain threshold of this old farm boy.

On the way home, today, we asked him about this and he responded by saying, "I guess I was just too dumb to know how bad the pain was."

At those times I was there with him at the hospital, I was impressed by the type of care he was receiving and the many acts of kindness extended to him by the employees, physical therapists, breathing coordinators, etc. I loved the good communication skills demonstrated by everyone as well as their honest concern for Hank's well being.

From everything we experience in life we gain wisdom. I now have a better feeling about hospitals and the quality of treatment administered to the aging.

It almost wipes out the memory of visiting my Dad in that hospital way back when.

Maybe I'm tougher now.

Sometime, I'll have to ask Hank what his Dad's toughening exercises were like.

Probably didn't need them.

The Enemy Within - A Tale of Conspiracy

Much too busy rebuilding my computer, I've not written any new blogs.

Thus, I've chosen to make a confession as I rejoin the living: I talk to and battle with inanimate objects and have done so since I was a child.

Now, relax, this is not a rehash of Toy Story or Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite. I'm not even limiting my confession to golf clubs, tennis rackets, and the occasional hammer which I've been know to yell at and then heave when my Irish got disturbed.

Sadly, I have friends who are willing to testify that I have on occasion obtained further distance with my driver than the golf ball I mishit. Even my putter would hide itself behind my golf umbrella rather than chance an unscheduled trip up against a tree.

No, this malady I have within me goes much deeper than those childish exploits. Now, mainly I confine it to screaming at the computer or TV which ,in turn, scares the dog as she tends to internalize my anger.

I have always battled against the the so-called inanimate objects around me . I've always tried to co-exist, but, I fully believe they have a life all of their own and chose me as their enemy.

When the closet hangers I sought decided they were not ready "to come out of the closet" they would purposely tangle themselves around another hanger or a piece of clothing. The harder I pulled the more entangled they became and in their anger to escape they occasionally damaged my clothes.

The peanut butter sandwich I enjoyed throughout my life - would frequently object to being consumed by me and would twist out of my grasp onto the newly cleaned kitchen floor -with the bread side always facing me.

Inanimate objects can become both jealous and possessive. If I attempt to hold more than three objects in my hand as I aim my front door key toward the lock -one object will always squirm
free, jump down and run away from the other faithful ones which remain.

Shirt button holes will not accept my buttons. Soap will jump into my eyes should I try to steal a glance while shampooing my hair. Toilets will overflow when I flush them in my bosses home.

Restaurant forks will jump out of my hand. Toilet paper will fight amongst themselves to become entangled on my shoes. Cloth napkins will attach themselves to my lap when I attempt to get up.
I have struggled with nails that refuse to be hammered, screws that would not allow themself to be screwed and wrenches that will not attach themselves to anything. No amount of pleading, cajoling, or screaming will keep them from their appointed position. Not even my challenge of "best two out of three?" will tempt them.

I have actually had snowblowers that worked for my neighbors but refused to engage at my command - and I was their owner..

I had a Cadillac that I called White Wind and encouraged to enter merging Pennslvania traffic quickly only to hear it pause as if to ask, "You really expect me to jump in front of those semi's?"

I'm telling you these objects have a mind of their own and at night get together outside on the lanaii to plan how they will torment me the next day. Some of these terrorists have even committed to suicide missions - like 2 1/2 inch bolts that have sworn to resist even if their threads are stripped.

Some people talk to plants. I am known to beg my tools by muttering, "c'mon - give me a break!"But, nothing will dissuade them.

Recently all my clothes got together and made a pact to shrink when I attempted put them on

So, what's a guy to do? I'll never win. I end up doing magic tricks for the dog.

CLEANING DAY

Today is cleaning day. How do I know that?

Well, it's kind of simple. Before the cleaning people arrive we have: made the bed, scrubbed the toilet bowls, cleaned off the counters of any magazines, mail, etc, cleaned all the countertops with Chlorox, put away all CD's, organized the computer desk to make it easier to clean, emptied all the waste baskets, put away all clothing, and scrubbed the hairspray from my wifes dressing area.

Yep, by gosh, we're just about ready. I will need to move the car so as to make sure the driveway is clear.

The first time we did this I suspected our goal was to convince the good people who clean bi-monthly that we did not defecate. Later, I was convinced our goal was to convince them that nobody lived in our home.

Please understand we are not slobs. I admire my wife, Phyl, for her cleanliness and accept that some of the things we do fall under the heading of being considerate. But, there's a reason for our actions.

We have employed cleaning services in the past. Once, I hired a local woman who came to clean the Pennsylvania home while I was in Florida for a month in December. She left me a sarcastic note stating "I didn't know you wanted me to do your "spring cleaning". I fired her.

Another time we hired a young fellow who was a roommate of the Maitre De of a restaurant we frequented. After a while the bartender pulled us aside to tell us that when he finished cleaning up any of our trash - he then came back to the bar and trashed us to the other patrons. We fired him.

We then hired a national cleaning service, only to discover, the meaning of the phrase "Deep Cleaning". They didn't do it except in one room each time.

Our home was what was referred to then as a tri-level with two master bedrooms suites, a loft, living room, dining room, eat in kitchen, photo gallery room, a powder room long hall, and an enclosed sun porch on the top two floors. The bottom floor consisted of a stone wall at the bottom of the plush carpeted stair, a large finished L- shaped room, plus a big office, and a complete bathroom. There were french doors throughout the home and a couple of fireplaces with handmade mantels. It was a fun home with traffic patterns that guests loved.

We concluded that every 6 months one of these rooms would have been "deep cleaned". We fired them, cleaned the house ourself, and realized it was much more house than we needed.

I have had two spinal operations. My wife, always anxious to outdue me, has had two spinal fusions, both with instrumentation. The stairs were killing us. We sold that house and moved fulltime into our small but comfortable Florida home.

Prior to moving to Florida I assured my bride, I would take responsiblity for the cleaning of our new considerably scaled down home. After arriving here I discovered that, like Toby Keith's hit song, "As Good As I Once Was", I had lost a tremendous amount of "cleaning flexibility" in my body. OK, putting it another way, I'm getting old.

So, we ended up doing the cleaning ourself with Phyl consistently winning the blue ribbons for both thoroughness and persistence. I did one helluva job; however, in cleaning the shower and tub in the main bathroom and also wielded a wicked fan cleaning brush.

When my wife, post second operation, finished cleaning the top of the crown molding in the Florida kitchen, a few months ago, she went to step off the kitchen counter onto her small ladder and fell onto the floor. While apparently more embarassed and scared than hurt, that was when we decided a different approach was appropriate. We hired a friend and her associate who performed this work professionally.

We are pleased with their fine efforts . So, are our backs - knees, etc.

It took us at least one full day to clean our house working together. The professionals do so in about 2 hours or so.

I have thought that perhaps our prep work might have been of some assistance, but, I conclude it's just the normal compromise between cleaning your home yourself or hiring a cleaning service.

Oops, time to move the car. Or, should I clean it first?

CRASHING THE PARTY

When I first used a computer I was "scared". I was so sure I would do something wrong and it would blow up, etc. The advice I received was, "Don't worry. You can't do anything to it if you just follow the instructions." R-I-G-H-T!

This past Thursday I crashed my computer. We had mistakedly been informed that, since my computer was connected to my wife's computer and server via my wireless router, I would receive her computer anti-virus protection.

I later found out this information was from the same guy who swore to G.W. he had personally seen the weapons of mass instruction in Iraq.

The server I was using for my personal computer provided me with a anti-virus source at little or no cost - forever - or so I thought. I referred to my provider as "Ed". Through the years, "Ed" & I went merrily on our way together down the primrose path. Recently, I was advised by my server that "Ed's"protection was about to expire and I needed to contact him to renew it - at a price.

After researching "Ed's" website I noted the various plans available - thought about signing up - and then decided not to due to the above assurance we were "A.O.K.

If you've ever watched any bomb squad movie you'll recall how the timer keeps ticking down the seconds so you know how much time the good guy has to disconnect the wiring. Seldom does it tell him what color wire to disconnect, however, for, if it did there would be no suspense and the movie would suck. I can relate.

Faithfully, each day I received a popup advising me of my anti-virus countdown. On the day of reckoning, I continued to ignore the warning - and my computer crashed. The repairer at Digital Doctors later said my problem was due to a virus - my first one - as I previously had protection.

When my computer screen dissolved to a black background and white letters I knew I was in trouble. The message before me was apologetic and gave me several options as to how I might rectify the situation. None of them worked.

Then, magically, a prompt came up advising me to push one of the "F" keys, which I did. I was "instructed" to install the System Recovery CD that came with my computer in 2005.

Following instructions, I did just that and watched with amazement as all kinds of things started flipping left to right and right to left in front of me in slam dunk fashion. The process took forever. Occasionally, I received a status report.

One such message furnished me with a warning that, to me, "suggested" I might lose data and files.

Well, C'mon. I guess we've all seen that warning: "You may wish to close all programs you currently have open as you may lose - - - - - . "

"Right! Yeah, sure, pal", I thought, while hitting the O.K button, cause, I never lost anything before when I hit "OK". "Just get things up and working", I muttered.

But you see, that's not what the prompt was actually saying. The message was more like, "Look, S - - t for brains, the recovery process erases all data and files from the hard drive!"

Actually, it was probably the exact same warning as the one on the cover of the Recovery CD which I missed and the D.D. kindly pointed out to me at the shop. He seemed to feel that may have been the reason the computer CD erased or overwrote all my data from the past 4 1/2 years.

Please be assured I was not, and am not, upset with the "Doc". He was patient with me and his recovery results were truly amazing. However, his customer was then, as now, a complete dolt.

Four days later, I have my hard drive back - most of my music - and various documents which I have to download and rename . He recovered the few personal pictures I had stored.

I also have about 2200 other pictures that apparently came with one program or another I downloaded . I know this only because Ava Gardner was never a member of our family - nor, sadly, has she stopped by lately; but she looks great in her stored closeup photo.

So far, I haven't figured out how to get back on my E-mail. When, or if ,I ever do, I will attempt to answer any inquiries or clever info you may have sent to me in the interim. Again, I feel stupid. So, I decided to write this blog for the usual therapeutic reasons - to work out my frustrations.

I'm still upset, but darn, Ava still looks like a keeper.

Just Joking

Someone once asked a senior jewish comedian why it seemed so many of the top comics were Jewish. His reply suggested that their families had suffered so much through the years and found humor was the only way to deal with their plight.

Correct or not, it seems most people enjoy a good joke. The emphasis is on the word "most". The worse the times the more frequently humor is both sought out and appreciated. Therefore, we are seeing some truly funny jokes recently.

One such joke appeared in yesterday's USA Today and was attributed to Carol Leifer, author of When You Lie About Your Age, The Terrorists win.

The joke is as follows: Mother Teresa died and went to heaven. God greeted her at the Pearly Gates.'Be thou hungry, Mother Teresa?', asked God.

'I could eat,' replied Mother Teresa.

So God opened a can of tuna, reached for a chunk of rye bread, and they began to share it. While eating this humble meal, Mother Teresa looked down into hell and saw the inhabitants devouring huge steaks, lobsters, and pastries. Curious, but deeply trusting, she remained quiet.

"The next day God again invited her to join him for a meal. Again, it was tuna and rye bread. Once again, Mother Teresa could see the denizens of hell enjoying lamb, turkey and delicious desserts. Still she said nothing.

"The following day, mealtime arrived, and another can of tuna was opened.

She couldn't contain herself any longer. Meekly, she asked,'God, I am grateful to be in heaven with you. But, here in heaven, all I get to eat is tuna and a piece of rye bread, and in the Other Place, they eat like emperors and kings! I just don't understand it . . . '

God sighed. "Let's be honest, Teresa,' he said. For just two people, it doesn't pay to cook.' "

If you enjoyed the joke, perhaps you will like to share it with a friend. If one of your so-called friends hears the joke, acquires a furrowed brow, and asks, "How is the joke teller so sure God isn't a woman?" - move on to the next friend as quickly as possible.

There's nothing tougher or less rewarding than to try to explain a joke to someone who possesses a dubious sense of humor.

Monday's Meanderings

" Old people like to give good advice, as consolation for the fact they can no longer set bad examples". - Francois de La Rochefoucauld".

You gotta love the guy. I know I'd buy Frankie a Cabernet, if he ever dropped by at Geckos.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just when I thought I was getting my arms around this whole Michael Vick/ Roger Goddell matter, I have to stop and regroup.

From the voice of reason comes a quote critical of Goodell's inaction in making a decision in the matter: "It's almost like kicking a dead horse in the ground!"

Yeah, that came from the elder statesman , Terrell Owens. I really wanted to hear more. So I was about to go to the newspapers most likely to be interested in their favorite son:, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and The Dallas News. Then, I remembered, "No, now it's The Buffalo News."

Just my luck. They were apparently closed due to an unexpected snowstorm.
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From Monday's USA Today:

"Delaware will not be intimidated " by a lawsuit the four major sports leagues and the NCAA filed to block his state from introducing sports betting this fall, Governor Jack Markell, said in a statement Sunday.

Hey, haven't we had enough investigations of goverment officials recently?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

"African- American scholar Henry Louis Gates and the police officer who
arrested him last week are likely to get together at the White House soon as President Obama tries to quell a furor his words helped fuel"

That was the lead sentence in a report filed by Susan **** for USA Today.

"Susan, the policeman's name is Sgt. James Crowley".

I guess U2 was right; unintentionally or not, "Words Are Weapons"

------------------------------------------------------
O.K. No more sage advice. From the same source as the first quote (Reader's Digest) comes this: "Socrates was a Greek philosopher who went around giving people good advice. They poisoned him." (anonymous)

THOSE WHO SERVED

After reviewing my last few blogs I realized it might be time for a vitriol change and maybe temporarily get rid of my old f--- rampages.

One pleasant memory I have of the past was about those who served.

It was WW II and we resided in Pittsburgh. Those male adults who were disqualified for service due to age, family obligations or health complications found other ways to contribute. One such job was that of Air Raid Warden, a position for which my dad actively campaigned and was rewarded with his white pith helmet - marked with the triangular air raid designation.

He was also the proud bearer of a flashlight whose lens was painted with Mom's dark red nail polish except for a tiny pinhole in the center providing a sliver of light so he could patrol our narrow streets and protect all the women and children from those devils from overseas.

He left two young sons, a wife, and a baby behind as he made his rounds.

We were all located under the oversized heavy wooden diningroom table that had Popeye like arms for table legs. We were not allowed to move from our safe house until we heard the all clear siren coming from the borough building.

It was at this time that one of us fled our protective zone and sought the Philco radio for any sign we could still listen to The Lone Ranger on the Mutual Radio network.

It was not easy being the son of an Air raid warden. God bless us if we had been foolish enough to leave the air raid flashlight in the backyard shack the night before the air raid. We would surely feel Dad's wrath.

Our home, like that of our neighbors, was camaflouged by the absence of lights, and on occasion, had towels or a heavy blanket strung across the top of curtain rods to conceal any unusual light source.

While we waited in our makeshift cave, Dad and the others had the responsibility to identify any home or business where the residents had failed to quench all the lights during the air raid

We were never advised of the punishment meted out to the wrongdoers. We assumed that was 'secret squirrel stuff' and silently went on our way, grateful that our family had not been identified as the ones commiting such an elitist or careless act.

We were glad we weren't attacked but more than that, we were proud of our Dad, the Air Raid Warden - he who proudly served.

Putting The House Before The Cart

There are many reasons given as to why someone in their senior years can become so appalled at the actions of other generations.

Yeah, we admit many of us are ticked off about getting old and more infirm, but, that's not the main thing. Sometimes it seems as if we took a nap and when we woke up almost everybody else had received a frontal lobotomy. The courtesy and ethics we were taught became archaic.

Maybe the real reason we're upset is that we DID follow the dictates and teachings of an even older generation at a time when that was the appropriate thing to do. That info no longer seems to apply.

Please give us some slack here. We do remember the teachings of the Bible that taught us you don't do 'good' deeds for the 'wrong' reasons.

Maybe our displeasure comes from nothing more than wishing we had tested the inpure water a little more - before, you know, we became that "nice" person. Nothing pleased my Mom more than when some neighbor said, "Your Barry is always such a good boy!"

Let's face it. We did get some bad information. For example, our nose did not fall off from telling lies, although, I might have been willing to sacrifice a few inches here or there. There were many other examples

We did not suffer "our death of cold" from going outside without wearing 15 layers of clothing. Besides, we sometimes got hot chocolate and marshmallows when we came back in to ward off the chill.

We also later discovered we could go out swimming after consuming a full meal without experiencing any disastrous results. Similarly, we found it was possible to be out in the blazing sun - come inside -go directly to the fridge - empty Dad's ice water bottle - and not die from cramps. (now, we might have died from fright if dad had caught us.)

We admit those are really minor things. What really upsets us is what appears to be the almost complete abolition of courteous acts. We simply can't figure out when, as my mother might have said, "everything went to hell in a bushel basket!" ( I doubt if she would have said hell, as even using the word "hate" met with some warning that God didn't approve of the word.)

See what we were up against? Where were the rest of the parents when all of this stuff was going down in our neighborhood? Was poor location the reason their own kids turned out to be discourteous idiots?

We older folks, and particularly this writer, sizzle over the lack of courtesy we see displayed - and it's not just being done by younger folks. There is good and bad in all generations. Actually, Bernie Madoff does look a lot like a congenial Uncle we might have had.

As a matter of fact, maybe this loss of courtesy etc. was due to the lack of monitoring. Like the banking/mortgage industry, people stopped looking at what we were doing and we, in turn, stopped looking over our shoulder.

What ever happened to the simple things in life that were expected of us males? O.K., I admit you have to be wearing a hat to tip it and it's even tougher to do when you're wearing it backwards.

Arising from a dinner table when a woman enters the room nowadays may have as much to do with not taking Flomax as attempting to be courteous. ( in all fairness, nowadays it isn't always easy to determine the new arrival is a woman.)

Phyl and I like to sit outside on the patio of a local restaurant with our tiny Chihuahua. We do this partially because a respected author wrote that to avoid having a snippy, barking Chihuahua, we should get her out around people, early and often. Bella is constantly praised for her manners. I guess that's a lot like being a "nice person".

Our favorite table provides a view of the front door and we are people watchers. We are amazed at the number of guys who, as they approach the restaurant, blast past their kids, wifes, and/or girlfriends, to be sure they go through the door first. Surely, there can't be that many weak bladders in a small town like ours.

We can possibly understand the guys action if the two females behind the guy were, in order, his wife and his girlfriend. Taking evasive tactics could well be in order, even if lacking in courtesy.

Let's talk about shopping carts. I.G.M is the new prevailing attitude that translates to "I Got Mine". It applies to 10 items or less lines, taking up two parking spaces, jumping to the front of a ticket line, and shopping carts.

Please tell me, "Why, after shopping, is it so repugnant to walk another ten to twenty feet to place the cart into the receptacle designed for the completion of just such an act of kindness? Has the cart deposit location somehow been designated as a dangerous neighborhood with unseen crack houses?

The sight of all these abandoned carts after the customers hastily depart suggests to me I don't want to take a tour past their front yards.

This is plain and simply a case of people saying, "Look, I finished my shopping, and even if I added to the number of parking spots you enter at your own risk by attempting to avoid abandoned carts, when I leave, someone is perfectly free to take my old spot." I Got Mine!

Today when we finished our shopping at Walmart I took ours plus about 10 abandoned carts and lined them all up in an open parking lot space, freeing up 10 more spaces. Passing motorists looked at me as if I had abandoned my senses.

Yeah, I'm different. My ultimate ideal job would be to drive around shopping lots in a reinforced Army Hummer, equipped with a huge amplifier, and a airhorn. As I spot an offender, even one who put the cart up on the grass islands, I'd yell out appropriate curses as they are leaving.

So, what do you think God would think about that, Mom?

DRAWING A LINE

When I was a kid during WW II we lived at 120 Sumner Avenue in Forest Hills, Pa. Prior to that we lived at 119 Sumner and 23 Sumner. Yeah, that was us Sullivans- just crazy devil- may- care nomads. The street was two short blocks long.

The homes were fairly close together in this Norman Rockwell community.

Facing our home from the street, the neighbors to the left were separated from us by a tiny lot. It was unoccupied except for a fruitful Peach tree whose carcasses helped to fertilize the soil. Neither neighbor seemed to feel they had the responsibility to clean it up.

The lot to the right supported a house occupied by the Dicoskey's and was almost within reaching distance of our house.

Because the homes were so close together, the unoccupied lot also served as the main route from Sumner Ave and Lennox Avenue to get to the Atlantic Avenue School and the various sports we all pursued. When I was a kid, quite a few future college athletes traversed the steep slope up to the alley behind our home and then on to the playground.

The next door neighbor to our left had two young kids close in age to that of my brother Jim and myself. My brother Tom was a baby.

The neighbor kids and Jim & I had a number of scrapes and arguments. I fought often with the oldest who was about a head shorter than I was. He got even later in life when he became a highly respected ENT doctor in Harrisburg, PA, and I was referred to him to have my earwax removed.

All of us played in the lot between our respective homes. But, our first love wasn't playing together. It was arguing.

Our biggest - or at least - most consistent argument as kids - was that pertaining to the location of the true property line that separated one home from the other. We would stand nose to nose, outside their home while they argued that we were standing on their property. We argued just as strongly it was they who were the offending party. Neither side seemed willing to "forgive their trespassers".

Eventually, one or both groups drew a line in the dirt that was meant to serve as the true and unquestionable boundary measurement.

Of course, neither side had any idea who was right or wrong. It really wasn't important. We probably just enjoyed the noise and the right to bicker about something on those hot summer days. Besides, we were kids and we weren't expected to be responsible.

Sunday was another hot summer day as I was reading about the latest childish spat between the Democrats and the Republicans. The subject was whether or not Congressional leaders were sufficiently well informed about the 'proposed' CIA counterterrorism program after 911.

These two groups are also noisy, but, they sure aren't kids, unless youth is starting to bald extremely early.

USA Today devoted a quarter page to the current argument on Page A-4 of this Monday's issue. I'm sure had this been a slow news day it would have led off Page one. When you're not selling many ads, failing to include the scores of night games in the home delivery edition, and cutting down the number of pages in your paper while raising the price of same, you got to fill those front pages with something.

USA does not publish a paper on Saturday or Sunday, therefore, I received broader advanced coverage of the issue via the Sunday's St. Petersburg Times.

The Times had the lead on Page 1. It followed on 10-A and went on for what could have been a full page rather than the two columns it utilized. Fortunately, the Times still has the ability to sell advertising space and that occupied the rest of 10-A.

The two columns - one atop the other - expressed conflicting views as to which side was telling the truth. The Republican argument was on top - in my opinion, one of the few times they have been on top of anything in the past two years plus - and I'm a lifelong registered Republican.

Both sides made good use of the space allotted for their opposing opinions.
My point is; however, when - if ever, will these two political parties get it?

Most of the public they are supposed to be representing doesn't give a rat's rearend as to who wins one more specious foolish argument in their continous jousting for position. What the citizens truly want is for them to do that for which they are being paid - help legislate us out of this mess.

I would say to them, "for once, folks, put your country's huge 'needs' to re-establish our lives in front of your own tiny insignificant 'wants' that have to deal with whether or not you are re-elected".

Many, many years ago I had taken over a rural office when it was announced my assistant had just been promoted. Full of myself and my new position I sat her down to give her what I felt was the requisite advice and wisdom she sought as to how to carry out her new duties. After three minutes, at most, she got up and said, "Barry, I already got the job."

It was a great response. I know today she can't possibly be a Democrat.

When I was a child, I remember asking one of my parents, "Where does the sound of talking, crying, and music go?" It must have been a foolish question as I don't recall the answer.

I still think about the question. I'm convinced global warming may not be solely the result of gases that no one took the time to cap. My thinking is that the biggest component is loud and persistent rhetoric that accomplishes little and, like a birthday balloon that strayed, must find a resting place somewhere.

We can only pray that nobody is reading the contents of my blog out loud. That's the place to draw the line.

The Pirates - Be Patient - Part II

A friend of mine with the first name Harry once suggested I write a blog, so I did. I hesitate to include any more information regarding Harry. I can picture any blog followers I might have, gathering rocks and heading for his home, posthaste.

However, I am grateful to Harry. I appreciate his comments and support. He must be a friend as he managed to wade through the epistle regarding the Pirates and then provide affirmative feedback.

We are of the same generation. Much of what he writes about in his blog brings a smile to my face and even a little jump in my step. These are not accomplishments acquired easily.

Now, on the other hand, my wife may cross the street if she sees Harry heading in her destination. I say this with tongue planted firmly in cheek as she really likes Harry also.

The problem lies with the fact that my new hobby of blogging is going the same way as did so many of the other hobbies that I tended to overdue.
They include golf, music, mystery novels, and sleeping in on the weekend.

Many an early evening, Phyl finds herself cooling her heels in the kitchen awaiting "the blogmeister" to finish editing the current blog, so the three of us can go out.

Waiting for "The Blogmeister" is not nearly as interesting as "Waiting For Godot", a popular play by Samuel Beckett, which is now in revival. Her fate is compounded by the fact there are only so many times she can take the two year old, two pound Chihuahua Bella out to tinkle without raising the neighbor's suspicion she has become a "Peeping Tomasina".

I became most concerned when I discovered a bag of rocks tucked away in the corner of our shed. And, yeah, she does know where Harry lives.

So, this log will be mercifully shorter than the last one.

When I was finishing up my college studies I lived in a third floor walkup in Oakland, a section of Pittsburgh that also housed Forbes Field, an edifice into which I could walk two blocks to enter.

Money was tight then but, on those fortunate nights when The Pirates were in town and I was home, I could put down the books when the seventh inning started and attend the game for free. They left the gate open to the bleachers on the third base side at about that time of night.

There, I would sit and eat my homemade sandwich while cheering for the game to go into extra innings. I doubt if the current organization encourages either actvity.

I also attended Pirate's games with my family and occasionally glanced over at my dad in vain as I attempted to interpret the hieroglyphics he was steadily entering into his scorebook.

As a family, we often sat up on the porch atop the garage at home. For some reason KDKA's baseball game reception seemed to be best out there. We sat the portable radio on top of the brick wall facing Avenue F. I remember one night that it was there we sat one night as we listened to Harvey Haddix attempting to win the infamous baseball game whose anniversary was recently celebrated.

Lest any of you who read "Pirates I" conclude that I hate the Pirates, please be assured it is just my sadness as to what they have been allowed to become that arouses my wrath. I have fantastic memories of The Pirates of my youth and early adulthood.

They include my departing the Liberty Tubes and heading across the Liberty Bridge knowing I was late for work. That didn't matter. A lot of people were. It was at this location and point in time I heard Maz hit the winning World Series homerun that changed the town of Pittsburgh forever.

I have to go now. My wife just entered the room and inquired: "do you think they will ever be able to remove the callouses from your fingertips?"

Hey Harry, do you think that was a message?

The Pirates: Be Patient - Part I

My brother Jim has done much to re-educate me regarding The Pittsburgh Pirates and I appreciate it. I have a lot of catching up to do.

In the years I was gainfully employed I was very busy and didn't have a clue what I was doing. I had to prioritize my life, and organize my time. This forced me to conclude neither the Pirates nor the eight track tape player were going to make a comeback.

Now I'm retired with a lot of time on my hands. I write a blog and also have begun to follow the Pirates again. It's a little bit like starring in a remake of a movie about Rip Van Winkle.

Please don't get me wrong. I very much admire the faith, knowledge, and wisdom that my brother, and my oldest son Bruce possess in their love for the Pirates. I suspect it's in our DNA as Mom & Dad loved their Bucs.

My problem is I'm new in my attempt to acquire continuing education credits. I'm also older, lack their patience, and root for the Pirates only because I'm a hopeless romantic.

My love for the Pirates goes back to the time in the 40's when my mom and I went to watch them at Forbes Field on Ladies Day. We travelled by streetcar and/or bus. We didn't always have good luck with our seating positions and often drew straws to see which of us would sit behind the pole. Yet, we valued those seats like they were today's Stadium Boxes.

No matter how bad we were losing, Mom refused to leave until she was sure Kiner wouldn't come up again in the bottom of the 9th. I mention all of this only so you will understand the vitriolic message that is about to follow.

I love watching the Bucs in Spring Training in Bradenton. I now realize this joy is like pre-marital counseling. It can't possibly prepare you for what's to follow.

My hope was the Buccos might regain their image as a Major League Baseball team. Unfortunately, I'm told that requires locating, signing, and developing talent, plus spending money in an intelligent fashion.

I'm aware that people with no real expertise in a particular business can sign on as a CEO and turn their new company around. However, to be successful as a baseball owner it is suggested that one's knowledge of the game should be more than having been a recipient of a Little League trophy for perfect attendance. Baseball is a whole new ballgame.

This job of team owner requires that you do not allow your GM to convince you a washed up pitcher is worth more than 5/6 million of your hard earned cash. It also requires you to be pro-active. You need to support your management team with constant personal attempts to convince both the media and the public you really are more interested in the fan's interest and satisfaction than you are in recouping losses caused by your earlier naivette. It's a real squeeze play and it may help if your father's name is Gipetto.

To accomplish your goal you must employ the same type of PR firm that convinced many people Barney Frank had nothing to do with the lax standards by which Wall Street robbed our kids of their inheritance.

Even then, you may not be successful. People are less trusting given what they have seen represented recently as Truth and Ethics.

I recently read a criticism of the Pirate's owner. The gist of the critique was that the owner was accused of being guilty of "taking from the rich, but, giving 'Nutting' to the poor". In this scenario, the rich were depicted as the other Major League owners who subsidize the Pirates. The poor were, of course, the Pittsburgh taxpayers and devoted fans who helped pay for the new stadium. They also include this writer, the "late to the party" critic.

Presumably these taxpaying fans thought a new stadium would allow them to attend future games where both teams were of major league quality. After all: new stadium, more revenue, more money to acquire good players.

TILT! Even a beautiful stadium, thought to be among the best in both leagues, cannot hide the truth about the Emperor's lack of satorial splendor. Where the money from the increased attendance went is up for grabs.

What makes it worse is that our Pirates who are housed in this beautiful stadium can't win against the other teams in a below standard division. Trust me. They ain't that good either. Yet we're paying major league prices to watch AAA team's compete. Most of our division opponents can only beat us and their minor leaguers are not a lot better than our minor leaguers.

My suggestion is to go back to what we did as kids. When we play these division clubs, bring all the eligible players out on the field before the game starts. Let the team captains take turns picking their teamates from this pool on a rotating basis. Regardless of uniform, whichever Captain's team scores the most runs at the end of the game get's the victory.

In this way we get to root for a whole different bunch of guys each night, & we don't have to let the kid play who was the only one with a new ball.

Now I grant you, this might not work with our players. Apparently many of them would be highly incensed if some of their friends were on the opposite team. They cling to those past friendships with a ferocity that would be more welcome if employed when they come up to bat with men in scoring position.

Hey, they're kids. But, the question is how did we revert to becoming a minor league team with minor league talent without Branch Rickey?

Well, you might start by looking at the combined strategy of the baseball commissioner, the Major League Player's Association, and the Major League Owners. When you do, you'll discover the reason there is little hope our Pirates are going to make a comeback anytime soon.

When you examine these three supposed independent entities you'll no doubt recall they're are all members of the unholy trinity that brought you the infamous "Sammy Sosa/Mark McGuire Home Run Derby".

A couple of years ago their spokesman, Bud (they're all males), came to you and asked: "Oh my, do you really think our ballplayers were taking drugs when they smashed all those sacred records, filled the ballparks with fans, and the pockets of the owners, players, and union coffers with cash?"

C'mon! You mean, up to this point, none of them were suspicious as to what was going into the mouth and veins of our idols? Ever hear of the three monkeys: Hear No Evil, See No Evil, and Speak No Evil?

What would be their motivation? What? You missed the Jerry McGuire movie? It's all about the money. They'll suffer both fools and the Pirates.

Finally Bud took action. He hired a former member of Congress to beat the bushes for the truth. Nice start. Unfortunately, he was surprised to find that George Mitchell was not the same as kindly actor, Thomas Mitchell, from the tear jerker movies in the 30's, 40's and 50's.

This guy not only wasn't seeking re-election, he truly thought Bud was serious. Now he was not given any subpoena power nor was he given a lot of lattitude apparently as to naming names. He was also given no sign his Mission Impossible had the support of "the other two monkeys".

It ended sort of the way we thought it might. We remain frustrated. Our goal was to receive information to answer the questions our kids and grandkids were asking us on the way to Little League practice.

Trust me. The 'out of the mouth of babes' questions were clearly more poignant and penetrating than the ones the owners and their management team had been asking the players. But, the kids didn't have to deal with the Union either.

Finally, Congress got involved. In case you've forgotten, that's the group of intelligent people who granted MLB the anti-trust exemption. They only threaten to withdraw this largesse when the pancake makeup is applied and they are assured that their best profile will be shown at the hearings.

You know this all could be a sequel to the Breslin book: "The Gang Who Couldn't Shoot Straight". Maybe Grisham has some spare time.

We, the fans, continue to wait until God comes down and reveals who did and who did not cheat. Then the media will know who to rightfully vote into the Hall of Fame, cause they don't seem to have a clue either. Perhaps, they're afraid of the Union, also.

To paraphrase comedian Johnathan Winters on one of his comedy albums, when they finally reach their conclusion: "We can sit around the campfire, throw the roast beef up in the air, and join Friar Tuck as he proclaims, "Robin's a friend. - Robin's a friend!"

To all involved, I advise: "If you choose to repeat the lie declaring that Baseball is America's pastime, please have the decency to emphasize the word "past". We allowed greed to ruin the sport we loved so much as kids and young adults. It's now time for all of us to sit down with the kids and grandkids and tell them the truth.

Chances are they can handle it much better than we can. If you're still waiting for God to resolve this for us I remind you the last time he got involved with baseball was when he sent the Angel down to Forbes Field to speak to Paul Douglas in the B-movie, "Angels In The Outfield". Don't look for a sequel.

That was a long time ago; maybe about the same time the Pirates started their rebuilding program.

Will I keep following the Pirates? You bet your boots. It's good conversation material for my brother and my kids. Besides, I still hide my upper plate under the pillow each evening with the firm belief the Tooth Fairy will reward me one of these nights, if I just remain patient.

One of these years we're going to do it, Mom. Hang in there.