(Disclaimer: In case you may wonder when you finish reading this, I truly loved both my Mom & my Dad.)
I have previously written about my Dad and his Mechanical Man failings. He was a short powerful man, an excellent Accountant, and meant well, but lacked proper tools as well as any real aspiration to succeed in tasks that did not require Johnny Inkslinger skills.
Despite this handicap, each year he and I would dutifully engage in" The Hanging Of The Lights", a pre-Christmas tradition in the Sullivan household. We did not volunteer. We were a product of non-military conscription by my feisty and often quite funny Irish mom.
This annual torture took place at our residence on Avenue "F" in Forest Hills, a suburb of Pittsburgh. We used letters for street names as our forefathers were imagination challenged.
Avenue "F" was barely two cars wide from our curb to the one across the street at the end of the ballfield. In the summer, Dad would sometimes sit on a lawn chair in our front yard with his extremely small baseball glove to protect our picture window from long ball hitters..
Our annual assignment was to arrange and attach Christmas lights to the faded wooden frame surrounding our front door; and it had to take place on the coldest day of the winter. I still miss my fingertip swirls.
Dad was Mechanical Man # 1. I, as the oldest, was designated Mechanical Man # 2. Dad, my leader and mentor, would take from his Burbury flannel jacket several of his brass horseshoe shaped brads while I held the light cords in place against the frame. I found this arrangement to be beneficial and great practice should I opt to catch bullets between my teeth at the Allegheny County Fair, the following year.
Dad would next attempt to impale the brads into the defenseless door frame, which appeared to be pock marked from acne due to these same labor efforts by us in previous years.
The colored lights Mom provided were about the size of baby kumquats and refused to lie supine so the brads could be easily inserted into the wood. We did not remove the bulbs first because this was the final lighting pattern that Mom had approved the previous year. Our goal was to avoid a second mission: "The Arrangement Of The Colors."
As one could imagine, Dad dropped several brads on the porch floor before finally locating and blasting one with his ball-peen hammer. His frustration accelerated when the target brads landed across the street in the ball field and his thumb suggested the need for ER visitation.
When Dad had deposited enough brads in the field to seriously threaten the water run off path from the snow and ice, I opted to take over. His language became more creative and mothers were now scurrying to get any impressionable children into the house.
Dad would then fill his pipe with Half and Half and light up as he stationed himself in his usual observation post against a "telly" pole across the street. Our father-son bonding exercise was taking it's annual "pause for the cause".
Admittedly, my manual dexterity exceeded that of my Dad, but my spatial skills were apparently lacking. This conclusion is based upon my inability to arrive at any alignment of the lights that would satisfy Mom, "The Lighting Engineer".
This disability resulted in about 7 or 8 return visits by Mom during which time she continued her appraisals and dispensed Leona Helmsley non-motherly observations. During one of them I noted Dad was slinking away to Delaney's Morningside Inn, the neighborhood pub. I also was growing impatient and nature was calling. God forbid I would track snow inside the house enroute to the bathroom.
Noting there appeared to be rain dripping from the door frame due to the meeting of the two fronts: heat from the house - icy cold from the porch, I received only passing comfort in discovering a skim coating of ice was now appearing on the door sill. After all, this was Christmas time. I'm sure I would have really felt bad had Mom sustained an injury during one of her visits.
Once the symmetry was reluctantly approved by Mom, she then confronted me with Mission #2 -the previously noted :"Arrangement Of The Colors". Mom insisted the one I had layed out before her was not that which she had chosen the previous year. She also suggested I must have failed "Primary Color Recognition" in Miss Young's 5th grade art class .
Oh yeah! On her last trip she confided she didn't like the way some of the kumquats were leaning either. I continued to plunge on while using some of my newly acquired epithets to curse Dad under my breath and now refer to Mom as Marge.
After recovering her wind blown paisley babushka from one of the prized azaleas I reluctantly recalled Mom for what I hoped would be her last reinspection. She immediately claimed the colors still didn't blend correctly, that the kumquats should stand as erect as a carrot on a snowman, and quickly took her leave. Smiling to myself while reflecting on a Playboy cartoon involving a snowman and a carrot, I concluded: "Bar, this is not a Kodak moment".
Mechanical Man #2 was now becoming numb, feeling faint and a little lightheaded. At one point I imagined I saw a dozen or two of Al Capp's Shmoos laughing at me from Dad's previous observation post. The crowd of Shmoos seemed to be increasing each time I looked over there. I would have chased them away but realized we needed the milk and eggs. (*)
On Mom's most recent visit I detected what appeared to be a departure from her previous "Pick Purgatory or Hell" grimace. Due to a frostbite high, I saw this as a positive sign.
I made 2 more adjustments to the color chart and peeked in the living room window. Mom was sleeping peacefully - if exhausted - on the couch, and I heard the haunting sounds of Liberace and his violin playing brother George on the TV, as they waved goodnight.
I chose to emulate their wave and quickly fled to rejoin Mechanical Man #1 for a "father-son" bonding much better suited to our mutual talents.
(*) (www.deniskitchen.com/docs/new-shmoofacts.html) Shmoo not Schmoo from Al Capp's Little Lil Abner.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Dis n Dat:
I chose the above title for this blog carefully My goal was to provide some flexibility to comment on whatever struck me as interesting. Like most bloggers I found that target was easier to aim for than to hit. Some days you just don't feel like being Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.
Our last log was a little bit of nostalgia - kind of non-threatening stuff. You see, once you reach this age you can't always ramble on about all the disengenous people you observe. When you do many people just look at you as "some old poop" . You know what? Sometimes they're right. So, this year you're going to see A NEW ME!
Today we'll just go on down the primrose path skipping along among the daisies:
We won't rant and rave about the graft involving our politiicans and the impact it has on their decision making abilities.
This means we also won't be preaching about how insecure people continue to take advantage of good people because they sincerely believe compassion is a sure sign of weakness.
We will refuse to describe in detail various forms of punishment that non-handicapped people should receive when they insist on parking in handicapped parking places.
You won't find us talking about the stupid Steeler fans who are so upset that some of the NFL teams chose to rest some regulars at seasons end and impacted their sacred team that started 6 and 2 and then proceeded to give away the next 5 games. No sirree, Bub!
To be fair there also will be no mention about the Pirates managment who have systematically demasculated our beloved Pittsburgh Pirates and their loyal fans..
We will refuse to make any argument suggesting that maybe movie stars and rock performers have not been blessed with some prescient wisdom on world issues.
The last thing we'll do is campaign for some more well written romantic comedies as opposed to films that explode buildings and people of every race, religion, and creed. Yep, we've changed.
So, nope, you ain't going to see those kind of things in this mans blog in the new decade .
Just give me a pair of well fitting Depends and a few nips of good Irish Whiskey and you'll hardly know I'm here.
"HAVE A GOOD DAY!"
Our last log was a little bit of nostalgia - kind of non-threatening stuff. You see, once you reach this age you can't always ramble on about all the disengenous people you observe. When you do many people just look at you as "some old poop" . You know what? Sometimes they're right. So, this year you're going to see A NEW ME!
Today we'll just go on down the primrose path skipping along among the daisies:
We won't rant and rave about the graft involving our politiicans and the impact it has on their decision making abilities.
This means we also won't be preaching about how insecure people continue to take advantage of good people because they sincerely believe compassion is a sure sign of weakness.
We will refuse to describe in detail various forms of punishment that non-handicapped people should receive when they insist on parking in handicapped parking places.
You won't find us talking about the stupid Steeler fans who are so upset that some of the NFL teams chose to rest some regulars at seasons end and impacted their sacred team that started 6 and 2 and then proceeded to give away the next 5 games. No sirree, Bub!
To be fair there also will be no mention about the Pirates managment who have systematically demasculated our beloved Pittsburgh Pirates and their loyal fans..
We will refuse to make any argument suggesting that maybe movie stars and rock performers have not been blessed with some prescient wisdom on world issues.
The last thing we'll do is campaign for some more well written romantic comedies as opposed to films that explode buildings and people of every race, religion, and creed. Yep, we've changed.
So, nope, you ain't going to see those kind of things in this mans blog in the new decade .
Just give me a pair of well fitting Depends and a few nips of good Irish Whiskey and you'll hardly know I'm here.
"HAVE A GOOD DAY!"
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Rear View Mirror.
For some reason the habitual occurence that drives me nuts at the end of each year is "The Year In Review"
It's the constant rehashing of the year just then ending by almost every newspaper and media source in the land. Sorry, I really don't think 2009 is what I want to watch and hear in my rear-view mirror. If I'm that bored I'd rather purchase the DVD : The Best of CNN. (should it exist)
Please understand, I'm not encouraging anyone out there to run away from reality. Just consider a brief respite until the learned Wolf Blitzer covers the next big story for us.
If, like me you're feeling a little glum, why not check out some of the old radio shows from a much simpler time. These are the ones that many of us listened to and really laughed. They also gave us an imagination. We were not taught then how we should react to something. We just kind of figured it all out by ourself.
My research revealed sample tapes (with commercials) of complete shows like Sam Spade, You Bet Your Life, Gunsmoke, and Phillip Marlowe are available on line. Phyl and I were thoroughly entertained. She couldn't get over how quick and clever Groucho was.
You may want to first test your memory with the following radio questions to "whet your whistle"
.
On what radio soap did you hear the announcer tell you: "This is the story that asks the question: Can this girl from the little mining town in the West find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman, Lord Henry Winthrope?"
Who was the outlaw who ambushed John Reid and his brother when they were members of the Texas Rangers - leaving John, the only one to survive and fight for justice?
Who were the original Amos & Andy?
Who played the original Matt Dillon of Gunsmoke radio fame?
Who are the two Marx brothers about whom we hear so little?
Who was the only other person to know the true identity of the Shadow?
Who was the accomplished actor who early in his career starred as radio's Sam Spade?
What actor and member of a great theatrical family performed on radio each Christmas as Ebeneezer Scrooge?
What was the name of his weekly radio show?
Who played the part of Marilly, his housekeeper, and later became TV's " Mother-in-law
from Hell"?
(answers below)
1. The opening introduction of the radio soap: "Our Gal Sunday"
2. Butch Cavendish of the "notorious" Butch Cavendish gang!" The show was The Lone Ranger.
3. Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll. - a couple of caucasion gents who never anticipated
their efforts which mesmerized America would later be called politically incorrect.
4. William Conrad, who went on to fame as Cannon.
5. Gummo and Zeppo.
6. The beautiful Margo Lane who had this thing going with Lamont Cranston, "da Shadow".
7. Howard Duff , who was married to the beautiful actress and director, Ida Lupino.
8. Lionel Barrymore
9. The Mayor Of The Town
10. Agnes Morehead - the lovely Endora.
Now, that's some "rear view mirror" stuff I can "really" appreciate. Bring it on, 2010!
It's the constant rehashing of the year just then ending by almost every newspaper and media source in the land. Sorry, I really don't think 2009 is what I want to watch and hear in my rear-view mirror. If I'm that bored I'd rather purchase the DVD : The Best of CNN. (should it exist)
Please understand, I'm not encouraging anyone out there to run away from reality. Just consider a brief respite until the learned Wolf Blitzer covers the next big story for us.
If, like me you're feeling a little glum, why not check out some of the old radio shows from a much simpler time. These are the ones that many of us listened to and really laughed. They also gave us an imagination. We were not taught then how we should react to something. We just kind of figured it all out by ourself.
My research revealed sample tapes (with commercials) of complete shows like Sam Spade, You Bet Your Life, Gunsmoke, and Phillip Marlowe are available on line. Phyl and I were thoroughly entertained. She couldn't get over how quick and clever Groucho was.
You may want to first test your memory with the following radio questions to "whet your whistle"
.
On what radio soap did you hear the announcer tell you: "This is the story that asks the question: Can this girl from the little mining town in the West find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman, Lord Henry Winthrope?"
Who was the outlaw who ambushed John Reid and his brother when they were members of the Texas Rangers - leaving John, the only one to survive and fight for justice?
Who were the original Amos & Andy?
Who played the original Matt Dillon of Gunsmoke radio fame?
Who are the two Marx brothers about whom we hear so little?
Who was the only other person to know the true identity of the Shadow?
Who was the accomplished actor who early in his career starred as radio's Sam Spade?
What actor and member of a great theatrical family performed on radio each Christmas as Ebeneezer Scrooge?
What was the name of his weekly radio show?
Who played the part of Marilly, his housekeeper, and later became TV's " Mother-in-law
from Hell"?
(answers below)
1. The opening introduction of the radio soap: "Our Gal Sunday"
2. Butch Cavendish of the "notorious" Butch Cavendish gang!" The show was The Lone Ranger.
3. Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll. - a couple of caucasion gents who never anticipated
their efforts which mesmerized America would later be called politically incorrect.
4. William Conrad, who went on to fame as Cannon.
5. Gummo and Zeppo.
6. The beautiful Margo Lane who had this thing going with Lamont Cranston, "da Shadow".
7. Howard Duff , who was married to the beautiful actress and director, Ida Lupino.
8. Lionel Barrymore
9. The Mayor Of The Town
10. Agnes Morehead - the lovely Endora.
Now, that's some "rear view mirror" stuff I can "really" appreciate. Bring it on, 2010!
Friday, December 18, 2009
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.
.
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.
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.
.
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.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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".
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".
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
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!
--------------------------------------
Hope you had a great Thanksgiving.
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!
--------------------------------------
Hope you had a great Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
" 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.
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.
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