Castro, Chavez keep in touch

It’s difficult to keep in touch with all the people I love, so that’s why I want to host a weekly call in show. And run for president. Remember reading about FDR’s fireside chats? Well, I’m bringin’ ‘em back. The chats, not FDR.

Assuming we had a president capable of holding his own on a live radio show, wouldn’t it narrow the gap between White House and the American home?

Say what you will about Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez, but he fields calls and keeps in touch with his citizens via television. Even Fidel Castro called from his hospital bed in Havana to check in with Chavez and scoff at capitalism. I can’t wait till my buddy Crash calls the president to talk 401K.

Despite his distaste for globalization and free trade, Chavez isn’t all bad. He was dissatisfied with President Carlos Andrés Pérez, so Chavez and friends stormed the city and attempted a coup. After being released from jail in 1994, Chavez campaigned and was elected president five years later. He heralded a new constitution and social reforms. During his eight going on nine year presidency he’s been reelected twice and survived a coup which allegedly US military conspired in.

Chavez’s supporters rioted and looted. No one would riot or loot for Bush. Maybe America needs a coup d'état. Or maybe the constitution should be required reading for the government. But an interactive program starring the president seems more likely.

Complaint Department: Take a number and try to come up with something original

The best thing about complaining is there’s no shortage of things to bemoan. Public schools are lousy, companies are negligent, airlines let passengers rot on planes, our food is tainted, newspapers can’t keep our attention, there’s two more years of Bush, and we’re microwaving the world. So I’ll make my predictions for future grievances.

When a mountain climber dies no one will know what kind of gear he used, but if he’s presumed dead yet survives The North Face will endorse him.

Men’s clothing will get ever slimmer and even normal guys will have to hit the big and talls.

Corn and potatoes will be our car fuel; synthetic food will be our body fuel.

Medical coverage will continue to decline while procedures and medicine prices climb.

Grandma will be further distracted by her cell phone, ipod, and DVD player. She’ll drive into a playground.

There will be even less parking.

You’ll never be able to speak to a real human customer service agent on the phone again.

You will wish you never became a celebrity. Thanks a lot UTube and MySpace.

How did we elect a president who doesn’t even speak English? Oh, that’s how.

There’ll be nowhere to get a burger fast and cheap.

The advertising and graphic design bubbles will burst. Expect a surge in costumed goons on the street and unemployed dudes with tattoos will try to sell you pink on black skeleton screen printed shirts. “I used to make design subliminal ads for Sony, now I’m a hotdog.”

Eventually we’ll run out of housing.

When the war’s over we’ll complain about that.

Anna Nicole Smith will rise from the dead as the new savior.
Astronauts will get diaper promotion deals.

Britney Spears will open a hair salon.

There’ll still be nothing on TV.
This blog will get worse.

Things will never be perfect, but at least we can still grumble and bear it. And it doesn’t hurt to laugh sometimes.

The Future of News not Paper

You can keep the coffee. Just give me the paper. I need the newspaper to survive the morning. It enlightens and entertains me. It’s also a great placemat when a story so enthralls or enrages me I spill my cereal. A wise man named Josh Brown once said, “as long as I’m gainfully employed I’ll subscribe to the paper.” I agree and I don’t even have a job.

The morning paper is an endangered species as dailies move or mirror content online at varying paces. Vintage staff writers worry they won’t adjust to the blog world and may lose their jobs. Hiring freezes chill the industry as publishers push early retirement on tenured writers. That’s why I can’t land a staff position even at a mid-sized paper.

Though I am for the environment, I’m against physical newspaper obsolescence. What would I do without that telltale 4 AM thud of packaged newsprint on concrete? Let’s just say it’s more devastating than what I’d do for a Klondike Bar. Yikes.

I read Slate Magazine online, listen to NPR, watch Fox News (just to keep things fair, balanced, and interesting), and browse various other virtual publications which oft serve as cannon fodder for my blogservations, but I’m a newshound who demands real material in my hands; I want to feel current events. Besides, if I spill milk on my laptop, I’m screwed! I like to cut articles and, you guessed it –comic strips out of the paper. I like the texture of recycled newsprint and the ink stains it leaves on all my white surfaces. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but using a magnifying glass to read tiny stories on an ipod rubs me wrong.

Until home printers can adequately authenticate newspapers –infectious ink and all— I’ll keep paying the paperboy. Eliminating newspaper delivery takes spending money away from kids who spend it on slingshots and BB guns. And what about the nocturnal weirdoes who toss papers from their minivans? Who’ll employ these husky vampires? Our fragile economy can’t cope without print news. Kid weapons and burrito sales will suffer. For the sake of mischievous children, odd adults the postal service won’t hire, old time rag devotees like me, and the nation, don’t stop the presses!

New business ethics

Paper, plastic, or that beat up thing dangling from your shoulder?

Though the furniture is usually cheap or gaudy or both and you have to put it together, I applaud Ikea—just not for its wares, for its big bag idea. Customers can purchase a reusable Ikea tote bag for 59 cents to fill up with Swiss goodies the next time. And who says you can’t use the bag at the grocery? Or the mall? Don’t wanna buy the bag? It’ll cost ya anyway. You still have to buy traditional shopping bags at their actual cost –a nickel apiece.

“All proceeds will go to American Forests, the nation’s oldest nonprofit citizens’ conservation organization.”
The Dallas Morning News

Perhaps other outlets will follow suit. In the modern marketplace we even have bags for our bags. Next time you buy a backpack and a bunch of junk, tell the scanner numb cashier not to waste any plastic bags because you can strap the pack on and fill it with your goods. For cryin’ out loud it’s a knapsack! Use it! And somehow I think I’ll manage transporting a Snickers without a shopping sack. Even on the off chance I’m not going to eat it immediately or I’m not wearing any pants and have no pockets, I’ll just carry it. It’s not that heavy. I have too many plastic receptacles with “Thank You” printed on them choking my cabinets as it is.

Is badmouth the new boycott?

McDonald’s may not be burger king forever. According to research consultant Karen Fraser the Arches and other corporations with questionable ethics are oblivious or think they’re immune to negative word of mouth. Just like when you were an invincible teenager and then your drunken friend learns a deadly physics lesson. When there’s no other option, an entire town patronizes Wall-Mart. They have no choice and the Mart knows it. They pray Target doesn’t decide it’d like to live in Nowheresville, USA too.

Companies ignore non-customers, it’s only logical, but what happens when their followers aren’t so loyal? Sound hypocritical? Yes and no. consumers aren’t just blissfully ignorant anymore. Stores can no longer count on an uninformed clientele; educated buyers are the chain’s worst nightmare. And there’s something intriguing about an American with a mouthful of McDonald’s blabbing about how Ronald’s selling the environment and kids short. A year from now when a fledgling burger joint where the only numbers on the menu are prices that buys locally, fresh cuts fries, recycles its packaging, and donates its food waste to homeless shelters moves in next to the fast food goliath. Sure, real ground beef makes new kid’s grub a little pricier, but Mr. America think it’s tastier, too. Suddenly McDonald’s has one less customer. And he’ll share the fresh ideas with friends. Sometimes change is good.

Sailin' On

It felt good. Deconstructing my myspace page after reviving it for a month or so was the next best thing to living in the woods and foraging for my food; one less blip on the radar. Maybe I’m jaded, but to me myspace is the shadiest, shallowest, and dangerous place on the internet. I scrapped my pictures and hung a crooked sailboat painting in their place. No longer will I waste my time deleting emails from people I don’t know or denying friend requests from hookers and a billion unsigned bands that sound like bad music’s orphan. I won’t feel dirty anymore. Myspace may reunite me with old friends, but it also estranged me from a long time friend because her husband doesn’t have a sense of humor. The site just isn’t worth the hassle. I left a link to my blog on there and wiped all my personal information.

When some dateless doofus makes a fake Shawn Hornbeck page to harvest sympathy I no longer feel comfortable with neither mere mundane details of my identity, nor likenesses of me readily available to any lowlife with a mouse. Everybody wants to be a somebody, but I just want to be a nobody. I want to make friends the old fashioned way.

Natural fireworks

For as long as I can remember I’ve watched thunderstorms unfold. The giant windows and mobile shelter of a car make it my favorite viewing arena. My mom always told us kids the rubber in the tires grounded the vehicle and protected us from lightening. I think she just wanted us to enjoy the show. She shared her fascination with the sky, staging fire drills to get us outside to see falling stars or Aurora Borealis.

We would drive to the top of the hill town outskirts where you could see all the city lights below and watch the lightening bolts trump a century of manmade electricity in a flash. Once we witnessed the entire village’s power fail. When we got home she sent my brother and I on silent, stealthy, and blind secret missions to recover candles and matches. We’d watch as she lit the first stick and her olive toned face illuminated like a pumpkin; when the candles were lit, usually only one match for a half dozen or so –mom was fast– she contorted her face and made an exaggerated huff as if she were blowing out a bunch of birthday candles. She’s 47 now.

As I write the hail knocks on windows. Nature’s not timid; she knows how to make an entrance and how to entrance. Thunder soothes my weary soul. It used to wake me up with always a gentle nudge, and I’d do my best to stay awake and keep my weather eyes open, but there some storm magic that brings out the best in rest. Now that I’m older and waking me resembles raising the dead, I sometimes stay up on rumored stormy nights, as mom does to see meteor showers or shy planets. But once I listen to the wind play the symbols and the thunder summons drums slumber absconds with me. Even during the most violent crashes I feel calm. Suddenly death by lightening bolt doesn’t seem so ominous; there are worse ways to go. And somehow “how’s the weather?” doesn’t seem so shallow.

Briefs, not Boxers: Snug and concise News

It’s a good thing we didn’t have a winning world cup soccer team last year. Why? We don’t need a baby boom, but Germany did, and it’s getting its wish this month as the stork works overtime; someone should give that bird a raise. Score! indeed. Research shows when a woman is happy she’s more likely to conceive, so the Krauts win a few matches and a few German broads get knocked up. Everybody wins. But let’s not discount German beer’s role in all this. It goes very well with spectating and baby making. I just checked, and according to dictionary.com spectating is a word. Take that, Microsoft word 2003!

Draft dodging politicians take heed of Prince Harry’s frontline desire. He doesn’t even have to go to war, he volunteered. That’s a word missing from many vocabularies nowadays. This proves Harry has a better head on his shoulders than his brother. I only have one question: do British infantrymen have to sport buzz cuts as Americans do? The pictures show Harry’s wild red hair, making him, as many feared, a very visible target.

Whole Foods bought competitor Wild Oats. The Austin based company is the largest US health food store and has a habit of gobbling up its rivals, but keeping their names. Georgia grown Harry’s Farmers Market maintains its original identity through Whole Foods’s friendly takeover. Before you know it the good food grocer will be as big as Safeway. And with fresh selection, breads baked in-house, no Hot Pockets, and energy conservation commitment, that’s a good thing.

Cheap meals, playgrounds, diaper changes, the exclusive live ant topping after the second scoop topples from atop an ice cream cone, child admission prices, and now they don’t need an ID for international travel? Kids get all the breaks. Homeland Security no longer requires passports for US whippersnappers under 15. Foreign kids traveling to the US without documents can just float on in on rafts or jump fences.

The Chocolate Challenge or I have way too much time on my hands

It’s been done to death, I know. But I couldn’t resist rating (I said rating) my quartet of Valentine’s Day dates.

The prices vary from almost affordable to “do you do layaway?” But the chocolates sampled are rich and strong, you won’t be buying them every day, and hey, you only live once. Despite the four different shapes each bar weighs three and a half ounces, so nerds with calculators can compare price per ounce easily. Even though my financial advisor warned against purchasing $12.50 worth of chocolates, in the name of science and my stomach I’ll play by my rules and thereby break all rules.

My rules:

No peeking at ingredients until after making blogsevations; only two bite size pieces aloud for judging; no wine or cheese, only orange segments as palate cleansers; and only one judge—me.

Product specifications and test notes:

Hachez- Cocoa D’Arriba, 77% cacao, $3.50, one dollar per ounce

Defines the oxymoron bittersweet. Well balanced flavors; liquor taste resonates. If only it were affordable to bake with. This is my third selection.

A. Korkunov- Dark Chocolate, 72% cocoa, $4, one dollar and fourteen cents per ounce

Sleek, expensive looking packaging matches its smooth and rich texture and tang. Tastes like a good cup of hot cocoa should and at four bucks a bar is cheaper than two cups of fine hot chocolate in a café or diner. Absolutely my favorite.

Ghirardelli- Espresso Escape, 60% cacao, $2.50, seventy-one cents per ounce

Gasp! Purists say coffee taints chocolate. Nonsense, chocolate was born to be combined; I couldn’t resist the bonus caffeine (what’s keeping me awake now) and enhanced flavor (like sour cream to cakes). Silky and milky, though bitter cocoa and coffee balance the bar. Finishes with a rich fruit taste. Imagine a cup of Columbian coffee, medium strength, with plenty of cream and sugar. Very pleasant, second prize.

Lindt- Excellence, 85% cocoa, $2.50, seventy-one cents per ounce

Bitter to the core with only slight sugar reprieves, and it’s a bit chalky. I taste rum as well, but maybe that’s just fermentation. Only for cacao enthusiasts or people who take their coffee strong –and black. This bar almost offended me; after judging I gulped down some more Ghirardelli to mask the Lindt’s bitter aftertaste. I’ll eat it, but it still ranks last—fourth place.

Further analysis:

I flipped the packages over to discover ingredients and nutritional information. All bars featured significant kilocalories, fat, sat fat, and surprise!: fiber. The candies shared some protein and little or no sodium. Iron ranged from 4% daily value via the Hachez Cocoa D’Arriba to a whopping 45% in the A. Korkunov. Bless those Russians.

Bourbon vanilla is responsible for the liquor I tasted in the Cocoa D’Arriba. Marginal sugar content at 9g, but that’s in half a bar. Not bad by chocolate standards, but the fat trumps the rest at a whopping 44 grams total. Ouch.

Simple. All natural. Six ingredients. The A. Korkunov bar boasts five awards won on the back; now I know why. I don’t endorse much, but go buy this if you have taste buds and even if you only have $4 to your name. Now!

Runner up and tied for bargain of the lot, Ghirardelli’s Espresso Escape rounds out its coffee and sugar with milk fat and more milk fat, yet has the lowest overall fat and sat fat content. Improbable! It’s also the only indulgence explicitly including milk (a no-no in the world of cacao snobbery), the rest only warn of trace amounts. Worth every penny and every pound.

With a scant 12.5 grams sugar in the entire bar, the Lindt Excellence makes up for it with not only chocolate, but cocoa powder. Blame the chalky texture on the powder. Save the dry stuff for cakes, sauces, and brownies, please. Ranks second in fat, but first in protein (4g). Beware—this ain’t no Hershey bar, don’t try to make s’mores with this baby, unless you like seeing children and adults cry.

Leftovers II: Seconds and the Legend of the Clean Plate Club, The Sequel

It’s Fat Tuesday, I ate a fat meal and I’m tired, so guess what? It’s time to repeat the reheat. I’d offer you some of my caramel apple coffee cake, but it’s spoken for. And now some updates:

IN the air:
It’s not just passengers dissatisfied with American Airlines, pilots who took one for the team—a pay cut, that is—are prepared to strike if they don’t see a salary hike. Executives say the flyboys skipped negotiations. Neither camp has made any concessions. Few people can fly airplanes, just like few folks can throw an 80 yard touchdown pass, so pay should reflect that. I’m not saying pilots or professional athletes are worth millions, but without them the owners and CEOs can’t have their pumped up pay either. Similarly, without travelers and fans airlines and clubs would crash. It’s called gratitude.

Discount air carrier Jet Blue drafted a passenger Bill of Rights promising vouchers to inconvenienced customers up to the full ticket price and 5 hour or less waits. It’s better, but still not enough and still too long. I’m with the irritated AA passengers; in extreme circumstances, 150% of the airfare should be refunded and we shouldn’t wait more than 2 hours. It’s the companies’s privilege to have us as customers. And again, it’s called gratitude.

ON your plate:
While the Peter Pan peanut butter recall called for a needed cleanup in foodstuff factories, the gold digging parents jumping on the “my child had a tummy ache; pay me” bandwagon –a week after stores canned the contaminated product– should grow up. The flu and upset stomach are not salmonella poisoning. Lawyers are not doctors. If you picked up a newspaper last week while your child was sick, got their stool sampled, and it was positive, then you have a case. Otherwise just send in your lid for a refund. Next thing you know these nincompoops will look in the cabinet and say “oops, we eat Skippy, not Peter Pan.” No settlement for you, no refund either.

An intergalactic crossover bigger than When Harry Met Sally or when the Jetsons met the Flintstones!

Satellite radio single signals Sirius and XM may tie the speaker wire knot. Bigwigs held meetings to discus the merger and stocks should shoot up a bit as the buzz circulates. The union would be yet another step towards America, Inc. But new a new challenger could step into the ring. Overzealous college radio DJs might be cooking something up and the Sirius-XM marriage should spur response from conventional radio stations. I’ll bet Clear Channel’s got something up its sleeve and large independent stations may work together towards an alternative subscription service.

No matter the outcome, the publicity is priceless for the two broadcasters. Even my lowly blog serves as a double plug, no matter what I say. Speaking of cutting advertising costs, merging slashes marketing and operation overhead, making satellite radio profitable.

Customers see it one of two ways: it’s bad, because I have no choice, or it’s good because I was on the fence anyway; I like it when people make decisions for me. Then there’s the monopoly debacle. No, I’m not referring to starting a board game that lasts hours. But don’t worry, I’m sure the bright boys down at Sirius and XM will find away to railroad us, pass go with the merger, collect two hundred dollars for service, and hold on to their “get out of jail free” cards. So turn it up and stay tuned for the latest in corporate buyouts. Will Blockbuster snatch up Netflix? How about all those Target shoppers clutching that last shred of dignity when Wal-Mart hits the super-center-merger-mark? Can you say Tar-Mart? Wall-Get? Bullseye!

(Spray) Paint the Town Red

Britney Spears shaved her head. Who cares? Let’s talk graffiti. Some people just don’t get it. Some folks don’t understand rap music, either, and jazz baffled uptight whites during the 1920s. Hipsters and squares aside, a $200,000 war on graffiti in Dallas is absurd. While spray painting violent or racist symbols and slogans or just to deface should be punished, tasteful and artistic “pieces” can liven up eyesores and dilapidated alleys. And Dallas has its share. The racists and vandals give graffiti a bad name.

Yes, painting over any business or building without permission is wrong, but the Dallas Police Department offers no positive solutions. Why not commission good artists to paint famous community figures or scenes? Cooperative mural projects keep youth out of trouble after school and setting space aside for spray can art prevents unwanted graffiti –from scribbles to masterpieces– off public and private property. Cracking down on illegal advertising without a compromise will only deter the timid. The bold will find a way, because they are artists and artists make sacrifices for their work. Age restrictions on buying spray paint would reduce the random obscenities and haphazard vandalism. 16 year-olds buying toilet paper and eggs aren’t making Halloween costumes and omelets; kids purchasing Krylon cans aren’t making urban Mona Lisas.

Why pay people to paint over graffiti? Catch some criminals and put them to work. Punishment and community service all rolled into one outing; you can’t beat that.

If the shoe don't fit, find its Cinderella

I helped a friend of a friend move today and it made me wonder. First, why was I doing this? Second, what happens to all our possessions? This guy has a lot of stuff. Having recently moved myself, I purged pounds of clothing, books, and other items. And don’t worry, I got my receipts. I hope my moth ridden sweaters are keeping some homeless Syracusian warm, but I bet my old duds are in the thrift shop.

One day some set designer in my theater class (yes, I took some theater classes) sported a familiar T-shirt. It was too big for him, just as it was too big for its last owner: me. Wearing layers of black clothing under it didn’t work; there was no black known to man that matched this fabric. Big bulky sweatshirts didn’t detract from its obvious oversize. Try as I might, I could never make this stretched out shirt fit right. So one day I tossed it in a lawn bag and waved the Salvation Army truck goodbye. I’m sure the set designer set that garment free by now too. So I didn’t punch him and steal my shirt back; I knew his pain— great shirt, lousy fit. Not even someone who attended the ’91 Use Your Illusion tour could work their magic and turn that ill fitting rag around.

The moral of this story is if your material goods don’t fit put them up for adoption. Not that I believe my former shirt has a happy home, but hey, you never know. I’ve seen some oddly shaped humans before. Anything you grew out of, that never fit in the first place, or you don’t know the origin of should be recycled. You don’t need it now.

7-Eleven learns some new numbers

A feast of food news this week! A drunk and stoned teenager stumbles into 7-11; an apple is not what he’s looking for. As I’ve said before, and you’re probably, no definitely tired of reading this, fresh food takes the cake. Rather, fruits and vegetables replace the cake when Americans reach for a snack. It’s only logical 7-Eleven will follow the fad and imagine the markup on a fruit cup! Our flirtation with fresh has spread to the convenience store: the final frontier. Is no snack food Mecca sacred?

Headquartered in Dallas, 7-Eleven hopes to scoop up new customers who might drop by health food stores before work. You can’t get gas at Whole Foods, so this is convenient. Traveling across the country last year, I marveled at sushi in a Seattle gas station. I didn’t buy any, but I considered it. How bad could a convenience store California roll be? Ok, it could be bad, but it could be good.

While it’ll be strange to see fresh fare in such an unlikely venue, I don’t think there’ll be wine and cheese tasting parties on aisle six anytime soon. And that’s a good thing. 7-Elevens are, however, beefing up their wine lists, so when I need a moderately priced yet highly marked up cabaret at two A.M.; I’ll know who to call. Who knows? You might see me there for lunch sometime, but I won’t forego the oatmeal pie dessert, after all, they’re still a quarter, right?

Peanut butter scare leaves Lost Boys and Girls without Lunch

Millions dined on spinach and scallions tonight. But just when you thought it was safe to grocery shop with utter abandon, paying no mind to what you put in the cart, disaster strikes an unlikely aisle. As if kids didn’t have enough to cry about –the boogeyman, dirty diapers, sand in their eyes, just to name a few –now we’re confiscating their PB&J sandwiches. Among my favorite adages, “what you don’t know can hurt you” suits a world where scandal is always part of the vernacular.

Ever wonder where creamy peanut butter gets its smooth texture? Liquid fat; margarine, it’s lesser known as partially hydrogenated oil. There’s that word again, hydrogenated. Why? Filler. Oil is cheaper than peanuts and since it’s been stabilized into a solid the oil doesn’t separate as it does in natural peanut butters, which use pricier peanut oil. See my “The Skinny on Trans Fats” post for more. Click here. Besides being allowed to inject margarine up to 1/4 of its volume, commercial peanut butters sometimes contain grit, such as rodent hair and insects.

Recently Peter Pan peanut butter added an additional secret ingredient to their recipe: salmonella bacteria. Though no one is sure how it got there, researchers traced 288 illnesses in 39 states to lids stamped with 2111, packaged in Neverland, or ConAgra foods’ Georgia plant. Dirty jars, equipment, or employees may be to blame, just don’t look at the peanuts; they’re noble nuts, victims of circumstance, and not guilty.

But has peanut butter lost its innocence? No more ants on a log, PB&Js, PB paired with honey, dunked bananas, PB cookies and chews, or peanut butter moose? Say it ain’t so. It may be time for Peter Pan to hang up his hat, as ConAgra might re-brand. Natural peanut butter companies could seize the opportunity to push product. I like to grind my own, but MaraNatha makes a nice spread, so if prices drop to capitalize on Peter’s fall from grace, consumers might spend their refunds on a better butter. And natural PB will make its home in more pantries and refrigerator doors. Which it likes, because it’s right next to the jelly.

This incident sends yet another message to Americans and the FDA. Don’t let foodstuff giants poison us and offer a refund to make it all better. Or is it butter? No, margarine and salmonella.

Tennessee Legislators: Abort this abomination!

Privacy keeps coming up. We all know there’s no censorship on the internet; sensitive personal information is at the fingertips of the wrong people. I’m all for freedom of speech and expression and the internet is a great outlet for creativity.

Switching gears, Tennessee legislature introduced a bill calling for death certificates filed by would be mothers. I wish I was joking, but my sense of humor doesn’t twist that far. Unborn, unwanted, and unnamed fetuses will be documented. There’s an entire sector of our nation off the books and Tennessee wants imaginary infants registered. If only there were some way the government could tax these non-citizens. Don’t these moms have enough to worry about?

"The number of abortions reported to the state Office of Vital Records is already publicly available. The office collects records _ but not death certificates _ on abortions and the deaths of fetuses after 22 weeks gestation or weighing about 1 pound." (Schelzig, 3).

Call it a scare tactic or a guilt trip; I term it outrageous and unnecessary. The latent parent’s social security number and other sensitive information decorate the document. Who benefits from this invasion of privacy? Not the mother, nor the unborn child, but the mystery lies in the purpose these data serve. If made public potential employers, adoption agencies, creditors, and other modern day detectives could access the records.

I’m not pro-choice or pro-life; I’m not convinced enough to take a side. Resembling so many other debates, policy makers try to slap hard and fast rules on, abortions deserve case by case consideration. Perfectly healthy productive members of society should use contraceptives instead of having multiple abortions. It’s more economic that way, too. But don’t think abortion doesn’t affect me. It affects us all in a myriad of ways; I was almost an uncle. I also would’ve been a primary caretaker for my niece or nephew. However, I believe most adults who decide against bringing a baby into this world have good reason not to. Politics aside, it’s her business. Adult is the key word. When babies have babies, the pregnant adolescent’s parent or guardian should have the final say, because they’ll help rear the child.

It’s only a matter of time before all public records will be even more public (i.e. online). Many already are; for a small fee you can find out how many DUIs your alcoholic college roommate has. As aforementioned, I don’t fully subscribe to either slant, still, absurdities such as this push me closer to a staunch pro-choice stance. What’s next? Will miscarriages carry more paperwork in addition to misery?

Article: http://www.breitbart.com/news/2007/02/14/D8N9LFT00.html

Candy, candy, candy, I can't let you go

February feels colder when May is so far away. Gulping down gallons of soup and hot cocoa comforts temporarily, but there’s nothing like Valentine’s Day to lock in winter’s permafrost-bite.

Fresh off the cheese (school bus), I used to lick frozen poles when I had no valentines in my box; I stuck with my slender lady until the snow melted or my tongue got tired. But these days I have a new date and she’s always ready. She’s easy to unwrap and melts at my touch. My valentine comes in many shapes, sizes and is a woman of color –or not.

The darker, the better and the bitterer. I like mine black as coal, because V-Day has never been so sweet; I need something to balance my love palate. Besides, she likes wine, she likes cheese; what’s not to like about that? The type of girl that sticks to your ribs and you can taste her on your fingers for days. That’s my type. She never leaves you hungry, but you’re addicted; you always want more.

The good ones are expensive, but worth every penny, and you only live once. When I’m with her I forget all about the soul-searing cold outside my door. When I’m alone with my candy I forget all my worries. I could die a happy man when I sink my teeth into her. She’s always on the tip of my tongue. She knows food is the way to this man’s heart. Sorry strawberries and whipped cream, you’ll have to wait till summer. I need a dessert with body, heart, and soul. Something more satisfying than revenge and that makes the other guys jealous.

So ladies you know what I want for Valentine’s Day and no one said we can’t share. A chocolate ménage-a-trios can be very sexy.

Blogservation: though the pop consensus says Hallmark invented Valentine's Day to boost the post holidays/pre mom and dad days sales slump, don't you think Hershey's had a gooey hand in the mid month love fest?

You have the right to remain silent

It’s quiet; you can feel eyes burning, burrowing into the back of your head, you turn around and… was it your imagination? No, but they are silent, slick, sleek, and stealthy. You can’t see them, but the can see you. They want to know everything about you; I hope you have nothing to hide. Here’s some advice to improve your invisibility:

You see yellow and hit the accelerator. You think you’re gonna, just a little further –damn! It turned red. You look around; wipe your brow, “whew!” no one saw you. No one with a badge and red lights, anyway. Not someone, something. A week later you open a mysterious letter only to find a fine. Politicians say the stoplight surveillance is for your safety, but you know better, just look at the traffic ticket.
”But if I go out Saturday night I’m going to miss my programs.” Thanks to TiVo staying in on the weekend, like grandma watching her British soaps, is a thing of the past. Now you can cure that hangover with some quality prerecorded television; plus you can skip those pesky commercials. But is there a spy in your house? Once an expensive luxury, TiVo now invades millions of homes. Invades? Yes. And unless you tell TiVo “no!” it not only records your favorite shows, the device enlightens marketers of your viewing habits. So you don’t have to stop recording hours of QVC hand modeling, you just don’t have to share your fringe fetish with market analysts.

Can you see me now? Can you track me down? Turn your mobile phone on and anyone with a Global Positioning System tracking unit who knows your number knows where your phone is. Cell phone service providers will not activate phones without GPS. Only now are cell companies selling the service. So the next time your kid says he’s at the library, but really at the whorehouse, you’ll know.

Speaking of kids, you know those kiddie IDs? Good idea, right? Wrong. Giving children picture identification invites every pedophile and abductor into your child’s life. Not to mention when your son decides to rob that liquor store at age 16, he’ll be bummed when the cops match the fingerprints at the crime scene to his elementary school ID. Thanks, mom.

Think those grocery store club cards are just for you? Think again. Your spending routine shapes the store’s order. Shops snoop your purchases, putting items on “sale” only legitimizes applying for and remembering to bring the card in the first place. Whenever possible I shop at nonexclusive supermarkets or pretend I forgot my card. Oh and here’s a tip: according to my friend, a former Peters (a defunct grocery store in upstate New York) produce employee, the cards are interchangeable. Whether bargain buying at Albertsons, bulk food finding at Wegmans, or carefully maneuvering your cart at Safeway; you can scan the same savings card. Just be sure to use the self checkout to avoid that “are you crazy?” look from cashiers.

Well, it’s not as cool as going undercover and not as extreme as going underground, but with some consumer education you can cover your financial tracks a bit better. When with identity theft runs rampant and you can’t count on cops, the brave new world calls for brave new customers taking the law into their own hands. Buyer beware and be resourceful.

What's that smell?

Leftovers: Blogservations that have that warmed over feel, because it’s Sunday, I had a heavy dinner of risotto, and I’m tired.

I didn’t watch the Grammys; I watched the Grammies instead, that’s an award show for great achievements in grandmothering. I wouldn’t watch the Grammys unless someone paid me. I’m just not interested. Any real mainstream talent is eclipsed by music that makes my ears retreat into my head.

Bird flu is back. I can’t think of a worse way to die. I’ll have the sweet and sour chick—pork. Sweet and sour pork, thank you.

A plethora of people Anna Nicole knew, worked for, and/or knew in a biblical sense have made statements lamenting her untimely death. Spaced out space cadet Lisa Nowak should send the deceased a thank you card:

Dear Anna Nicole,

Thanks for having an even stranger sex life and having more screws loose than me. Sorry that you’re dead. Bummer.

Love,
Lisa.

As I predict collectors and perverts are selling and buying Anna Nicole mags on eBay like hotcakes. Expensive hotcakes. Some of the eBay community is outraged. Even more outrageous (and I can’t believe my foretelling skills failed me), there are now four hats in the ring –or should I say sperm in the bank –claiming to be Anna’s baby’s daddy. The latest, her second husband, J. Howard Marshall II joins photographer Larry Birkhead, last fling lawyer Howard K. Stern (who is sleazier than smut show host Howard Stern), and 90 year-old mega-celebrity Zsa Zsa Gabor’s hubby, Prince Frederic Von Anhalt. Too bad Prince the artist isn’t in the running; he’d have my vote. And are we really to believe that Anna Nicole Smith needed artificial insemination to get pregnant? Sorry J. Howard Marshall II, you’ve been dead over 10 years, you’re not the guy.

Do you ever notice in fast food commercials there are bright, colorful vegetables glistening behind the burger or dog and fries even if there are no veggies topping the patty or link? Is it just for color, or do they think they’re subliminally fooling us into thinking we’re eating healthy?

Why is John Mellencamp popular again? Didn’t we leave him back in the ‘90s somewhere after that Van Morrison cover? Don’t give this man any more happy hour money!

There is plenty of Latino comic strips, but why not publish some in Spanish? That way Paco gets a chuckle and people like me can brush up and pick up some chicas bonitas.

Public schools get poor marks for lunch

There’s a revolution of chow. It started in some big city restaurants and spread to entire cities. Now the whole fast food industry is scrambling to remove hydrogenated oil from fries and baked goods. Supermarkets carry alternatives that take the junk out of junk food. Oreos are now not only trans fat free, but vegan.

Americans are buying fresher. People are spending more time in the produce department and less time fogging up the freezer case windows. Have you noticed the jump in fruit and vegetable prices? That’ll subside. But with growing interest in ethnic foods and raw vegetables fresh may also mean fast, thus eliminating “I don’t have time to cook” from the American vernacular.

With all this change afoot, why are public schools calling in sick when it comes to shaping up their menus? French fries are not a vegetable. While pears in heavy syrup we’re once fruit, the nutritional value is canceled out by added sugar. Soda and candy machines serve lunch to millions of hungry high school pupils. No wonder their stomachs don’t stay full for long on empty calories. If eating habits have changed in the home, why are we still poisoning kids at school? Yeah, you guessed it, money.

Students spend a third of their day at school. That may mean a trip to the vending machines in the morning (kids like a caffeine kick, too), during lunch and after the school bell rings, before boarding the bus or cruising the Mustang home. I won’t even get into schools allowing Starbucks to set up camp in cafeterias.

Yum food brands (home of Taco Bell, Pizza Hut and KFC to name a few), Little Caesars and Chick-fil-A (God’s official chicken shack—schools aren’t open on the Sabbath—so it’s ok) offer investment incentives to schools willing to stoop and scoop up greasy money. Shouldn’t parents be outraged? Has the fast food business no dignity? What kind of lessons are the children learning from this?

Some may argue that parents and students make the decision to buy school lunch or bag it, but shouldn’t health conscious kids have a choice, too? Cookies and fries for lunch alienate much of the studentry. As diversity in institutions grows shouldn’t menus reflect that? Perhaps the accountants should crunch some numbers and maybe public schools will serve up some variety and still make a pretty penny from school lunch. Grocery stores and restaurants have adapted, schools should be next.

Straighten up, pay up, and fly right!

This is what I’m talking about! Or at least it’s a start. Remember the plane-full of holiday travelers held hostage by inadequate American Airlines policies? The drafters of the “passenger bill of rights” should feel somewhat vindicated. Had these courageous customers not stood up and spoke up for themselves and their fellow flyers, American could have been content to buy everyone a beer and a burger (if they’re lucky) to bury the hatchet. Kudos to these patriots for instilling fear of flying back into AA executives.

Trapped travelers can expect to spend no more than four hours on a stranded plane (a breeze compared to 10 hours plus endured on Dec. 29) and American hopes this new rule will be like that gun under my pillow — there just in case. Just a reminder, if you’re flying, especially during wild weather, stash some sleeping pills on your person or in your carry on; they haven’t been nixed yet. You’ll want to bring along some snacks, may I suggest a tuna sandwich — it should be nice and ripe by the time you’re ready to chow down — because, much to my dismay, no mention of meals or clean hoppers made headlines today. If an aircraft is grounded at an airport and not the desert, you’d think someone could make a run for tacos. And as long as the husband, who’s slipping out the emergency exit to get pickles and ice cream for his screaming wife, gets enough for everyone I’m happy.

The “passenger bill of rights” called for a 150% airfare refund and better lost/damaged baggage reimbursements. Here’s hoping the vigilante voyagers don’t forget about those when they see their vouchers.

Would you take $500 for three hours of inconvenience? I would, but afterward I’d take my money elsewhere. Adding another company to my boycott list wouldn’t bother me one iota. It makes for great conversations, chiefly when I meet CEOs.

Who killed Anna Nicole?

Curiosity killed the catty Anna Nicole Smith. Beset by the press and choked by four legal fights, the latest concerns her TrimSpa endorsement and what she really had to do to shed an ironic number of pounds — 69, the bubbly Texas bred supermodel collapsed earlier today, as if to say “enough!” She wasn’t a good actor, so playing dead was out of the question.

Death plagued Anna Nicole Smith. Her second husband, J. Howard Marshall II died in 1995, after only a year of matrimonial bliss. But boy did Smith pull out all the stops to secure inheritance; she pulled out an impressive enhanced pair at her geriatric hubby’s deathbed. Perhaps her bosom is to blame for Marshall’s death, but hey, he paid for ‘em; shouldn’t he get one last look?

The court announced another chapter in the former family inheritance feud (Smith’s share dwindled from $474 million to nothing) giving her another shot at the fortune. A month later, Anna Nicole’s ex- stepson E. Pierce Marshall died. Strange and sudden, with scant details of a mysterious infection leaked to the press, Marshall’s June 2006 demise is cause for pause. Foul play afoot? Not so far.

Smith’s only son Daniel Smith, from her first marriage, abruptly dropped dead last September, while visiting mom and new born step sister (whose paternity is still a mystery, but Friday she’ll be tested and thanks to the internet, we’ll see results instantly). Suspicious as the 20 yea-old’s death was, a trio of anti-depressants killed Daniel Smith. But who induced the overdose? Would the third man in the hospital room, Anna Nicole’s lawyer and boyfriend, Howard K. Stern have reason to kill Daniel Smith? Something about Stern’s lifestyle scares ex-boyfriend and paternity candidate Larry Birkhead. He and lawyer Debra Opri fear for the child’s life:

"Larry Birkhead is the father and he wants his child," she told FOX News. "He doesn’t want another death.”
Fox News

Love her or hate her, 2006 proved a nightmare year for Anna Nicole Smith. A deadly combination of fast living, legal clashes, a rash of odd deaths, the TrimSpa scandal (and maybe the lengths she went to for weight loss), and controversy over her biological baby’s daddy destroyed her.

And just as the last pictures of Daniel Smith fetched his mother $650K, final footage of Anna Nicole Smith has media companies rabid over the rights. Her E! reality show DVDs will be hot ticket items and expect to see prices for the March 1992, June 1993, February 1994 and February 2001 Playboys, starring, you guessed it — Anna Nicole — skyrocket. You can even watch: http://cgi.ebay.com/ANNA-NICOLE-SMITH-LOT-OF-6-PLAYBOY-ISSUES_W0QQitemZ120084989083QQihZ002QQcategoryZ280QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem
And
http://cgi.ebay.com/The-Anna-Nicole-Smith-Show-1st-First-Season-2003-DVD_W0QQitemZ300079542289QQihZ020QQcategoryZ617QQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem

Update: Folks are removing Anna Nicole Playboy auctions left and right, maybe out of respect or greed, your guess is as good as mine. Let's see if this one lasts 13 hours:
http://cgi.ebay.com/ANNA-NICOLE-SMITH-Signed-1st-PLAYBOY-Magazine-MSD-Coa_W0QQitemZ130078422858QQihZ003QQcategoryZ58QQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem

Ground control Orlando to Houston: Houston, she’s your problem, take her back!

What I thought was the weirdest chapter of astronaut Lisa Nowak’s launch into lunacy, may not be so bizarre after all. Female ‘nauts are trained to wear diapers in deep space because it’s messier for them to relieve themselves than men. So, when Nowak strapped on the Depends she was really following orders on her deranged mission. But on her 900 mile trek didn’t she have to stop for gas? Perhaps she had rocket fuel.

NASA is considering mental health evaluations before and after takeoffs thanks to Nowak.

“Astronauts are evaluated annually by flight surgeons who can refer them to psychologists, but they are not routinely examined by mental-health specialists.”
The Miami Herald

But it’s been months since Lisa Nowak returned and in NASA’s nearly four decades of space exploration this is the first case of a homicidal love triangle.

We may never know what drove Nowak’s unhinging, or what propelled her vehicle halfway across the US without a single pit stop. Maybe it’s that all Lisas are crazy, perchance freeze-dried food withdrawal, or possibly a space creature ate Lisa Nowak and assumed her form because it wanted to tour earth. Identity theft strikes again!

Business News Briefs

Sick as a dog, of work

Jobless as I may be, I’m still looking out for you, the gainfully employed. Two recent studies begged my two cents, and without steady income, four pennies was all I could afford.

Remember Ferris and his blissful day off? One third of the 1,650 personnel surveyed in Orlando, Florida admit to faking sick to stay home.

“Meanwhile more than one in four [of 1,150 surveyed] hiring managers said they had fired a worker for taking a sick day with no legitimate reason for doing so.” The Orlando Sentinel

Ouch! Last time I watched the aforementioned film, Bueler played hooky all the time and never got expelled. Then again, maybe some managers were just trying to sound tough and scare off potential slackers. One thing’s for sure, although the number who confessed to phony maladies dropped from 43% in 2005, someone who’s creative enough to invent a disease might lie when asked about it.

If it’s any consolation to employees canned for having a little fun, weren’t you trying to get out of work in the first place? Right, now you’ll never have to go again. To all those wriggle-out-of-work pros out there, practice those bogus coughs!

The American pipe dream heads down the tubes.

The good old American dream purportedly received a makeover, or so says MetLife’s product research.

“ ‘Where previously the American dream was defined as a combination of homeownership, a happy family life and financial security stemming from a stable career, the defining theme now is almost a singular desire for financial security,’ said Rob Henrikson, chairman and chief executive of MetLife.”
Pamela Yip

Our country’s radical new dream? In order of importance: financial security, free from want, family/children, and homeownership. Surprise! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the American dream is the same as always. Sure, depleted pensions make financial security top reverie, but all the original tenets are accounted for. As for me, I hit the hay wishing for a job I won’t call in sick to. I also still want a wii; it’d make whiling away the responsibility free hours that much more enjoyable.

Cartoon Catastrophe

The backfired joke costs (two) millions!

You know the feeling, it was sooo funny in your head, but the audience just stares and some reach for ripe fruit. Cartoon Network’s costly gag bombed in Boston. Or at least New Englanders thought the Lite-Brites emblazoned with mooninites—profane space people from television’s Aqua Team: Hunger Force—were bombs. Roads closed, Bobby’s Boozy Bingo Tourney was canceled, it was chaos!

I know what you’re thinking. I love comics; I love controversy, why didn’t I blog earlier? I was busy.

I blame the generation gap. Baby boomers and anyone over thirty-five probably doesn’t know a subversive cartoon character from a nuclear threat, just like their parents wouldn’t recognize such obscure supporting cast as Huckleberry Hound posing as a hand grenade. The folks at Cartoon Network didn’t consider their entire audience when guerilla marketing. It’s ok guys, I still want that job; I can diffuse this disaster!

Though some may not find this funny, someday they’ll look back and laugh. Unless they’re some of those people with no sense of humor, have you ever met one of those mutants? They’re creepy; I always laugh boisterously in their face then cough and say “oh,” when wide-eyed at their death stare, I realize: “egad! no funny bone!”

Either way, the joke’s on us, America. Internationally, we yet again look silly and scared, or just plain scared stupid. And Cartoon Network pulled off the publicity stunt—didn’t they succeed anyway? Maybe this was their plan all along. Take a joke. Take it all the way to the bank. Though CN’s parent company, Turner was ordered to pay 2 million, time will tell if the deposit outweighs the withdrawal.

Don't Look, Ma, No Funny Commericals!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, all commercials should be funny. Go ahead, make my day, advertisers. There were very few that hit the humor mark this Super Bowl. Bud led the pack with seven side splitters, that’s one more than a six pack. I’m not counting the showoffy look-what-we-can-do-with-computers Jay-Z commercial. If only the boys at ‘weiser would focus as much on the beer as ads, or at least bring back the Bud Bowl. You know you want it.

When the main attraction—Super ads—doesn’t distract from the Super Bore, it’s time to unleash the YouTubers. As much as I hate to say it, these nerds with nothing better to do than make America’s Funniest Home Videos with drugs, hooch and cursing deserve a shot at next year’s festivities. The Doritos guys did a bang up job. If nothing else, they got people talking, just like last year’s Hummer spot. My biggest bone to pick is with the CBS programming filler. Ok! Ok! We’ll watch the shows, just make with the commercials. Folks, if no one’s buying it’s because your prices are too high. Give companies whose products lend themselves to humor like Nerf, Chia Pet, The Clapper, Cap’N Crunch, and Odor Eaters a sporting chance come Super Bowl XLII. Get Leslie Nielsen to do some ads. Something!

The game? The first half scored, but the second was a snooze. It’s great two Black coaches took their teams all the way, and Peyton Manning lived up to his hype, but Prince should’ve been the MVP. The Artist was decked out in Dolphins colors and played “Purple Rain,” how appropriate. Anyone else hear him shred on those guitars? The purple one dazzled the fans—they were totally into it, there weren’t 15 acts on stage at once playing patty cake, and the ageless Prince made us forget all about the too old Stones; money grubbing Paul McCartney; that someone gave Nelly, the halftime show equivalent of the New England Patriots, two chances to perform; a wardrobe malfunction; and P. I-owe-it-all-to-Biggie Diddy. Next year, keep America awake, lower the ante for 30 second spots, and invite Prince back.

Ignore No More

I’m good at going unnoticed. I can keep a secret. I can start a secret society of senators. I have nothing to hide; it’s all here, on the internet.

My first act as New York senator will be to hang my dirty laundry on a line stretching from Albany to Washington DC. That’ll keep ‘em busy while I organize a group of idealistic young senators. We’ll expose the corruption within our government. Sure, I’ll be murdered, but they can’t kill us all, and now you’re in on it. Never mind that white van parked on your lawn. We’ll be martyrs.

We all know about government dishonesty, so why not do something about it? Because, for the most part we’re content. Or apathetic. Not me. Not anymore. I love my country, but I want my government to give it to me straight. Who killed Kennedy? Are there aliens on US soil? No, not those aliens, extraterrestrials. Why does the American public need to be monitored day and night and why do atrocities still happen if surveillance is so advanced? Why are so many Americans dying at home and abroad?

I’m calling for another secret agency, but not run by the government. And I want every blue blooded gun-toting truth seeker out there to have my back. Forget politics, crash the parties, and burn down the house, but build some bridges, brothers and sisters, and shout: “we want answers, not excuses! Enough secrets! Enough deceit! Enough lies! We won’t eat them anymore; we’re hungry for full disclosure.” It’s high time for “for the people and by the people” to ring true again. This doesn’t mean war, it means freedom. No more lies. We’re adults; don’t treat us like children anymore, Uncle Sam. And keep your hands to yourself, we’re all grown up now and we can scream louder than ever. Now, who’s with me? Let’s start today.

Walk on by

Take a walk down Memory Lane, then a left on Nostalgia Street and finally a right on Reminiscence Road…

Some people you think about every day; they’re those around you. Others that have been gone for a few years cross your mind every week or two. Missing five years or more? Once a month, maybe more, they cross that maze of memory –your mind. It depends on how important they were and what said or didn’t get to say to them.

It’s that feeling when someone makes some smart remark to you and you can’t quick quip back, but later there’s the sass and you wish you could go back for just a moment and stun your opponent. You were just too tied up in monotony to see what was right in front of your eyes. She might've even mentioned her desire and you just sat there.

“All my friends are getting married. I’m not getting any younger; if I don’t get hitched soon I’ll end up an old maid.”

“Say something! Do something! Put your arm around her!”, you shout at your former self through your mind’s movie projector, but it’s no use. You shut it off with a swift slap of your hand, the projector crashes, yet you still wonder: what if?

Maybe she’s long gone, in another state, in another country, unlisted, married—with a new name and a new life, perhaps she’s dead. For every time you opened your big mouth without thinking, you wish you'd opened it then, and spared yourself the thinking now. Some will tell you not to ask what if? Those people have no imagination.

Razor Burned

Small Purchases mean Big Business

The fine folks at Proctor & Gamble, or simply PG, a multinational maker of everything (you’ve seen their exclusive coupon book in every Sunday newspaper), sent me one of those 15 blade rip-your-face-off razors in the mail today. No strings attached, just a trial with discounts on replacement blades—the expensive part.

At first I was puzzled. Why me? How did they get my name? I decided I don’t want to know. Potential customers beware!: a dangerous weapon may be in your mailbox. It’s called the Gillette Fusion; and after cutting yourself getting the damn thing out of its extraneous packaging, counting the tiny cutting edges makes you dizzy. I get the message, "you have no choice; buy Gillette. You don't want to get stuck with Schick, do you? Of course not."

A year after purchasing Gillette P&G’s stock is up, thanks to people like me who fork over a buck fifty or more for every razor blade, which last all of three shaves; and I use the prehistoric two blade Sensor XL model. We’re talking ’96 here. A recent stock report specifically named razors as a reason for the swelling. While the razor burn and stitches will go great with my face, next time just send me some stock, then I can buy more razors and the sun will set on my perma-5o’clock shadow. Suddenly electrolysis doesn't look so crazy.

The Skinny on Trans Fats

After a long road trip returning from Alaska—where I worked for the summer—I craved pancakes. The diners I ate at just didn’t have a flair for flapjacks. And some didn't even have butter; instead they had "spread." What does that even mean? With that bitter taste in my mouth, I assembled the ingredients on the counter and took a whiff of the canola oil. I made a face and exclaimed, “Rancid!”

My canola oil wasn’t hydrogenated. That’s the bad word you’ve seen in the paper, connected to its villainous partner, trans fat. Though meat and dairy contain trace trans fats, the artificial stuff first cooked up by Crisco at the turn of last century, the hydrogen enriched shortening made its market debut in 1911. Why change the composition of fat? Simple, it lasts longer; and is cheaper because you don’t have to trash it. If my oil was lab treated, I could’ve treated myself to a stack of griddlecakes, but my heart wouldn’t have been as happy.

The media fuss is over the health benefits hydrogenated oils provide. What benefits, you say? Exactly. The successful science experiment that plays a part in so many convenience and fasts foods is detrimental to your health. So, in a country where heart disease is the number one silent assassin, trans fats don’t sit well in America’s stomach. The fugitive oils wage a two pronged war on your health; they not only raise bad cholesterol (low-density lipoprotein), they lower good cholesterol (high-density lipoprotein). Almost a hundred years later some people are just finding this out. What you don’t know can hurt you.

If you’ve seen Supersize Me you cannot forget the decomposing French fry test. An order of diner fries sat next to some McDonald’s spuds. The former frites broke down rapidly; however, the Arches’s fries looked fresh from the fryer. Various preservatives are to thank/blame for this super shelf life, among them hydrogenated oil. Scientists modify the molecular structure of the oil by adding hydrogen. The pressure from hydrogen forces a new shape and the fat is stabilized. This is why it stays in your system longer and is harder to process. Our bodies don’t recognize the new configuration, so it’s a poison. As we adapt, future generations may develop new digestive functions, but it’s been 100s of years and most people still cannot fully digest lactose, a sugar in milk. Only time will tell.

The Big Apple trans fat ban confuses some folks. People are angry they won’t unsuspectingly consume hydrogenated oil at restaurants anymore. Some say food won’t taste the same. Not true; these oils taste no different from other oils. It’s about consumer education. Sure, a few restaurateurs’s feathers are ruffled over changing and perhaps paying more, but don’t New Yorkers deserve healthier oil? The owners charge enough.

My theory, which is untested and only conjecture and blogservation, is that hydrogenating oil also expands the atomic structure. So the oil is stretched and appears thinner, thus cheaper.

As you can tell, I think informing the public of trans fats lurking in their $50 entrée is admirable, but a ban seems extreme. Of course if it were voluntary to change the oil, who would do it and who would some use “no trans fats” as a selling point? Many grocery items already advertise bad fat free on the label. For those people who are worried about not getting enough trans fats while dining out in NYC, don’t worry, you can still buy commercial peanut butter, margarine, lard, Hot Pockets, Hostess cakes and donuts, “buttery” crackers, pancake and waffle mixes, and candy bars with more than your daily dose of hydrogenated oil at your local supermarket. As for me, I make my own pancakes, and top them with natural trans fat—real butter.

Baked Steemers?

Granted most homeowners rest easier when they know their carpet shampooer isn’t an ex-con, but should this be a selling point? The Stanley Steemer company thinks so. “Stanley Steemer employees are drug tested and background checked,” an innocent blonde tells me. Clean became an obsession as American as apple pie in the ‘50s. Wonder bread. Bleached four. Bright yellow rubber gloves. Don’t worry, Stepford Wives, a shiny headed hunky genie will clean your counters and floors. Of course this was nothing new; after all, cleanliness is next to godliness. Spic and span saw a renaissance in mid-twentieth century households. As the first decade of a new century draws to a close Moms still value immaculate floors. But black or Latino women swab our decks with USMC preferred Pine-sol and scrub scum rings from tubs with the Mr. Clean eraser. The eraser really does work, by the way. It’s terrifying and amazing how well the super-chemical soaked sponge vanquishes stains. Stanley Steemer coupled sanitation with servitude (something that has always been popular in America) and the piggy bank swelled.

Back to the drug/background test—I have a few questions: how do customers know the business really requires these? Has anyone checked into it? Meanwhile most companies’s drug policies state that a criminal record may not disqualify a candidate. Identity theft, committing crimes after hire and human nature—greed—are unaccounted for variables. Unless Steemer spends more of your money on random drug screenings throughout employment a user may clean up for the test and celebrate passing it with a joint. And don’t you think drugs would aid a worker’s coping with pushing a vacuum eight to10 hours a day? So, to the skeptic, the commercial fails. Yet to an average consumer, who just consumes, the ad insulates. Warm, fuzzy, and clean; hook, line, and sinker.

I'm really a sentimental fellow

Sometimes I wish someone would bulldoze the internet. Can something that big just disappear? Not likely. Not when a mere human of biodegradable material can no longer live anonymously.
We are social animals, most of us, and the internet is just another soiree. It's as dangerous as any other party; there are thieves and killers mingling in the next chat room.
People can take cover on the internet; there are lots of nice hiding places. But the shady privacy is being harvested to clear the way for surveillance. Now the internet is a detective tool. Prospective employers spy on a perspective employee’s elife. This applicant had too many virtual cocktails. Our government snoops through our email, rummaging in and outboxes like a bum in a dumpster. Subversive correspondence is better off by pony express.
Perhaps the evildoers seek shelter in someone else’s shoes; they’re imposters, now that the internet thicket is thinner. Identity theft may be the only ticket to anonymity today. Everyone is ensnared in the worldwide web. Some folks don't eat meat or buy material possessions; does anyone snub the internet? I'd like to say goodbye for good someday, but first, I'll need your identity.

Get me off this crazy thing!

This is the final boarding call for Inconvenience Airlines flight 13 to Hell

Snakes on a Plane, eh? I’ve got something scarier: Stranded with Smelly Strangers on a Plane for 10 Godforsaken Hours! Catchy name. I hope some folks on the December 29 flight from San Francisco to Dallas/Forth Worth remembered sleeping pills, snacks and packed an extra bladder. 10 hours on the tarmac with no food, drinks or sanitary restrooms and no one mutinied or popped open an escape hatch? America really has lost its way. Sheesh. But some postponed yet patriotic travelers from this American Airlines flight drafted a “passenger bill of rights.” My favorite notices on the bill are:

“Air carriers to refund 150 percent of a ticket’s price to bumped passengers or those delayed for more than 12 hours” and “Airlines to pay passengers for the market value of lost bags and contents rather than a depreciated rate.”
-Maxon, Terry. “Stuck Passengers Strike Back.” The Dallas Morning News. 24 January 2007.

I knew I wasn’t the only one who transported priceless paintings in my checked baggage. Let’s take it a step further, shall we? What about the person picking the “phantom” person up at the gate? Shouldn’t they be compensated as well? Most people don’t live or work near major airports and have to travel 45 minutes to an hour each way. Doesn’t that count for something?

Consumers should put their money where their mouth is. It’s time to stop giving airlines second and third changes to clean up their act. Isn’t it enough we have to strip to get through security, pay eight bucks for a crappy meal and don’t even get peanuts or pretzels and half a soda on the plane?

Fire up the engines, Amtrak, next time I travel it’ll be by rail.

State of the Yawnin'

I’m not going to get into the politics of the President’s address, just provide some blogservations.

There were plenty of funny faces. Ever-so-sly Dick Cheney looked both ways before popping a pill, but through a well-executed pump fake our crafty camera operator caught big D in the act. My first guess—cyanide—didn’t pan out, as Cheney was still breathing 30 seconds later. Whatever it was, it perked the old Vice Prez up. For the remainder of the broadcast he made goofy faces at an imaginary quarry to his left. Perhaps Cheney’s heart meds produce hallucinations. That explains the hunting accident. Former first lady Hillary—looking straight out of the ‘20s with her conservative new ‘do—sucked on lemons or sour warheads all night. That explains the sourpuss.

You know those kids who always used to fall asleep in class and it was so obvious? Well, they grew up and attended the State of the Union tonight. I’d say there were half dozen dozers on hand tonight and the camera man did a good job exposing them.
You don’t have to clap after everything W says. I didn’t.

When presenting Dikembe Mutumbo Bush introduced him as a child of the Congo (not sure if these were his exact words), now I’m not PC, but it sounded like he was introducing the son of King Kong. Don’t his speech writers read these things aloud before emailing it to George?

The future is in Detroit

I always thought the Jetsons’s cars looked strange and made goofy noises, but Acura, Mazda, Mercedes-Benz and Jaguar brought their sleek dream concept cars to Detroit this year and even after a whole skillet of cornbread and a giant bowl of popcorn (today is national p-corn day, for those of you who aren’t with it) my mouth was still watering.

Let’s face it, since I have no car, a pinto could see me salivating in seconds. But these aerodynamic autos are glistening like a Vaseline laden fast food commercial burger! Though you’d have to move that decimal point in $2.99 about five spaces to the right.

Sex sells. Car creators tore the veils off virgin vehicles, revealing seductive headlights of all shapes and sizes, cars of all colors and body types. I imagine Chris Isaak crooning while the four wheeled fashion models strutted their stuff. Cat calls were in order this year as most cars were curvy and sultry, promising many a magical night, if you’ll only turn her on. Yow! Shiny silver and ruby red as pretty as painted fingernails dominated the showroom. Cameras winked in adoring flirtation at the celebrity coupes, but the beauties didn’t blush; they winked right back. Sassy!

The Batmobile inspired Acura Advance tops my list because the entire car flows from front to back. It doesn’t leave me scratching my head, wondering, “What’s that?” If I owned the Advance I’d find a Mylar bag big enough to fit it. Can you say mint condition?

Runner up Jaguar C-XF couples the refined dignity of an old person’s car with a “my car’s got more balls than yours” attitude.

A funky grill and tiny headlights make me wonder if were ready for Lincoln’s MKR.

Marrying a Delorean and a Japanese rice burner makes for a nice baby; though the Mazda Ryuga sounds like a Streetfighter 2 character, it’s sharp.

I always knew I was a prophet. The Camaro’s back in full retro force after losing ground to “foreign” cars. Too bad it’ll be out of its biggest followers’s price range. The Chevy designers must’ve really liked Pixar’s Cars.

Ford followed the American muscle nostalgic trend with the Interceptor (very slick) and Mustang (not bad).

Remember Toyota’s revamped Celica in the late ‘90s? Well, if it was cast in an anime movie, Toyota’s concept car FT-HS would play the Celica. I would accept this car as a gift and promptly sell it.

Chrysler’s still making Sebrings for some reason.

Tiguan is VW’s concept SUV. It’s a Toureg with flashy tires. They’re black with a thick red stripe down the center and black treads over the stripe. Remember whitewall tires? Volkswagen just blew my mind. Did I say blew my mind? I meant blew it.

I still wouldn’t buy a Hyundai. I don’t care if their warranty comes with a coupon for a better car. No.

The dudes at Mazda have been watching A-I nonstop. Kabura, Ryuga, and Nagare are all ideas lifted from the cars in that movie.

Detroit’s 2007 Auto Show proves the future is here or at least on its way. It’ll be here faster as these powerful vehicles pave the way, speeding fantasy to reality. Strange noises of Jetsonian cruisers might be ethanol and the cost of my cornbread and popcorn may go up.

A diversion election

Once again there are too many democratic flavors on the ballot. Now, I only passed basic math in college, but I can count to eight. Yes, eight Dems vying for the number one spot, “AH HA HA HA.” Cue my thunder and lightening ala Sesame Street’s Count. My cape’s at the cleaner’s, but you get the idea.

How am I going to keep these prospective candidates straight?, you ask. Simple. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’s posse boasts an overwhelming nine members. So I suggest writing a song, “you know John Kerry and Barack Obama and Clinton, Kucinich, Edwards, Chris Dodd and Joe Bidden, but do you recall the most major minority of all? Richardson the New Mexican Governor had a very slim chance, but with all the other contenders, he might have a shot after all.”

True, Bill Richardson’s run might be cut short, leaving him out of breath and money, but illegals may be spurred to get dual citizenship in order to vote. Seem like a lot of work? Who’s planting America’s gardens and cleaning our bathrooms?

Suave Senator Barack Obama could charm his way to a nod and he has Hillary scrambling.

Then there are the white guys. Johns Kerry and Edwards are lined up at the starting line and Dennis Kucinich ready for round two, too. Joseph Bidden Jr. and Christopher Dodd are new Northeast faces to the Party race. But seriously, Joe, most people on the east coast never step foot in Delaware, unless it’s to stock up on tax free goods and “Dela-who?!” say west coasters. And Chris, dude, the Patriots aren’t even in the Super Bowl this year. Two words buddy: good luck.

And me? Maybe I’ll run in 2012. Depends on how much loot I make on eBay between now and then. But just because I’m not running doesn’t mean I’m not collecting campaign contributions; I’ll find a safe place for those.

Blogservation of the day: Is it just me or are commercials deafening? Hitting the mute or volume down button is taxing on the thumb. Can’t anything else be done?

Cartunes

What do washed up, warmed over and heroin fried musicians do when they’re between a rock and a hard place? Sell their songs. Or someone else does. Sometimes the artist is long dead and no longer needs quick cash for 3 a.m. coke runs. It’s only a matter of time before we hear the first warbled, drawn out notes of White Zombie’s “More Human than Human” while some gas (or ethanol maybe) guzzling truck spits mud at the TV screen. I’m not complaining car commercials spoil these sleazy auto mechanic rock songs; the distortion and chugging chords of “Iron Man” made me cringe well before Nissan filled every commercial break with some Sabbath. If you’ve watched even one quarter of a football game in the last 4 months you know what I mean; “Iron Man” really does live again and he drives a Titan.
Present and future automobile advertising execs: please spare us. Your audience did nothing to deserve hearing “Black Hole Sun” again. The summer Soundgarden spewed this monotonous melody all over us was hot and miserable. Not miserable because of the heat, but because Chris Cornell and co. wouldn’t shut up about it. And that nasally back up singing when the track winds down made me want to melt like the Barbie doll in the video.
But I digress; only when a song has been beaten into our heads by the airwaves, MTV, and some butthead next to me at a stoplight is blasting the blasted tune with the windows of his ’89 Camaro down in the winter, is said song officially dead and doomed to live on as a novelty in some stupid car ad. Too bad they don’t make Camaros anymore. Mark my words, the washed out riffs of “Come as You Are” will beckon teenage girls to “Come buy a Car, hurry up, you have no choice, Nevermind that Dead Musician in the trunk.” And Courtney Love? Mitsubishi stockholder.

In the Future

Another Blogservation
Being trapped in the “ice storm,” I had time to think. What a strange science fiction turned reality we live in. What would be our long lost friends are available at the click of a mouse on a screen in pixels and bits and bytes. Sure, there’ll still be amigos who will slip through the tech cracks and may be lost forever, but as we get older we can compare our pot bellies to the girth of our former actual—now virtual—friends.
Say you have a friend named Scott, I hope in the future you can say, “Beam up Scotty!” and voila, a hologram homie. Then you can visit six or so old pals in an afternoon. Call it speed reacquainting, but be sure to give me credit.
By the time the ice melted I was at work on a rudimentary friend delivery system. So to everyone I can’t see regularly, which is, let’s face it—all my friends, I’m working on a solution. Did I mention I’m related to Alexander Graham Bell?

Sticker Shock: MLK Blasphemy

On Sunday, January 14th enjoyed reading “A King We Hardly Knew,” Derrick Jackson’s stirring article about early, previously undiscovered Martin Luther King Jr. writings. King had questions he struggled to answer. The answers would define a leader and shape a movement.
58 years ago, Martin Luther King Jr. wrote, "Our material and intellectual advances have outrun our moral progress." At the advent of the iphone, which is both a material and intellectual advance, not much has changed. Perhaps the situation is worse.
Just when I thought it was safe to go back to the mall—I should have learned my lesson—it's never safe to go back to the mall. It seems there'll always be some appalling display of selfishness next to the display of $300 jeans. Dodging swarms of preteen queens with credit cards and cell phones, navigating mazes of mannequins and crossing a treacherous-treat-filled-food-court using only my wits and an outdated, unreliable map; I managed to get out of the fabric and plastic jungle alive, with most of my money intact. I needed a new pair of jeans, plain old Levi’s, which set me back 25 bucks.
I employ the same survival tactics on the home front. The glossy parts of the paper usually meet the recycling bin before the rest of The Dallas Morning News enters my house. But lurking in the front-page section in large platoons, those pesky ads ambush readers. A one-page ad in today's paper trumpeted MLK's words:
"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."
Tribute or not, King probably didn't mean standing in the produce department of Kroger facing the challenge of choosing apples or oranges.
Gunther, the barber who can never get Curtis’s name right from Ray Billingsley's always funny and well-drawn comic strip Curtis, grumbles over a used car lot's solicitous use of King Day. It’s a shame. I thank Mr. Billingsley for exposing this issue to a large audience.

Sunday's Good for Nothin'

Sunday’s Good for nothin’

With waking up late, pancakes for breakfast, and 5 pounds of newspaper, who can get anything done on Sunday? Not me, and I like it that way. I remember trying to squeeze every last distracting activity into the Sabbath because school lurked a mere 24 hours away. But the best sleepover and stay up late eating popcorn and watching old TV shows nights were reserved for those sacred Sunday nights before a Monday off. Thank you, Dr. King. The old man made some pizza dough this morning, so tonight we graze on popcorn topped pizza and vegetate in front of Duck Dodgers in the 24½th Century, I Love Lucy, a Kennedy Assassination special on the history channel, Back to the Future and The Andy Griffith Show. I love Sundays, the ice cream kind, too (spelled Sundaes)… that gives me an idea.

Letter to the Editor

The Virginian Pilot 9 January 2007
Features/Comics
150 West Brambleton Avenue
Norfolk, Virginia 23510-2075

To The Editor:

Every morning I save the best for last: the comics. No matter how bad the news is, I can always count on the funny pages to cheer me up. When a longtime friend and lifelong Virginia Beach resident told me of a cartoon shakeup at The Pilot, I knew what I had to do.
Concerning the comics on the chopping block, here are my arguments:

Peanuts? This must be a mistake. Though Schultz is long dead, he lives on through Peanuts. It’s timeless.

Besides being well drawn, socially relevant, and always humorous, Ray Billingsley’s Curtis represents African Americans. Some may feel alienated by its absence.

On the subject of comic strip minorities, Sally Forth written by Latino Francesco Marciuliano and Cathy penned by Cathy Guisewite provide valuable and varied societal perspectives and are also witty.

I read almost every strip on the comics page, unless, after giving the title a fair shake I just don’t like it. And now the replacement comics’s shortcomings:

I’ll lump Pearls Before Swine and Get Fuzzy together because they are not funny and are written by nerdy white guys for nerdy white guys. These selections are probably considered hip. Said strips have had their second and third chances with me. Written. “Pearls” is wordy and weird—not good weird. I don’t get it; if someone gets Pearls please let me in on the joke. Fuzzy tastes like reheated Garfield reprints. The Pilot already has Garfield, so please shave Fuzzy from the page.

Gary Larson should be getting royalties from F Minus writer Tony Carrillo (not to mention a throng of other cartoonists getting fat off of Larson’s one panel formula). Is F Minus funny? Sometimes, but the computer generated style is boring.

The Pajama Diaries is a worse For Better or For Worse or a two-ring Family Circus. There are already too many of these parenting comics.

Jim Borgman is one of the best new talents to grace the funny pages, so Zits gets an exemption.

I moved to Virginia Beach in early 1993 and down the road to Chesapeake until late 2001. The Virginian Pilot is an excellent newspaper. When I visit, and if I move back, I look forward to perusing its pages again. I am fortunate enough to live in the Dallas metro area where The Dallas Morning News features forty plus dailies (including all 4 strips the Pilot is dropping). The Morning News even has a section dedicated to comics and puzzles because a reader spoke up. I wish I could take credit. Perhaps an entire section for funnies and games wouldn’t work for The Pilot, but bringing back the aforementioned dailies would be a step in the right direction. I have included two clippings from my local paper to support my argument.

Thank you for your time and thoughtful consideration,






Charles J. Reith, III