Category Life

Sandwiched In

Michael 1 Comment

Sometime over the past several years you have seen a news story, read an on-line article, or seen a magazine article on fast food advertising. Two things are always stressed in these reports – that the advertisers must use the same ingredients that the restaurant uses to make the sandwiches in the ads, and the sandwiches in the ads never look like what you get squished into that bag that you exchanged a bunch of dollar bills for.

There are always lots of excuses. They use special angles and shoot with optimal lighting. Their toppings might be a bit fresher than what the restaurants are using. And my favorite excuse, they don’t cook the food. Apparently when you cook meat it shrinks and when you wrap lettuce in aluminum foil on top of a hot sandwich it wilts. Quel surpise! Here’s an idea. How about not putting the toppings on until the sandwich is ordered? By I’m just talking to the wind.

When advertisers photograph a shirt or a blouse they have to get one from the production line for the picture. The model can be as fresh or as manipulated as you please but the product has to be what you can reasonably expect to find in the store. Why would expect the same requirements for the food we eat? But as I said, I’m just talking to the wind. Or am I?

Take a look at this. This is a sandwich from a local restaurant that has earned its reputation from its sandwiches.

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This particular sandwich was bought, bagged, tossed in the car, sat there while I stopped for gas, finally arrived home, plopped on the table, unwrapped, and picked up to be heartily devoured. That’s when I stopped and snapped off a shot. It probably isn’t that great of a picture because I don’t belong to the “take a picture of your food before you eat it” generation and it still looks like a pretty good sandwich to me. The funny thing about this local chain. They don’t advertise.

Imagine that picture handled by the food stylists responsible for making your McBurger look appetizing. That might be better than porn.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Rant

Michael Leave a comment

I’ve started writing something witty for this post no less than 6 times. Each time I get through the first sentence and I drift into an annoying (even for me) rant about that which annoys the daylights out of me. Since it looks like I’m not going to get to right anything witty today I might as well rant along. I’ll try not to get too annoying.

It’s not mid-June, the general election is 5 months away, and attack ads for the Senate seat on the ballot have already begun. Oh joy. Imagine the next time you are applying for a job you spend your entire interview (which you force yourself into rather than waiting for the invitation) on the reasons why your competition should not get the job and never describe your qualifications for the position.

Speaking of job interviews, the newly hired school superintendent of the local school district (that pays over $210,000 a year) held his first press conference to explain some discrepancies in his resume. Of course they weren’t really discrepancies. They were merely accomplishments of his that weren’t as accomplished as he said. When they say to proof your resume most people figure they mean to look for typos, not to make sure you have proof of what you wrote.

Speaking of school superintendents, the one at a different district (one where two teachers have pled guilty and are now in jail for having sex with students and one teacher is awaiting trial for having sex with students and another teacher has been charged with witness intimidation in one of the cases of one of the teachers having sex with students) was told he had to, pending an investigation regarding all these teachers having sex with all these students, voluntarily take leave of absence with pay or the school board would be forced to involuntarily put him on leave of absence with pay. He wouldn’t so they did. With pay.

Speaking of leaves of absence with pay, a local police officer charged with using excessive force after he was caught on a security camera beating the living daylights out of a high school kid, successfully sued the city for lost overtime he probably would have earned had he not been suspended. With pay.

Speaking of pay, our state’s attorney general (who had her law license suspended but refuses to step down claiming she doesn’t need a law license to be an attorney) is being sued by her sister, the chief deputy attorney general, for sex discrimination claiming she is being paid 17 to 37 percent less than her male counterparts. If that’s true then somebody will soon be suing claiming that he or she is being paid 20 percent less than some other part.

Speaking of claims, it’s time for somebody who claims to be in charge to take charge. Please.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Making a Connection

Michael Leave a comment

Have you seen that commercial where everybody does everything with their phones? Check bank balance, pick airline seat, buy donut, trade stock, start car. Do anything as long as you never ever don’t have your phone in your hand. That commercial. Or was that real life I saw that?

Yesterday I did something I hadn’t done for ages. I stopped at the bar yesterday. Not too long ago it would have been a rare day when I couldn’t say I stop at the bar yesterday. Nowadays it’s an event. I think it came from being in the hospital for 7 months. They don’t let you drink there and if there should ever be a place where drinking is mandatory it’s the hospital. Instead they turned me into someone who can say that now when I go to a bar it’s to pick up a sandwich that I ordered. And this place has killer sandwiches! But that’s a different story.

Anyway, I got there before my sandwich was ready so I sat and had a drink, joining the dozen or so people similarly spending their mid-afternoon. I noted that there were 14 other people there and 11 of them had phones in their hands. Eight were actively typing, tapping, or swiping. The other three were, I suppose, on standby.

You know how ubiquitous cell phones are but when you see it clustered in one spot it really hits you. Just a couple of years ago if there were 14 people sitting in a bar some afternoon there would have been a couple conversations, a few people checking out the TVs hanging from the corners, somebody at the jukebox, and perhaps a card game. Today I saw 8 people more connected with somebodies not there than there. And three on standby.

I’m not sure how I feel about that. Whether they were talking among themselves or conversing electronically I still would have been there just waiting for my sandwich. Still killer. Thank God some things don’t change.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

The Case of the Missing Drive Thru (sic)

Michael Leave a comment

Last night I wanted Chinese for dinner. When it comes to Chinese I’m flexible. It can be General Tso Chicken, Orange Chicken, Kung Pao Chicken, Lemon Chicken, Hunan Crispy Chicken. I’ll even make it myself. I can make a chili-based sweet hot sauce, I always have some spicy orange glaze in the fridge (don’t ask, I’ll write about that some other time), I can do a lemon sauce. I even have rice and lo mein noodles on hand so the side is just a flip of the coin. I even have a couple of fortune cookies somewhere in a cupboard. If I only had chicken.

That scuttled the whole Chinese thing. See, in addition to me not having chicken, it was raining. If it wasn’t raining I’d have been happy to drive to the nearest Chinese restaurant and pick up dinner. But since there are no drive through Chinese restaurants I was forced to eat leftover pork chops, assemble and bake a pizza, or get a Quarter Pounder. Why are there no drive through Chinese restaurants?

If you look at what we have driven through, drive thru General Tso shouldn’t be that hard to pull off. Just in the food category we have burgers, tacos, gyros, donuts, deli sandwiches, and hot dogs. We can get chicken sandwiches, chicken nuggets, chicken wings, and chicken eggs scrambled or poached. What’s so different between a chicken nugget with your choice of sauce and fried chicken pieces tossed in a spicy glaze to commemorate some long forgotten military leader from the nineteenth century.

We have drive through pharmacies, drive through banking, drive through coffee houses. There are drive in movies, drive in oil change places and drive in car washes. We live in a time that we can eat, drink, bank, be cured, and get our cars serviced and washed without ever getting wet. (You know what I mean.) It wasn’t that long ago before photography went the way of digital that we had drive through photo processing. But when it’s raining and we’re hungry for what we don’t have on hand we better not have Chinese on hand. Where’s the outrage here!? (or here?!) Am I the only one who feels it!? (it ?!)

So that’s my rant for today. Sorry it’s not as conscience raising as transgender restrooms, American presidential candidates’ lies and mis-speakings, or international internet censoring but I still haven’t gotten my General Tso.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

The Sporting Life

Michael Leave a comment

Life is made of moments. There are the “aha!” moments,” the “you wouldn’t trade for anything” moments, the outright epiphanies. And then there are the things that make you go “really?”

Saturday evening I was out shopping and the couple in the check-out line in front of me was in full on, game day football garb. Replica jerseys of two of the biggest names in local pro football team history, team hats, scarf around her neck, logo emblazoned leather jacket for him, right down to the NFL licensed wristwatch. Their cart held beer, mixers, pretzels, crackers and cheese platter, and a custom made football shaped chocolate chip cookie. These guys were set for some serious football watching.

The problem with this picture is that it is the end of April. Football is as far out of season as deer hunting. The local hockey team is in the second round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The local baseball team was that day on a six game winning streak. The city’s annual marathon was due to step off the following morning. Basketball, golf, soccer, and lacrosse were going strong. Football?

I wasn’t the only one wondering. The clerk at the cash register noticed it also. “You guys are set for a party.”

“Yep,” football man fan replied. “A draft party.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I heard the..”

“Don’t say it! We recorded the draft and we’re watching it tonight. All we need now is to make it home without hearing any about it and we can enjoy the whole thing at one time.”

Now, the NFL draft was just winding up its third and final day at the time this conversation was going on. I know I’m not the world’s biggest fan and even I have at times not wanted to be made aware of the result of a particular event because I was recording it for later viewing. The women curling finals from the 2014 Winter Olympics comes to mind. And this part of God’s green earth is such a football fanatic’s fantasy to the point that a cable network has presented a series about the excesses that pass for local little league football. But I have never encountered a devotee so zealous that taping the sport’s entry draft qualifies as appropriate accompaniment to cheese and crackers.

They say it takes all kinds. I’m certainly thankful of that. Otherwise how would I be able to carry on the fine tradition of blogging about the real reality that is out there for five years now. Let’s keep those kinds coming. Go reality! Go team!

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Happy Birthday To Me

Michael Leave a comment

Just in case anybody is wondering, today is my birthday. Thank you. Now, on with today’s post.

If you should be one of those young’uns who believe age is just a number, let me introduce you to my spam folder. Most of the time, I don’t even think about it. I’m not sure exactly how it works and who decides what is junk and what I want to see in an e-mail, but it works pretty well. So much so that most of the time, I don’t even think about it. (Did I already say that?) (Sorry.)

Every now and then I take a look around in there just to make sure that whoever is running things doesn’t toss out any babies with the bath water. I’ve discovered something about the junk mail I’m getting. It’s getting older with me. Let me ‘splain.

Once upon a time I would get solicitations to buy hot tubs. Now I get messages encouraging me to consider a walk-in tub. I used to get pleas to buy this miracle weight loss pill. Now I get messages offering me ways to reverse twenty years of bad eating. When I once got offers for low interest signature loans I now get offers for reverse mortgages.  And then there is the one transition no man wants to see in his mailbox. All the ads for penis enlargement concoctions have been replaced by advertisements for erectile dysfunction remedies. (If there is an equivalent female harbinger of old-age I can’t imagine what it would be.)

Yes, age may just be number. But to the junk-mailers of the world it is a number still preceded by a dollar sign.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

The Not Quite So Bad Smelling Pot

Michael Leave a comment

My last post was the bad side of a potpourri of encounters at the local retailers. This post is the better smelling side of that pot. It’s still a bit rotten but it has a less pungent odor about it.

On top of this list of things that don’t smell quite right (or if you prefer, things that make you go hmm) are shopping carts. Shopping carts themselves are not new fodder for the RRSB. Type “shopping cart” into my search bar and you can relive tales of shoppers with carts, carts without shoppers, crazy people with carts and crazy carts out to maim me. (My personal favorite that one. Relive it specifically at “Handicap Hate Crime,” (June 19, 2014)). But what put shopping carts on this particular list is that they officially are now everywhere, and some of it is intentional.

An intentional, yet questionable placement of shopping carts is now at the greeting card store. I’m ambivalent about greeting cards. I like them well enough. I like the idea of sending and getting real mail even if some far afield professional has written the sentiment. They fill a void that mere mortals like me could not and I for one feel accomplished just putting my name after somebody else’s perfectly chosen words. But I’m not so enamored with greeting cards that I feel the need to greet every occasion with a professional acknowledgement. Apparently the greeting card store people feel differently. So differently that they believe so many people will be buying so many of their cards in a single transaction that they have taken the step to make one’s shopping experience less physically exhausting and are now providing shopping cards in which to haul about your selection of selections as you go about selecting their cards. It is clearly just another overstated case of exaggerated hyperbole. Indubitably.

On the other hand, at stores where shopping with carts is advisable and often indeed a necessity, we are now faced with a decision as we pass through the doors that open automatically (and just in case you were unsure of that they are clearly so labeled but that’s a post for a different day). Of course I am talking about our basic supermarkets. At my closest go-to store the vestibule has 6 differently sized wheeled carts (one motorized) and two carry basket variants. For some reason the sporty compact models seem to be the most popular and never about when I need to pick up a dozen or so articles. Thus I am forced to wobble about poorly balanced (as if I wasn’t to be begin with) with a too small basket held in the crook of my arm or to reach deep into the void at the checkout line as I rummage for those 12 items in the bottom of the cart sized suitably to carry a month’s worth of groceries for a family of 4 (plus 2 pets). Where are all the cute little carts? They are being wheeled about by the family of four (pets safely locked in the over-sized SUV idling at the end of parking row 3) sagging under the weight of the soon to be purchased vittles and the pair of matching mini-monsters (aka 3 year olds who prefer to be at home in bed). It is clearly a case of bad choices. Several.

The last petal in our pot comes at the consideration of the local home improvement store. Today my needs that can be satisfied at a lumber, hardware, plumbing, electrical, lighting, appliance, paint, paper, carpet, and appliance store and nursery (the plant version, not the refuge for 3 year olds taking a break from mom and dad) can be met at that very nursery (the plant version). My biggest takeaways from the lawn and garden department begin at the garden half and end on my patio in the forms of plants, pots, and potting soil. Plants or seeds that will someday grow up to be young strapping plants and pots with a simple stand for the pots after the plants have been therein potted are light enough that a supermarket style shopping cart handles them with ease. But then there is that bag of potting soil. First I shouldn’t be lifting anything heavier than a five pound bag of donut holes and second I don’t want to be lifting anything heavier than a five pound bag of donut wholes. A flat bed cart that I can drag the bag of soil onto from the stack o’ bags would be ideal. But no, even though there is an entire store of wood, concrete, and refrigerator-freezers that have their own special carts, in the garden center you have only the extra-large version of the supermarket shopping cart that just ate my twelve items (no waiting) in the preceding paragraph.  It is clearly a choice of too many choices inside and not enough outside. By design.

At here you have it, today’s mélange just this side of rotten.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

The Rotten Pot

Michael Leave a comment

The potpourri – a quite lovely arrangement of highly scented dried flowers used to decorate and perfume.  Or collection of songs or poems, or a mélange of thoughts, ideas, or fact.  Whatever you want to make of it, or make it from, it is a beautiful order of otherwise unrelated things. In fact, I have often used it in post titles when I have too little of any one thing rummaging around in my head to add up to a couple hundred words of lucid thinking thus keeping that post from getting too ugly. Until now.

Now we have the not so flattering side of the potpourri – it’s otherwise disagreeable origin. From seventeenth century French it is literally the “rotten pot.” And today is a collection of the rotten side of reality that stuck its ugly face in my path this week.

The major ingredient in this pot is “some people’s children.” Not once, not twice, but three times just since Sunday did I get to witness not one, not two, but three little monsters disturbing the peace and leaving it in pieces.

There was the 3 or 4 year old girl (or boy, at that age does it matter) who made her own potpourri while seated in a shopping cart and systematically pulled petal after petal from the bouquet of flowers I suppose that her mother left with her to keep her (the child) occupied while she (the mother) gave her order to the deli counter clerk (and who couldn’t contain herself (the clerk) and pointed out the impromptu de-blooming). And then there was the 6 or 7 year old girl who at the local party store walked through a full aisle of piñata, punching one after the other until she got bored with that, realized that mom was not within arm’s reach, and wailed at the approximate pitch and volume of an ambulance siren.

But the killer (could we wish) was the around six-ish boy (I think) who stood (yes stood!) on the conveyor belt at the supermarket checkout line while he (I think) systematically threw every item in the impulse rack above the belt onto the belt to his (hers?) mother’s chorus of “Please get back in the cart, get in the cart, get back in the cart, I’m telling you get back in the cart, this is the last time now get back in the cart, get in the cart, get in the cart.” When the cashier had the nerve to say “It’s all right,” I couldn’t just stand there idly at the next check-out line. I said “No, it’s not alright. It’s rude and disgusting. And it’s why I’m in this line because I’m certainly not putting my food on that belt and if I were you (now directed to the cashier) I’d have someone get over there and clean that up.” And I actually felt good about myself having said something until the mother said, “Like that belt was any too clean before.”

And that was my mélange of otherwise unrelated urges to kill.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Fishing For Memories

Michael Leave a comment

Trout season begins this week. Saturday specifically. In my state. I’ve never fished for trout. I’ve fished for walleye, I’ve fished for bass, I’ve fished for compliments. But I’ve never fished for trout. And that’s unusual for around here because there is a lot of trout around here. Of course, to catch trout around here you have to fish around here and I’ve never done that either.

Around here is huge on fishing. The county I live in issues more fishing licenses than anywhere else in the state, odd for an urban area but the numbers don’t lie. Even though the county sports only 10 percent of the state’s population it has ranked number 1 in fish licenses since 1919. Probably before that but that’s as far back as I could find records. For most of those years there were more fishing licenses issued in this one county than in the rest of the state combined.

I’m not a real fisherman – or fisherperson as the TV reporter reminded the viewing public of the start of trout season put it. I fish, or fished, once or twice a year and at what could at best be called sporadically over 40 years or so.

My first fishing memory was of my father taking me up into the mountains for an overnight trip with two friends of his and their sons. I didn’t catch anything. I’m not sure that anybody caught anything. I remember cooking something outside for dinner but it was probably hamburgers. After dark we piled into someone’s station wagon and went deer spotting and that night slept in someone else’s hunting cabin. That was the first fishing memory I have. It is also the first memory I have of doing something special with my father.

My second fishing memory came 20 years later and 20 states away. Floating in the middle of some lake in the middle of Texas were me and an Army friend in a rented bass boat. It had all that was required for fishing for bass. We had the trolling motor attached to the bow, the big Merc mounted on the stern, the electronic fish finder, the funny chairs that looked like bar stools. We got just far enough out to finish our to-go coffees and were when his pager went off. Return to base. His unit was being mobilized. In less time to write about it we were back at the dock, secured the boat, gotten to the car, and were two-thirds of the 15 minute drive to base. That’s when my pager went off.  Later that day we found ourselves as parts of one of the largest training exercises our base had mounted in years. We ate in the field that night but it wasn’t fish.

Another 20 years and in the middle of another lake, this one called Erie, I was one of a group of five pulling in our 30th, and last, walleye. After years of doing so, my friend had the planning down pat for this trip. We left the day before for the drive north, now mostly highway making it a relatively quick trip. Quick enough that we got there hours before anyone else. We picked up our licenses, checked into the hotel, and asked for wake up calls for 4 the next morning. That gave us twelve hours to meet the rest of the gang, have a few beers, have dinner, retell our lies from previous years’ trips, make our ways back to the hotel, and turn in for the night. What was much more than but felt much less than a couple of hours later we were back in the lobby with our coffees and headed for the dock. Our hired captain and his boat were waiting in the dark and we clambered in for the ride to where the fish waited in the dark. The lines weren’t all in yet when the first walleye struck. As he was being brought in another line was hit. The first fish was landed, pictured, and chucked into the well when number three hooked on. And so it went. Nobody remembered a year when the fish came so willingly to us. We had reached our limit and turned back to the docks before some other boats had begun their day. The picture of us with our racks straining under the morning take was on the captain’s charter company’s website the following day. A copy of it is still on one of my walls. A week later we reassembled in my friend’s back yard to fry fish and tell lies. That was the last fishing memory I’ve had. Three weeks later I was in the hospital where a surgeon took longer than we did to fish for his limit.

Trout season starts this Saturday. I’ve never fished for trout.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Are you ready for some Bockey?

Michael Leave a comment

My favorite season began yesterday. No, not spring. That was a couple weeks ago, but it has what has been called a sign of spring, baseball. Actually, my favorite season is the ultimate overlap of seasons of baseball and hockey – it’s Bockey Season.

Major League Baseball 2016 opened down the road from me as the “Boys of Summer” braved temperatures in the 30s in their home opener. Then a few hours later across the river, the “Boys of Winter” burned up the ice at their last regular season home game for 2016. There’s nothing in common between the two sports other than they are my favorite sports. People around this town would call it anti-American but I don’t care much for football. People across the world would call it most typical for an American but I don’t care much for soccer. Basketball is best played by college kids and only for a couple of weeks around now. Golf confuses me, tennis exhausts me, curling is ok but even with rumors of a local club (with a waiting list to play even) try to find it to somewhere sometime, anywhere anytime.

For my money baseball and hockey are the way to go. To those who say baseball goes too slow or hockey goes too fast I say they aren’t paying close enough attention to either. Strategy and purpose abound in the movement of both games. A swing of the bat or stroke of the stick doesn’t just send the puck or the ball on its way but the choreographed movement of everybody on the playing surface. If you think hockey games are only where fights break out and baseball games are only good for catching up on your afternoon napping you clearly need to spend some time actually watching the games to see what really goes on in them.

If you don’t share my enthusiasm for these two sports that’s fine. I’ll still enjoy them – and I’ll get to enjoy them for a couple months. And they have more in common than just having me for a mutual fan. They might be the Boys of Winter but when the playoffs get tight and the wins go back and forth, the Stanley Cup might not be raised until mid June less than a week before the solstice. And before the Boys of Summer threw out the first pitch yesterday, the grounds crew had to scrape the snow off the outfield. That’s blending the seasons.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?