Tag Behavior

For Sale

Michael Leave a comment

They tell me that you only need three things to make a car look good: black tires, shiny chrome, and clean glass. I spent this weekend getting the little convertible ready to go on the selling block. Its tires have been black ever since I’ve been buying tires for it. There really is no chrome to speak of. Now, isn’t two out of three good enough?

I have never, ever, ever, never been good at cleaning windows. That might be why I like convertibles. In the right configuration there is only one window to worry about keeping clean. It’s the one that is hardest to keep clean but that’s the way it goes for me sometimes. Oh alright, most of the times.

Why do windows hate me so much? And not just car windows. Any window is my nemesis. Even some non-windows treat me like windows. TV screens, computer displays, mirrors, eyeglasses, and would you believe even snow globes are out to make my life a living hell. I’ve tried every tip, trick, and old wife and maiden aunt tale. I’ve used cotton rags, polyester no-longer-fit-to-be-hand-me-downs, microfiber cloths, newsprint, and brown craft paper. I’ve used brand name cleaner, cheap cleaner, foaming cleaning, ammonia, water, and combinations of two, some, or all of the aforementioned. I’ve spritzed the cleaner on the glass and on the wiper. Now that I think about it, I’ve even used wipers. You know, those squeegee thingees.

I think I’m just not destined to have clean glass in my life.

But wait a minute. Let’s rewind a few paragraphs. I’m selling the little convertible? I guess so. For 15 years it has defined me: short, squat, red, and not much on top. I suppose I’ve had my fun with it and the fun I had with it was in a different place in my life. I’m getting old and can’t get in and out of it without making some very interesting noises, fortunately mostly verbal. So even though it has been brought up in more posts than any family member, it is time to set it free. If you know anybody interested in a very well maintained, low mileage, revered red roadster, drop me a line.

Buyer to clean glass.

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

A Sticky Situation

Michael Leave a comment

I finally got my syrup last weekend. Regular readers know that I’ve been without my local syrup for the past few months having missed the 2015 sugaring season. But last week I was able to get to one of the local maple festivals and replenish my supply. In fact, I might have overplenished it but I’ve always said you can’t have enough pure maple syrup. I’m sure I’ve said it sometime. At least once.

Anyway, to make a short story long, I picked up a couple of jugs of some freshly prepared syrup for all my maple needs and discovered somebody changed the grading system for my syrup. You may have heard this before and if you had feel free to skip the next couple of paragraphs and go straight to the bit about food that comes right after them. Of course you do know I’ll feel horrible about it if you do.

What once was a fairly straightforward grading system has been turned into a jumble of color and taste. Some say it more appropriately describes the product. I say the big sugarers have finally gotten their way. There are still four grades of syrup. But where there used to be Fancy, Grade A Amber/Dark Amber, Grade B, and Grade C, there are now Grade A, Grade A, Grade A, and Grade A. Really, four grades all A. I can see it now – “Major Mega Marketer Maple Syrup, Now New and Improved with only Grade A Syrup!”

Really, there are now four (4!) Grade A syrups – Grade A: Golden Color and Delicate Taste (formerly Fancy), Grade A: Amber Color and Rich Flavor (Formerly Grade A Amber and Grade A Dark Amber), Grade A: Dark Color and Robust Flavor (Formerly Grade B), and Grade A: Very Dark and Strong Flavor (Formerly Grade C or Commercial (not routinely sold as is (or was) but sold to factories and confectioners for use in other products)).

Whatever you call it, I picked up some dark colored, robustly flavored former Grade B syrup (because I use it in cooking as much as over pancakes) and celebrated with a great maple dinner. You make it too.

In a small sauce pan sweat one coarsely chopped small onion, add a small can baked beans and stir in one ounce (2 tablespoonsful) syrup, a couple of dashes of hot sauce, and salt and pepper to taste. While that’s going on, brown 1 tablespoonsful of butter in a small pan, add an one-half ounce syrup. Add a single portion ham steak to the pan and baste with the butter/syrup mixture until the ham is warm through.  Remove the ham and toss a handful or spring peas in the remaining butter/syrup glaze. Serves one.

You can be a maple nut too. Replace the sugar in almost any recipe with former Grade B maple syrup substituting ¾ cup syrup for each cup sugar and reduce the liquid in your recipe by about 75%.

Four Grade A classifications. By an official department of the United States of America. Of course that department is the Department of Agriculture, the same department that keeps reshaping the food pyramid. And they are some people who worry that the next president might be Hillary or The Donald.

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?

 

A Healthy Rant

Michael Leave a comment

You know how much I hate fine print. It’s right up there with insurance companies, banks, ads for prescription drugs, car sales and lease restrictions, cable TV and cell phone service disclaimers, and lawyers. Most of those I can all sort of let go. If somebody wants to really believe he or she can save $500 switching insurance, will actually pay only $49 for phone service, or can qualify for that $99 lease that’s on them for taking tooth fairy believability to life. Well, caveat emptor and all that. Except for lawyers. I still haven’t figured out if they actually serve any sort of redeeming purpose. But that’s a post for a different time. This post is all about a new line of fine print I saw on an ad and I could have died when I saw it. Actually I could have wished death on the person who came up with it and the other ones who willingly went along with it.

I had the television on the other afternoon. It’s annoying as hell to watch television during the afternoon but not because of the programming, because of the ads. All three of them. No matter what the show or what the channel, if it’s between 11am and 4pm you will get a steady diet of commercials touting credit repair, Medicare supplement insurances, and denture adhesives.  And every now and then something completely different.

The something different I saw was an ad for a hospital. Not a donation request asking for $19 a month but an ad designed to make you want to go to a particular hospital.  Not a local hospital for your general hospital needs. This was an ad for a national specialty hospital where cancer is all they treat. There were patients and patients’ families, doctors, and professional voice-over actors all promoting their brand of care resulting in their kind of success. As a cancer survivor and a health care professional I took interest in that ad for as much as I can take interest in any ad between 11am and 4pm. But my interest waned when they got to the end and those teeny words crawled across the bottom on the screen. “You should not expect a similar outcome.”

Beneath the large, bold list of their few locations across the country, their phone number and web address, and the insurance plans they accept, after spending 60 seconds telling you how they understand, how much they care, and how they are different, they slipped in at the bottom of the screen at the end of the ad, in a print sized to make an optometrist cringe, “You should not expect a similar outcome.” You should not expect the same result as the patient whose testimonial was presented during the ad. You should not expect to be relieved of your pain and suffering, you should not expect to be returned to your family and loved ones, you should not expect to return to a fulfilling life, you should not expect to be happy and upbeat when your treatment is complete. But please, be sure to break your neck to set off across the country to not get what the ad encourages you to believe in.

Can you imagine if every ad ended with “you should not expect a similar outcome?” Would you ever spend money again on reducing the chance of cavities, removing unsightly grass stains, or eliminating underwear creep? What do you think would happen to you when you pay your rent or mortgage, your utilities and credit cards, and you include the note “don’t expect this every month” with each check?

You know what I think? I think it’s time to forget buyer beware and it’s time for seller be truthful. Quid a conceptu!

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

Going to Town

Michael Leave a comment

Last week I had to go into town. Going to town around here isn’t quite the event as for someone from Queens going into Manhattan. But it’s close.

When I just a youngster, back in a different century, I grew up about 20 miles from town. Then going into town was indeed an event. Actually we had to differentiate our in-town trips. If we went “downtown” that was to the business district of our suburban hamlet. That was easy. Every piled into Dad’s car and in 10 or 15 minutes we made the one mile excursion from home to shopping, a rare dinner out, or to the Saturday matinee.. If you weren’t in a hurry a bus could get you there in about a half an hour. But going “to town” – that was something else.

We went “to town” once or twice a year and it required serious planning. Did we drive in or take the train? And when we said train we meant train. This wasn’t some glorified subway extension or light rail system. This was a big one with names like Baltimore and Ohio, Wabash, or the Pennsylvania Rail Road. Our line was the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Rail Road. (Even though the P&LE began business in 1875 it didn’t actually make it all the way to Lake Erie until sometime in the 1970s. You got to love their spunk back then!)  If we drove it would only be after the car had a serious going over. Tires, oil, and water checked and double checked. There was a bus that made the trip but that was a true adventure. If you didn’t mind a little walking you could make it to town with only one transfer. I don’t think I did the trip by bus until I was in college and then would make a weekly commute from dorm to home with real food, a television set (although black and white) and a washing machine. And the 2 hours gave me some study time.

Last week’s trip was an easy one. Now I’m only a half dozen miles out of the center of the city and even budgeting for rush hour and parking it’s a quick 15 minute commute that I made twice daily for almost thirty years.

Since I stopped work I haven’t been to town other than once or twice a year just like from back in my youth. All those years later there are still diners and restaurants, bakeries and pastry shops, meat markets and delis that don’t have anything to do with national brands. You can still buy artisan products from meats and cheeses to fixtures and furniture from real artisans that you can watch being artisanal. There’s even a classic haberdasher.

Yes, it can still be quite the event. Only now when I get home I have to do my own laundry.

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

You think your commute is challenging

Michael Leave a comment

The weather forecasters are saying it will be chilly this weekend, somewhere between 25 and 30 degrees colder than the first half of this week and only 8 degrees above freezing during the daytime. That will probably be a better time to take the little car out for a spin than in clear, 70 degree, sunshiney weather.

If you’ve been reading for a while you know I have a little red convertible that gets about as much use as you would imagine in an area where the average temperature is 52 degrees F and it rains or snows almost 150 days a year. But when the sun comes out the top goes down and I understand the true meaning of the phrase “worth the wait.” Right up until some guy with more testosterone than brains spots me.

I went out in the middle of the day when the real men with huge pick-up trucks riding on 28 inch wheels with massive brush guards, multiple running lights, and chrome steps to get into the cab should have been at work doing something involving torches and welders’ masks and comparing tattoos. But no, there was one about ¾ mile behind me when I slipped onto the onramp of the local expressway. I heard him, or rather his mufflerless behemoth, snarling up behind me. He closed that ¾ mile before I made it all the way to the end of the acceleration ramp and in his desire to make certain I knew he had more horsepower at his disposal than I did, he passed me on the single lane ramp and launched himself onto the highway mainline. Right in front of another mini-monster truck a few miles per hour above the speed limit. It was a spectacular sight in my rear view mirror. You could almost see their premiums going up.

I pulled onto the shoulder and waited until I saw that both of the not quite matured miscreants were moving about on their own power and then eased back into traffic and continued on my spring shake-out tour. You would think I’d have been shocked at the carnage (or trucknage if you prefer) and I was the first time or two such craziness happened. Unfortunately this goes on every year when I, and presumably everyone else with a weekend roadster, first hit the road.

In a month or so the craziness will wane perhaps because the crazy mongers become used to seeing us on the road again or perhaps because they run out of clean underwear.

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

(Yes, I know this is St. Patrick’s Day and I didn’t say anything about that in my post. Monday was Pi Day and I didn’t bring that up then either. I’m not totally predictable.) (Am I?)

 

The Music in my Mind

Michael Leave a comment

I can’t wait for spring. I really need a new diversion. This winter I’ve spent a lot of time in front of the keyboard. Not this one typing out these missives. The musical one. It’s a diversion that I’ve spent more time with than I have in years. But then, I have more time now than I’ve had in years. I have to do something with it.

I fiddled with the piano for the first time about 55 years ago. You’d think with all that time I’d be pretty good at it. Honestly I’m just ok. I know how to play the notes but that’s not the same as how to make the music. It must have been about 54 years ago that I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “you should take up the tuba where you only have to play one note at a time to be good.” Even back then I recognized the limitation of my short and uncoordinated fingers.

Instead of seeking out a used tuba to practice on (which in hindsight was a good thing I didn’t since most of the helicon style tuba are larger than me) I gravitated to musical styles that didn’t require 14 notes played to be played in unison.

Over the years I got very good at plinking out one or two notes with my right hand and running scales with my left, all the while filling in three or four other instruments’ parts in my mind. And as long as I was alone I was pretty darn good. So good that all I needed was the melody to a song and some time to noodle around until I was able to figure out what chords went with it. Then I could amuse myself for hours rarely ever striking more than 2 or 3 keys at once.

But then I came across that song in my head that try as I might I couldn’t find the right tones on my own. So I broke down and bought sheet music for it. And there they were. The notes that I was looking for. Lots and lots of notes. More of them on ledger lines than on the staff proper. Written in the key of A Flat. In 6/8 time. Allegretto. And that’s just how it sounded in my mind.

It was just that my body wanted to play it in the Key of C in common time and a bit more ritardando. Just like me. <Sigh> I can’t wait for spring.

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

Yes, It Is a Number – A BIG Number

Michael Leave a comment

I had a terrific post ready to upload but then that old lady happened. It was supposed to be about getting older but how everyone says, “Hey, it’s just a number.” In a way, this post is still about that. Let me start at the beginning.

I was at the store just as the heavens opened with a good old-fashioned downpour. Hundreds of gallons of water poured out of the sky every minute. And that was at its slowest. Then, it stopped. As quick as it started it just stopped. Unpredictable spring weather. I hobbled my way to the car, loaded up the groceries, backed out of the space, and turned toward the exit.

And there she was. Marching down the middle of the road, head bent over, shuffling in that gait you have to be around 90 to master, was that old lady. She was every one of 90 years, not looking left, nor right, nor straight ahead. She looked nowhere and at nothing. And she headed straight for me.

The last place I wanted to see her was splayed across my hood as some macabre ornament. But she continued heading straight for me. I mean straight. She didn’t veer a fraction of a degree to either side. She was walking right to me. The impact was going to crush her. Her bones were going to drop out of her skin and she was going to collapse in a heap like a worn out building imploded to make way for a new one. I would be guilty of running over an old lady. And I was stopped!

I had to warn her. I tried to connect with her telepathically telling her to look up. Either I didn’t get through or she just ignored my call because she kept her head down and kept on coming. I rolled down the window and waved furiously. She walked on. I called to her. “Yo, Lady!” Nothing. Finally I decided she had left me no choice. I had to use my horn. I had hoped to avoid that. I was certain that the sudden honk would startle her into a heart attack and then I would be guilty of oldladycide.

As gently as I could, I pushed down on the horn button in the steering wheel and was awarded with a short “…beep…..” Still nothing. To myself I said, “Self, give it to her,” and smashed down on that picture of a horn and let go with a “HOONNNNKKKKKKKK!”

Finally, just steps away, she looked up, saw me sitting there, snarled at me (yes, snarled), then flipped me the bird.

Oh it’s a number all right.

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

 

Different Potpourri du Different Jour

Michael Leave a comment

Yesterday completed the year-long fundraising effort by Penn State’s Pan-Hellenic Council to benefit the Four Diamonds Fund at Hershey Medical Center children’s cancer unit – or more lovingly known by the PSU crowd as “Thon.” The pinnacle event is the weekend long dance marathon with the fundraising reveal wrapping up the festivities. This year Thon raised over $9.77 million dollars for the charity, still the world’s largest student run philanthropy. Thon typically runs on about a 4% administrative cost. That means that 96 cents of each one of those dollars goes to the charity. Compare this to the American Cancer Society, no slouch in fund-raising themselves, who manage to work on about 84% costs netting their charity efforts 16 cents for each dollar raised. It would do us well to remember that the student can sometimes be the teacher.

I was standing in the super market line and saw this blurb on one of the magazines that festoon the check-out lines. “Lose weight and gain height with new diet!” It went on to claim one could lose 5 pounds in weight and gain 2 inches in height in the first week. It could just be me but I’m suspecting some monkey business with those figures. I think it is quite possible to lose 5 pounds in a week but I can’t figure out any diet that adds heights, unless it’s to eat anything but eat it while being stretched on a rack.

Speaking of diets, a different cover screamed at me that I could lose weight just by cutting out sugar. I’ll remember that while I’m gorging on french fries and cole slaw while scarfing up double bacon cheeseburgers and washing it all down with several bottles of beer. If figure if I do that 4 or 5 times a week I can positively disappear by the end of next month.

Speaking of french fries, shouldn’t it really be frenched fries referring to manner in which they are cut. What became of the “ed?” I wonder if that was what the potato lost when it eliminated sugar from its diet.

And speaking of nothing that we’ve already spoken of, Spring is really around the corner. It was a balmy(!) 55 degrees this afternoon and I spotted my first non-fat guy wearing shorts. There is no surer sign that spring is here.

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

 

Does “NEW” Hate You Too?

Michael Leave a comment

Is it just me? I hate new stuff. No, I don’t live in the past. No, I don’t get buyer’s remorse. No, I’m not anti-progress. (Would that be antigress?) It’s that new stuff hates me so I just return the sentiment.

Let me start from the beginning. I got a new pan couple of weeks ago. I needed a good, all-purpose, use for anything, go from stove top to oven, can’t hurt it no matter how hard you try pan. So I got one. A top ranked, best buy, do it all carbon steel pan. It does everything it should do. It seasoned easily. Nothing sticks to it. Its construction was clearly well thought with a welded handle so there are no interior handle rivets and that handle is a perfect length and angle so it fits comfortably on top of the stove or inside the oven. It’s everything I wanted – and it hates me. It heats much faster than my old pan so I burnt everything I put into it for the first three days. It’s not too heavy but heavy enough that when I was using an older smaller pan and flipped an omelet I over compensated for the weight I didn’t have at the end of my arm and ended up having to clean half-cooked egg off of a textured ceiling. (While we’re at it, I hate textured ceilings also.)

Give me another two or three weeks and I’ll love my new pan but right now it hates me so I hate it. And I figured out I go through this with everything. I’ll get a new TV and I spend the first month with it adjusting the audio and picture settings. I got a new keyboard and experimented with every tone, tempo, and special effect before finally settling on the default settings. My new car is coming up on two years old and I still haven’t found just the right position for the seatback. New shoes – soles are too slippery. New book – pages stick together. New tablet – reset bookmarks. New pen – it’s probably easier to never write again! Seriously, is it just me?

Antigress? I think I’ll submit that as my nomination for best new word of 2016. I should start using it more now sto that by December I’ll be more comfortable with it.

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