We all collect or save things. Some, like stamp collectors, do it formally and meticulously. Others do it informally, saving things they think might be valuable someday, such as a commemorative issue of a magazine. But as we mature (read: get older), what we save changes. The things we once thought were valuable no longer interest us.
Of course, there are some who begin collecting things early in life and continue until they themselves expire. I call these people "collecting fans." The word "fan," as used in this context stands for "fanatic." And that’s what you have to be if your collecting habits don’t change. For the rest of us, what we stop collecting becomes fodder for Ebay.
Here’s an example. I became a coin collector, or numismatist (to use the official five-dollar word), at about age 12. I started with Lincoln cents (they are not officially called pennies – the penny was a British coin), and gradually moved to larger denominations as my allowance allowed. In those days, most coins had intrinsic value, especially the higher denominations, which were 90% silver.
When I got married, I began collecting proof sets. These are specially struck and polished coins sold enclosed in plastic by the United States Mint. When I had children, I increased my proof set purchases each year by the number of children I had, on the theory that they could each have their own set without fighting over mine. A few years later it dawned on me that my children did not share my hobby, and indeed, had no interest in the proof sets. The sets themselves, while pretty to look at, did not increase much in value over the years. At one point, I realized that all I really needed was one set per year for me to enjoy. But each year’s purchase was packed away in a drawer somewhere and I never looked at it. Finally, it became clear that these purchases were no longer necessary and I stopped collecting proof sets altogether.
Today, I have lost all interest in coin collecting. The 50 state quarters now in production were supposed to boost interest in the hobby, but the circulated coins are so poorly struck and made of a non-valuable composite material that I lost interest in them long before the last coin rolls off the stamping press.
As with proof sets, I figure that if I ever rekindle my desire to collect them, there will be plenty available on the open market.
For now, my money is better spent on things other than money.
Things like a few gallons of gasoline or home heating oil.
Talk about having money to burn.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
Reunion
In the mail recently, I received a hand-addressed envelope with a return address which I did not recognize. I rarely receive personal letters since the advent of e-mail, so I was curious about the contents. Inside the envelope was a printed letter from a woman. The letter did not contain a letterhead and was not written in the classic form of a business letter. It was more of a printed e-mail message.
The letter was short and to the point. It asked if I was the person who graduated from a certain parochial grammar school in Queens, New York in 1961. It went on to say that there was a plan afoot to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the graduating class of 1961 in 2011, almost four years in the future.
My first reaction was one of astonishment. The people I graduated with in 1961 are strangers to me. Except for one who I ran into years later when we both belonged to the same professional organization, I’ve had no contact with any of them since we graduated. We each went our separate ways and so much has happened, at least in my life, since that graduation day, that grammar school seems like ancient history.
My second reaction was: Why would anyone care, after 50 years? Was someone trying to relive old memories?
In my opinion, class reunions have two negative ramifications: (1) to make certain people feel superior to their less successful former classmates, and (2) to humiliate the less successful former classmates.
Personally, I can satisfy both these objectives simultaneously by simply looking in the mirror.
As it happens, I still have the booklet my diploma came in. On the inside cover there is a picture of the pastor of the parish church. Interestingly, there is not a picture of the nun who was the school principal. I guess women’s lib was a long way off in 1961. The pastor’s picture was surrounded by 50 smaller individuals pictures of the students in my 8th grade class. There were 24 females on top and 26 male students below. Other than my hair color and the nerdy look on my face in the photograph, I’m quite recognizable.
There were actually two 8th grade classes that year, so about 100 students graduated in 1961. How many are still around is anybody’s guess. Nevertheless, someone found me. As I think back on those days 46 years ago, with 50 students to a class, it’s a wonder we ever learned anything in grammar school.
Actually, those nuns were very good teachers.
I still have the ruler marks to prove it.
The letter was short and to the point. It asked if I was the person who graduated from a certain parochial grammar school in Queens, New York in 1961. It went on to say that there was a plan afoot to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the graduating class of 1961 in 2011, almost four years in the future.
My first reaction was one of astonishment. The people I graduated with in 1961 are strangers to me. Except for one who I ran into years later when we both belonged to the same professional organization, I’ve had no contact with any of them since we graduated. We each went our separate ways and so much has happened, at least in my life, since that graduation day, that grammar school seems like ancient history.
My second reaction was: Why would anyone care, after 50 years? Was someone trying to relive old memories?
In my opinion, class reunions have two negative ramifications: (1) to make certain people feel superior to their less successful former classmates, and (2) to humiliate the less successful former classmates.
Personally, I can satisfy both these objectives simultaneously by simply looking in the mirror.
As it happens, I still have the booklet my diploma came in. On the inside cover there is a picture of the pastor of the parish church. Interestingly, there is not a picture of the nun who was the school principal. I guess women’s lib was a long way off in 1961. The pastor’s picture was surrounded by 50 smaller individuals pictures of the students in my 8th grade class. There were 24 females on top and 26 male students below. Other than my hair color and the nerdy look on my face in the photograph, I’m quite recognizable.
There were actually two 8th grade classes that year, so about 100 students graduated in 1961. How many are still around is anybody’s guess. Nevertheless, someone found me. As I think back on those days 46 years ago, with 50 students to a class, it’s a wonder we ever learned anything in grammar school.
Actually, those nuns were very good teachers.
I still have the ruler marks to prove it.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Photographs
When I was writing the story about the Spaldeen and my memories of playing slapball in the streets of Queens, I was remembering that as perhaps the happiest time of my childhood. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it pales when compared to other experiences, like the birth of my children. But we are speaking of childhood happiness, and I can't think of much that compared to those carefree moments in the street playing with my friends.
As we get older, we tend to think back on our experiences, trying to relive them and recapture the happy days. The painful memories are shoved to the back of the bus and we drive on in search of the good ones. If we are lucky, we can recall a few without any physical object to jog our recollection.
Which brings me to the theme of this post. I have many memories from my childhood and hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs. But of all those pictures, there is not one which shows me playing slapball. Yes, my friends, there are pictures of me posing for the camera in my Sunday best, at the beach, at birthday parties, near the Christmas tree, with my family, on vacation and even building a snowman. While all those pictures add to the memories of my childhood, there is not one single photograph of me playing ball in the street, eating a fudge bar from the Good Humor ice cream truck on a hot summer day or buying a pack of baseball cards at the local candy store. There are photos of me on my bike but not one showing that the bike took me to the candy store where I bought the comic books which were my favorite reading material. There are no photos of me reading about Superman, Batman, Archie or even Donald Duck with a flashlight under the covers when I was supposed to be sleeping.
There are no photos of me going to the store to get something my mother needed. There are no photos of me running to first base or playing soldier in the neighbor's back yard. There are no pictures of me doing homework or watching Howdy Doody or Rin Tin Tin on TV. In short, there are no photos of me doing the ordinary things I did every day of my childhood. For the most part, there are only posed photographs of what my parents or some other adult wanted me to look like.
Just before he died at age 88, my father said to me that all he had left were his memories. Sure, he had a mortgage-free home in Florida, a second wife (after my mother died), two children, five grandchildren, a car and some money in the bank. But what he treasured most were his memories. I'm beginning to see what he meant.
So here's my advice. Let others take the posed pictures. You take the pictures of the ordinary, everyday things that give real meaning of your life.
Years from now you'll thank me for it.
As we get older, we tend to think back on our experiences, trying to relive them and recapture the happy days. The painful memories are shoved to the back of the bus and we drive on in search of the good ones. If we are lucky, we can recall a few without any physical object to jog our recollection.
Which brings me to the theme of this post. I have many memories from my childhood and hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs. But of all those pictures, there is not one which shows me playing slapball. Yes, my friends, there are pictures of me posing for the camera in my Sunday best, at the beach, at birthday parties, near the Christmas tree, with my family, on vacation and even building a snowman. While all those pictures add to the memories of my childhood, there is not one single photograph of me playing ball in the street, eating a fudge bar from the Good Humor ice cream truck on a hot summer day or buying a pack of baseball cards at the local candy store. There are photos of me on my bike but not one showing that the bike took me to the candy store where I bought the comic books which were my favorite reading material. There are no photos of me reading about Superman, Batman, Archie or even Donald Duck with a flashlight under the covers when I was supposed to be sleeping.
There are no photos of me going to the store to get something my mother needed. There are no photos of me running to first base or playing soldier in the neighbor's back yard. There are no pictures of me doing homework or watching Howdy Doody or Rin Tin Tin on TV. In short, there are no photos of me doing the ordinary things I did every day of my childhood. For the most part, there are only posed photographs of what my parents or some other adult wanted me to look like.
Just before he died at age 88, my father said to me that all he had left were his memories. Sure, he had a mortgage-free home in Florida, a second wife (after my mother died), two children, five grandchildren, a car and some money in the bank. But what he treasured most were his memories. I'm beginning to see what he meant.
So here's my advice. Let others take the posed pictures. You take the pictures of the ordinary, everyday things that give real meaning of your life.
Years from now you'll thank me for it.
Spaldeen
A friend e-mailed me an article about the return of the Spaldeen, that red rubber ball we knew as kids. I forwarded the article to some other friends with a new subject line: "Boy, does this bring back memories." One of those friends responded with memories of his youth playing stickball in the streets of New York City. Stickball was a game where you used a sawed-off broom handle as a bat to hit the Spaldeen. You could buy a real stickball bat at the local toy store, but the cut-off broom handle was the equipment of choice because it didn't cost anything, except perhaps a few choice words from your father when he found out what happened to his broom. When you hit the ball, it flew off the bat and if it traveled a distance of at least two sewers, you were a superstar, akin to Derek Jeter of the Yankees or Manny Ramirez of the Red Sox.
The friend who wrote about his stickball experiences also mentioned another game that employed the Spaldeen - boxball. This reminded me of a street game we played almost every day in the summer. Some called it slapball, but as played in my neighborhood in Queens, New York, it was called triangle ball. The street in front of my house was tree lined, with traffic traveling in only one direction. There were cars parked on either side, so essentially it was a little more than three car widths wide. As kids, we needed to find a spot where no cars were parked on either side, so we could draw a home plate with chalk on the asphalt near one curb and a first and second base on the opposite curb to form a perfect triangle. The pitcher would stand in the middle of the street, right in the lane of traffic, and serve the rubber ball underhand so it would reach home plate on one bounce. The batter would then slap it with his open palm and run across the street to first base. The fielders would try to catch the ball and throw the runner out. We would keep score just like a regular baseball game - 3 outs to a side for 9 innings.
Thinking back on it now, this was probably the most fun I had as a child. I was one of two "big", i.e. older, kids on the block. The other was my best friend, Eddie. Since we were the "senior citizens," we were usually on opposing teams and got to pick our teammates from the remaining kids. As I recall, my teams were usually pretty good. And I was usually the star player.
Anyway, that's how I remember it.
At least until Eddie writes to challenge my recollection.
The friend who wrote about his stickball experiences also mentioned another game that employed the Spaldeen - boxball. This reminded me of a street game we played almost every day in the summer. Some called it slapball, but as played in my neighborhood in Queens, New York, it was called triangle ball. The street in front of my house was tree lined, with traffic traveling in only one direction. There were cars parked on either side, so essentially it was a little more than three car widths wide. As kids, we needed to find a spot where no cars were parked on either side, so we could draw a home plate with chalk on the asphalt near one curb and a first and second base on the opposite curb to form a perfect triangle. The pitcher would stand in the middle of the street, right in the lane of traffic, and serve the rubber ball underhand so it would reach home plate on one bounce. The batter would then slap it with his open palm and run across the street to first base. The fielders would try to catch the ball and throw the runner out. We would keep score just like a regular baseball game - 3 outs to a side for 9 innings.
Thinking back on it now, this was probably the most fun I had as a child. I was one of two "big", i.e. older, kids on the block. The other was my best friend, Eddie. Since we were the "senior citizens," we were usually on opposing teams and got to pick our teammates from the remaining kids. As I recall, my teams were usually pretty good. And I was usually the star player.
Anyway, that's how I remember it.
At least until Eddie writes to challenge my recollection.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Perfect Savings Plan
Studies show that Americans are not putting enough money into savings.
I think I’ve come up with the perfect savings plan. Even better than the one that rounds up your credit card purchases to the next dollar and puts the difference into a savings account. Here’s my plan:
Whenever you hear a GEICO commercial on the radio, you put $1 in a jar. When you see a GEICO commercial on TV, you put $2 in a jar.
So far, I’ve saved $49.
And that’s just since yesterday morning.
To paraphrase their commercial, “I’ve just saved a bunch of money by listening to GEICO.”
Seriously, I can’t believe the number of commercials GEICO has on the airwaves. The only saving grace seems to be that the commercials are varied. Some have the lizard, some have actors, and some are mini-dramas. They used to have the cavemen, but put them on hold when the got their own sitcom. I never understood the appeal of those guys.
And how can these commercials be effective, anyway? After hearing them so often, is there anyone out there who will say, “Wow, it just dawned on me that I should check them out.”? Are there that many new listeners who are hearing the commercials for the first time, who already have automobile insurance and who can be persuaded by a lizard to switch to GEICO?
At some point, the law of diminishing returns has to kick in.
But they must be doing something right.
After all, they got me to write about them, didn’t they?
Take that, Allstate.
I think I’ve come up with the perfect savings plan. Even better than the one that rounds up your credit card purchases to the next dollar and puts the difference into a savings account. Here’s my plan:
Whenever you hear a GEICO commercial on the radio, you put $1 in a jar. When you see a GEICO commercial on TV, you put $2 in a jar.
So far, I’ve saved $49.
And that’s just since yesterday morning.
To paraphrase their commercial, “I’ve just saved a bunch of money by listening to GEICO.”
Seriously, I can’t believe the number of commercials GEICO has on the airwaves. The only saving grace seems to be that the commercials are varied. Some have the lizard, some have actors, and some are mini-dramas. They used to have the cavemen, but put them on hold when the got their own sitcom. I never understood the appeal of those guys.
And how can these commercials be effective, anyway? After hearing them so often, is there anyone out there who will say, “Wow, it just dawned on me that I should check them out.”? Are there that many new listeners who are hearing the commercials for the first time, who already have automobile insurance and who can be persuaded by a lizard to switch to GEICO?
At some point, the law of diminishing returns has to kick in.
But they must be doing something right.
After all, they got me to write about them, didn’t they?
Take that, Allstate.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Return address labels
I once heard a comedian ask this question: “Has there ever been a week when mattresses were not on sale?”
Anyone who buys a Sunday newspaper knows how funny that is.
Who are they selling these mattresses to, anyway? How often does one buy a new mattress? But I digress. Mattresses are not the subject of this post. Return address labels are. Nevertheless, the question is similar: Does a week go by when you don’t receive a letter with a sheet of “free” return address labels which have your name and address printed on them?
These “free” labels come in all sizes, shapes and colors. In the old days, they were glue backed labels which you had to wet to make stick. Nowadays, just like modern postage stamps, they have sticky backs. All you have to do is peel and stick.
For the most part, these labels are sent by legitimate charitable organizations, usually religious or medical. Around Christmas time they often include stickers for gift packages, such as “Don’t open till Christmas” or “To _____ From _____.” Many times, they are useful.
Here’s the problem I have with them. If you use them without sending a contribution to the charity, you feel guilty. Of course, you are under no legal obligation to pay for unsolicited gifts, but you still feel bad if you use them without contributing.
However, sending a check to these charities has two negative ramifications. First, the charity knows they’ve got a live donor, so they then send you more stickers and other things, like note pads and wrapping paper. And they increase the amount of the “suggested” contribution with each mailing. Second, I am convinced they sell lists of donors to other organizations. Before long, your mailbox is inundated with more “free” address labels than you can use in a lifetime. And each envelope also contains a request for money.
Talk about “sticker shock.”
Anyone who buys a Sunday newspaper knows how funny that is.
Who are they selling these mattresses to, anyway? How often does one buy a new mattress? But I digress. Mattresses are not the subject of this post. Return address labels are. Nevertheless, the question is similar: Does a week go by when you don’t receive a letter with a sheet of “free” return address labels which have your name and address printed on them?
These “free” labels come in all sizes, shapes and colors. In the old days, they were glue backed labels which you had to wet to make stick. Nowadays, just like modern postage stamps, they have sticky backs. All you have to do is peel and stick.
For the most part, these labels are sent by legitimate charitable organizations, usually religious or medical. Around Christmas time they often include stickers for gift packages, such as “Don’t open till Christmas” or “To _____ From _____.” Many times, they are useful.
Here’s the problem I have with them. If you use them without sending a contribution to the charity, you feel guilty. Of course, you are under no legal obligation to pay for unsolicited gifts, but you still feel bad if you use them without contributing.
However, sending a check to these charities has two negative ramifications. First, the charity knows they’ve got a live donor, so they then send you more stickers and other things, like note pads and wrapping paper. And they increase the amount of the “suggested” contribution with each mailing. Second, I am convinced they sell lists of donors to other organizations. Before long, your mailbox is inundated with more “free” address labels than you can use in a lifetime. And each envelope also contains a request for money.
Talk about “sticker shock.”
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Memory Test
For some reason, while driving to work the other morning, I began thinking of the “One Hen, Two Ducks” routine. I remember trying to teach it to my younger daughter and video taping the results. We watched the tape years later and laughed.
I remember first hearing it on the Tonight Show when Jerry Lewis was substituting for the host, Johnny Carson. I remember watching it on a TV that was built into the wall in the dining room of our home in Queens. My father had closed up the space under the stairs which led to the bedroom level and had left an opening for the TV in the wall. There was a storage space underneath and I used to be small enough to enter the space under the TV through the home-made sliding doors.
I remember watching Jerry Lewis say the words and being so fascinated by it that I tried to write it down from memory. I had a Webcor reel-to-reel tape recorder about the size of a small suitcase. This was before the invention of the cassette tape. I was able to record the audio portion of the show the next night when Jerry Lewis again did the bit. In those days, a guest host worked the entire week. I was able to play the recording back several times until I got all the words. I kept a written copy and began committing it to memory. I don’t know what happened to the reel-to-reel audio tape or the written copy, both probably thrown out with my comic books and baseball cards in the days before I became a pack rat and tried to save everything.
I was about 11 years old when this all took place and now, nearly 49 years later, I still know it by memory. After I taught it to my daughter, I remember learning in the early days of the internet that it was actually something used by the Girl Scouts. I was saddened at the time because I thought it was something Jerry Lewis invented.
So when I got to the office, I typed “one hen, two ducks” into the google search engine and got a number of sites. The first was from a Girl Scout troop but did give credit to Jerry Lewis. The second, from a google staffer, gives a more detailed explanation, verifying my own recollection, but adding that it was used by NBC to test the pronunciation of announcers. The routine is almost word for word as I remembered it and taught it to my daughter, except for the sixth to the last word. I used to say “quivy” but it seems to be quivery, whatever the heck that is. The online dictionary has this definition of quiver: “to shake with a slight but rapid motion; vibrate tremulously; tremble” and states that quivery is an adjective. You would think that the word would more likely apply to the 9 old men on roller skates than to the 10 diabolical denizens of the deep, but I can’t really quibble about this.
Here’s the entire test, which is said one line at a time but adding the next line cumulatively and asking a person to try to repeat it from memory. Most people don’t get past the fourth line without making a mistake.
"One Hen, Two Ducks
· One hen
· Two ducks
· Three squawking geese
· Four limerick oysters
· Five corpulent porpoises
· Six pair of Don Alverzo's tweezers
· Seven thousand Macedonians in full battle array
· Eight brass monkeys from the ancient sacred crypts of Egypt
· Nine apathetic, sympathetic, diabetic, old men on roller skates with a marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth
· Ten lyrical, spherical diabolical denizens of the deep who hall stall around the corner of the quo of the quay of the quivery, all at the same time.
This is called the "Announcer's Test". It originated at Radio Central New York in the early 1940's as a cold reading test given to prospective radio talent to demonstrate their speaking ability.
Del Moore, a long time friend of Jerry Lewis', took this test at Radio Central New York in 1941, and passed it on to him. (Del Moore is best remembered as Dr. Warfield in "The Nutty Professor," 1963)
Jerry has performed this test on radio, television and stage for many years, and it has become a favorite tongue twister of his fans around the world."
I remember first hearing it on the Tonight Show when Jerry Lewis was substituting for the host, Johnny Carson. I remember watching it on a TV that was built into the wall in the dining room of our home in Queens. My father had closed up the space under the stairs which led to the bedroom level and had left an opening for the TV in the wall. There was a storage space underneath and I used to be small enough to enter the space under the TV through the home-made sliding doors.
I remember watching Jerry Lewis say the words and being so fascinated by it that I tried to write it down from memory. I had a Webcor reel-to-reel tape recorder about the size of a small suitcase. This was before the invention of the cassette tape. I was able to record the audio portion of the show the next night when Jerry Lewis again did the bit. In those days, a guest host worked the entire week. I was able to play the recording back several times until I got all the words. I kept a written copy and began committing it to memory. I don’t know what happened to the reel-to-reel audio tape or the written copy, both probably thrown out with my comic books and baseball cards in the days before I became a pack rat and tried to save everything.
I was about 11 years old when this all took place and now, nearly 49 years later, I still know it by memory. After I taught it to my daughter, I remember learning in the early days of the internet that it was actually something used by the Girl Scouts. I was saddened at the time because I thought it was something Jerry Lewis invented.
So when I got to the office, I typed “one hen, two ducks” into the google search engine and got a number of sites. The first was from a Girl Scout troop but did give credit to Jerry Lewis. The second, from a google staffer, gives a more detailed explanation, verifying my own recollection, but adding that it was used by NBC to test the pronunciation of announcers. The routine is almost word for word as I remembered it and taught it to my daughter, except for the sixth to the last word. I used to say “quivy” but it seems to be quivery, whatever the heck that is. The online dictionary has this definition of quiver: “to shake with a slight but rapid motion; vibrate tremulously; tremble” and states that quivery is an adjective. You would think that the word would more likely apply to the 9 old men on roller skates than to the 10 diabolical denizens of the deep, but I can’t really quibble about this.
Here’s the entire test, which is said one line at a time but adding the next line cumulatively and asking a person to try to repeat it from memory. Most people don’t get past the fourth line without making a mistake.
"One Hen, Two Ducks
· One hen
· Two ducks
· Three squawking geese
· Four limerick oysters
· Five corpulent porpoises
· Six pair of Don Alverzo's tweezers
· Seven thousand Macedonians in full battle array
· Eight brass monkeys from the ancient sacred crypts of Egypt
· Nine apathetic, sympathetic, diabetic, old men on roller skates with a marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth
· Ten lyrical, spherical diabolical denizens of the deep who hall stall around the corner of the quo of the quay of the quivery, all at the same time.
This is called the "Announcer's Test". It originated at Radio Central New York in the early 1940's as a cold reading test given to prospective radio talent to demonstrate their speaking ability.
Del Moore, a long time friend of Jerry Lewis', took this test at Radio Central New York in 1941, and passed it on to him. (Del Moore is best remembered as Dr. Warfield in "The Nutty Professor," 1963)
Jerry has performed this test on radio, television and stage for many years, and it has become a favorite tongue twister of his fans around the world."
Thoughts after Election Day
November 14, 2007
I don’t have any pets.
But I do have pet peeves.
One of them occurs every year right after election day.
It concerns campaign signs and posters.
The first Tuesday of November is election day. For weeks, if not months, leading up to this event, we are bombarded with signs, posters and placards promoting each of the candidates running for office. Most of these signs are stuck in the ground along roadways that people travel every day. Thus, they are unavoidable. For the most part, all one sees while driving by is the last name of the candidate. Presumably, if you see the same name often enough, you will recognize it on the ballot when you enter the voting booth. To me, this Pavlovian reaction of pressing the lever for a familiar name, usually without knowing anything about the candidate, does little to promote democracy. The winner is just the person with the best ad campaign. At least the person who blindly votes a party line has a reason, albeit a stupid one, for selecting the candidate. Those who vote for someone only because they recognize the name, only encourage more roadside advertising. I doubt this is what our founding fathers had in mind.
I ran for local office in 1985 on the Democratic ticket with an independent line endorsement. I got more votes on the Democratic line than my Republican opponent did on his line, but lost the election because his Conservative line votes beat my independent tally. The day after the election, I traveled throughout my town, in the rain, taking down my campaign posters. My name was the middle name on the three person ticket and I felt an obligation to remove the signs as soon as possible.
Today, eight days after the last election, I am still confronted with political campaign signs as I drive to work. If I had my way, I’d fine the candidate, whether he won or lost, for every day, beginning a week after the election, that his or her signs or posters remained in public view. I would make an exception for those on private property or in store windows, but any signs on telephone poles, public roadways or anywhere else in public view, would cause the fine to be imposed.
The only saving grace, at least for now, is that most of the signs are in English.
I don’t have any pets.
But I do have pet peeves.
One of them occurs every year right after election day.
It concerns campaign signs and posters.
The first Tuesday of November is election day. For weeks, if not months, leading up to this event, we are bombarded with signs, posters and placards promoting each of the candidates running for office. Most of these signs are stuck in the ground along roadways that people travel every day. Thus, they are unavoidable. For the most part, all one sees while driving by is the last name of the candidate. Presumably, if you see the same name often enough, you will recognize it on the ballot when you enter the voting booth. To me, this Pavlovian reaction of pressing the lever for a familiar name, usually without knowing anything about the candidate, does little to promote democracy. The winner is just the person with the best ad campaign. At least the person who blindly votes a party line has a reason, albeit a stupid one, for selecting the candidate. Those who vote for someone only because they recognize the name, only encourage more roadside advertising. I doubt this is what our founding fathers had in mind.
I ran for local office in 1985 on the Democratic ticket with an independent line endorsement. I got more votes on the Democratic line than my Republican opponent did on his line, but lost the election because his Conservative line votes beat my independent tally. The day after the election, I traveled throughout my town, in the rain, taking down my campaign posters. My name was the middle name on the three person ticket and I felt an obligation to remove the signs as soon as possible.
Today, eight days after the last election, I am still confronted with political campaign signs as I drive to work. If I had my way, I’d fine the candidate, whether he won or lost, for every day, beginning a week after the election, that his or her signs or posters remained in public view. I would make an exception for those on private property or in store windows, but any signs on telephone poles, public roadways or anywhere else in public view, would cause the fine to be imposed.
The only saving grace, at least for now, is that most of the signs are in English.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Barry Farber
This is only the second post to my blog. I thought it would be easier to write, but now I wonder where bloggers find the time. Anyway, here goes:
I remember the days when I listed to two Barrys on the radio: Barry Gray and Barry Farber. They were heard at night and were an interesting alternative to late night TV. Barry Gray was one of the first persons I heard on a rock and roll radio station, WMCA, in New York when I got my first transistor radio, circa 1959. As I recall, he used to broadcast from 11:00 PM until 1:00 AM and I would routinely fall asleep listening to him interview various personalities. Barry Gray died a number of years ago and those who replaced him never seemed as interesting. In those days I also discovered Jean Shepherd and Long John Nebel, but I’ll leave those recollections for another day.
Some years after discovering Barry Gray, I found another Barry on another radio station, WOR, I believe. Barry Farber was from North Carolina and spoke with an accent usually heard only south of the Mason-Dixon line. This Barry told us he was a student of languages, speaking quite a few of them fluently. He spoke slowly and deliberately, enunciating and emphasizing every word as he regaled us with folksy stories from the south. Then one day, he disappeared from the airwaves. I thought he was gone forever, but to my pleasant surprise, he’s still around.
This past Saturday, I was listening to WABC talk radio, specifically Mark Simone. His show ended at 10:00AM and someone name Larry Kudlow was to follow. I usually switched to another station at that point, but I was late in doing so on this day and all of a sudden I heard the sweet southern tones of Barry Farber. He told us he was filling in for the regular host and it was a joy to hear his voice again. He took calls from listeners and told stories. There were two stories in particular I enjoyed. Both were about President Calvin Coolidge. Barry made the point that Coolidge was known as “Silent Cal” because he rarely spoke, and when he did, it was only few words.
The first story illustrated the point: President Coolidge was at a White House dinner party and an actress was seated next to him. She turned to the president and said, “I bet a friend of mine that I could get you to say more than two words.” Silent Cal replied, “You lose.”
The second story, while not as illustrative of the point that President Coolidge rarely spoke, was more interesting. I repeat it here, not verbatim, but from memory:
Coolidge came home one day and his wife was upstairs.
“Is that you, Calvin?” she called out.
“Yup,” he answered.
“Are you coming back from church?” she asked.
“Yup,” was his reply.
“Did Reverend Brown give the sermon?”
“Yup.”
“Was it a good sermon?”
“Yup.”
“What was the title of the sermon?”
“The responsibilities of the rich towards the poor.”
“Was it convincing?’
“To the poor it was.”
With stories like these, Barry Farber deserves to be back on the air in more than just a fill-in capacity.
Note: I later learned he is on something called Talk Radio Network, if you can find it.
I remember the days when I listed to two Barrys on the radio: Barry Gray and Barry Farber. They were heard at night and were an interesting alternative to late night TV. Barry Gray was one of the first persons I heard on a rock and roll radio station, WMCA, in New York when I got my first transistor radio, circa 1959. As I recall, he used to broadcast from 11:00 PM until 1:00 AM and I would routinely fall asleep listening to him interview various personalities. Barry Gray died a number of years ago and those who replaced him never seemed as interesting. In those days I also discovered Jean Shepherd and Long John Nebel, but I’ll leave those recollections for another day.
Some years after discovering Barry Gray, I found another Barry on another radio station, WOR, I believe. Barry Farber was from North Carolina and spoke with an accent usually heard only south of the Mason-Dixon line. This Barry told us he was a student of languages, speaking quite a few of them fluently. He spoke slowly and deliberately, enunciating and emphasizing every word as he regaled us with folksy stories from the south. Then one day, he disappeared from the airwaves. I thought he was gone forever, but to my pleasant surprise, he’s still around.
This past Saturday, I was listening to WABC talk radio, specifically Mark Simone. His show ended at 10:00AM and someone name Larry Kudlow was to follow. I usually switched to another station at that point, but I was late in doing so on this day and all of a sudden I heard the sweet southern tones of Barry Farber. He told us he was filling in for the regular host and it was a joy to hear his voice again. He took calls from listeners and told stories. There were two stories in particular I enjoyed. Both were about President Calvin Coolidge. Barry made the point that Coolidge was known as “Silent Cal” because he rarely spoke, and when he did, it was only few words.
The first story illustrated the point: President Coolidge was at a White House dinner party and an actress was seated next to him. She turned to the president and said, “I bet a friend of mine that I could get you to say more than two words.” Silent Cal replied, “You lose.”
The second story, while not as illustrative of the point that President Coolidge rarely spoke, was more interesting. I repeat it here, not verbatim, but from memory:
Coolidge came home one day and his wife was upstairs.
“Is that you, Calvin?” she called out.
“Yup,” he answered.
“Are you coming back from church?” she asked.
“Yup,” was his reply.
“Did Reverend Brown give the sermon?”
“Yup.”
“Was it a good sermon?”
“Yup.”
“What was the title of the sermon?”
“The responsibilities of the rich towards the poor.”
“Was it convincing?’
“To the poor it was.”
With stories like these, Barry Farber deserves to be back on the air in more than just a fill-in capacity.
Note: I later learned he is on something called Talk Radio Network, if you can find it.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
First Post
10-25-07 Welcome to the first post of my blog. I will use this space to share my thoughts and opinions; news and views; and anything else that comes to mind. In grammar school, I first heard the question, "Why are we all here?" The answer, as taught to me by my seventh grade teacher, is, "Because we're not all there." That about covers it.
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