“The best things in life … aren’t things.”
I saw this saying written on a decorative piece of wood recently.
It immediately struck me as profoundly true.
We are a society obsessed with having possessions – physical things. The late George Carlin had a funny routine about people having “stuff.” “Stuff” is just another word for “things.”
We all know we can’t take “it” with us when we go. “It” is another word for “things.”
It’s comforting to have things: a TV set; a radio; a bookcase filled with books; a digital camera.
However, things give us a skewed concept of what life is all about. Jesus told his disciples to give up their possessions and follow him. Admittedly, that’s tough to do about 2,000 years later. In more ways than one. In today’s materialistic society, a person’s worth seems to be measured by what he has, not by what he is.
But just as the ancient Chinese saying informs us that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, each of us must start by divesting ourselves of at least some of our material possessions. Isn’t that why ebay was created?
I realized this may sound like a radical philosophy, especially coming from a pack rat such as me, but just remember one of my favorite expressions is: “I’m like a sign. I point the way, but I don’t go there myself.”
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
A Book vs. A Review of Same
“Homer and Langley,” by E.L. Doctorow, is a very difficult book to read. The words don’t flow smoothly within the sentences and the print layout is “right justified”, which means that the end of each line is in exactly the same place, just as the beginning of each line on the left side of the page is. I find this layout difficult to read.
The subject of the book is the infamous Collyer brothers, who, until their deaths in 1947, were compulsive hoarders. Indeed, it turns out that Langley, the older of the two, died as a result of being crushed under the weight of a fallen stack of newspapers. Langley claimed that since his brother had gone blind, he needed to save the daily newspapers for him to read once he regained his sight.
The content of the book is written as if Homer, the younger, blind brother is speaking. Of course, since there are no recordings by him, this is a work of fiction, presumably based on real events of the day. While there are a few clever insights and assumptions, the pacing of the story is disjointed.
The author is a well-respected writer whose most notable work, "Ragtime," has been adapted for both the Broadway stage and the silver screen. Yet, a respected author cannot have his work judged on the basis of his reputation alone. Whether this new book is any good must be determined by the content alone. In that regard, this book does not measure up.
Contrast this with a review of the book by another well-known author, Joyce Carol Oates. Her two page review appeared in the September 7, 2009 issue of The New Yorker magazine and the words not only flow like melted butter on a stack of hot cakes, they also serve to convey the flavor of the life and times of the Collyer brothers.
But the most interesting part of the review hits home for many of us: “Few of us can imagine ourselves involved in deranged acts of violence, but we all know how newspapers and magazines can stack up, how ‘collectibles’ can accumulate. It’s not much of a stretch to imagine ourselves the hapless victims of our possessions – paralyzed by things we’re unable to sort out and discard, annihilated by our affluence, crushed by our consumerism.”
Amen, sister, amen.
The subject of the book is the infamous Collyer brothers, who, until their deaths in 1947, were compulsive hoarders. Indeed, it turns out that Langley, the older of the two, died as a result of being crushed under the weight of a fallen stack of newspapers. Langley claimed that since his brother had gone blind, he needed to save the daily newspapers for him to read once he regained his sight.
The content of the book is written as if Homer, the younger, blind brother is speaking. Of course, since there are no recordings by him, this is a work of fiction, presumably based on real events of the day. While there are a few clever insights and assumptions, the pacing of the story is disjointed.
The author is a well-respected writer whose most notable work, "Ragtime," has been adapted for both the Broadway stage and the silver screen. Yet, a respected author cannot have his work judged on the basis of his reputation alone. Whether this new book is any good must be determined by the content alone. In that regard, this book does not measure up.
Contrast this with a review of the book by another well-known author, Joyce Carol Oates. Her two page review appeared in the September 7, 2009 issue of The New Yorker magazine and the words not only flow like melted butter on a stack of hot cakes, they also serve to convey the flavor of the life and times of the Collyer brothers.
But the most interesting part of the review hits home for many of us: “Few of us can imagine ourselves involved in deranged acts of violence, but we all know how newspapers and magazines can stack up, how ‘collectibles’ can accumulate. It’s not much of a stretch to imagine ourselves the hapless victims of our possessions – paralyzed by things we’re unable to sort out and discard, annihilated by our affluence, crushed by our consumerism.”
Amen, sister, amen.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Death takes two
Today, I heard of the passing of two people from the world of show business: Mary Travers (of Peter, Paul & Mary) and Henry Gibson (from Laugh-In, and more recently, Boston Legal).
I am a fan of Peter, Paul & Mary, so Mary’s death was especially sad. Yet her voice will live on in my iPod and CD player.
Gibson was a bit player on Laugh-In and he played a judge on Boston Legal. I was not a big fan, but he was someone I remember clearly. Interestingly, his real name was James Bateman and he created his stage name as a pun on the name of playwright Henrik Ibsen.
It seems one of the disadvantages of living longer is that people you have seen all your life begin to pass away. As a child, you know very few people, in real life and in the public eye. But as you age, the number of people you are aware of explodes almost exponentially. The longer you live, the more people you’ve heard of. And inevitably, some of them die (before you do).
Both Mary Travers and Henry Gibson died from diseases: leukemia and cancer, respectively. I don’t know how Gibson died, but perhaps Mary Travers’ soul left on a jetplane.
At the very least, her music will forever be blowin’ in the wind.
I am a fan of Peter, Paul & Mary, so Mary’s death was especially sad. Yet her voice will live on in my iPod and CD player.
Gibson was a bit player on Laugh-In and he played a judge on Boston Legal. I was not a big fan, but he was someone I remember clearly. Interestingly, his real name was James Bateman and he created his stage name as a pun on the name of playwright Henrik Ibsen.
It seems one of the disadvantages of living longer is that people you have seen all your life begin to pass away. As a child, you know very few people, in real life and in the public eye. But as you age, the number of people you are aware of explodes almost exponentially. The longer you live, the more people you’ve heard of. And inevitably, some of them die (before you do).
Both Mary Travers and Henry Gibson died from diseases: leukemia and cancer, respectively. I don’t know how Gibson died, but perhaps Mary Travers’ soul left on a jetplane.
At the very least, her music will forever be blowin’ in the wind.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Look at it this way
Henry Ford once said that thinking was the hardest work there is – that’s why so few people do it.
I’d like to add that looking at things from a different viewpoint is just as difficult.
For example, the person who comes in second in a race is not just the second best – he is also the first loser.
I heard a statement on the radio the other day, which made me realize there is more than one way to view things. For example: When a builder constructs a building “to code,” you immediately think: “That’s great. The building must be good because it meets all the building code requirements.” But the radio commentator explained the situation this way: “building to code” simply means that it’s the worst building the builder can legally get away with. If it doesn’t meet the minimum code requirements, it can’t be used. However, the builder always has the option of building it better than code. Code is simply the minimum standard. It’s like saying a car must have four good tires to pass inspection, but they don’t have to be new – they can be just a rotation or two away from being bald.
As someone once observed, it’s comforting to know that the airplane you fly in was built by the lowest bidder.
So, to what Yogi Berra once said, that you can observe a lot by watching, let me add, “from all viewpoints.”
I’d like to add that looking at things from a different viewpoint is just as difficult.
For example, the person who comes in second in a race is not just the second best – he is also the first loser.
I heard a statement on the radio the other day, which made me realize there is more than one way to view things. For example: When a builder constructs a building “to code,” you immediately think: “That’s great. The building must be good because it meets all the building code requirements.” But the radio commentator explained the situation this way: “building to code” simply means that it’s the worst building the builder can legally get away with. If it doesn’t meet the minimum code requirements, it can’t be used. However, the builder always has the option of building it better than code. Code is simply the minimum standard. It’s like saying a car must have four good tires to pass inspection, but they don’t have to be new – they can be just a rotation or two away from being bald.
As someone once observed, it’s comforting to know that the airplane you fly in was built by the lowest bidder.
So, to what Yogi Berra once said, that you can observe a lot by watching, let me add, “from all viewpoints.”
Monday, August 31, 2009
From Paradise to Texas
A friend of mine, of similar age, recently lost his job with a company in Hawaii, where he had been living for the last eight years. His wife was able to find a job at a university in Texas, of all places, and she moved there two months ago. Not wanting to stay in Hawaii by himself, my friend was forced to leave his island paradise and move to the Lone Star State.
I just got an e-mail about his trip and it was so interesting I thought I’d reprint portions of it here. I could not written it better, so here’s what he wrote:
“The trip to Texas was extremely stressful. Delta Airlines (Never fly Delta) charged me $175 in addition to the exorbitant airfare I already paid to take my two suitcases and guitar with me. Can you believe it? No free luggage! I mean, making me pay to take my luggage on a trip is like going to a fine restaurant and ordering a meal. You pay for the food; but if you want it cooked, you have to pay $5 more. Serving it on real china with real silverware (as opposed to paper plates and plastic forks) will be an additional five dollars.
How about when you want to see a movie? You can pay to see the movie; but if you want to “hear” the movie, that’ll be an additional five bucks. Or what if you need to stay in a hotel? . . . . Wait, hotels already charge you for “everything;” so they are not good examples.
I mean, where will the greed end?
So, I am much the poorer for having to fly with luggage.”
I just got an e-mail about his trip and it was so interesting I thought I’d reprint portions of it here. I could not written it better, so here’s what he wrote:
“The trip to Texas was extremely stressful. Delta Airlines (Never fly Delta) charged me $175 in addition to the exorbitant airfare I already paid to take my two suitcases and guitar with me. Can you believe it? No free luggage! I mean, making me pay to take my luggage on a trip is like going to a fine restaurant and ordering a meal. You pay for the food; but if you want it cooked, you have to pay $5 more. Serving it on real china with real silverware (as opposed to paper plates and plastic forks) will be an additional five dollars.
How about when you want to see a movie? You can pay to see the movie; but if you want to “hear” the movie, that’ll be an additional five bucks. Or what if you need to stay in a hotel? . . . . Wait, hotels already charge you for “everything;” so they are not good examples.
I mean, where will the greed end?
So, I am much the poorer for having to fly with luggage.”
Thursday, August 27, 2009
What's your Rosebud?
Anyone who has seen the movie Citizen Kane knows what “Rosebud” represents, so I need not explain it here. However, let me pose this question: What is your Rosebud?
Mine is quite simple. It’s a ball. A small pink rubber ball. The Spaldeen.
Today’s children, including my own, who grew up in the suburbs, cannot have the same affection for this small sphere of enjoyment. It was used in so many ways: thrown in a game called Running Bases; slapped in a game called Slapball; smashed with a broom handle in Stickball; bounced in Box ball; pitched against the red bricks in Stoop ball and even bounced on the asphalt in a game called “I declare war.”
The ball never got tired and neither did we.
Sure, I had an electric train set, cowboy six shooters, a Fort Apache set, Monopoly and Clue. But none of these things gave me the hours of pleasure that playing with that high bounce pink ball did.
The only thing that came close, but was still a distant second, was my bicycle. Like a car to a teenager, the bicycle gave a youngster freedom of movement. Can you imagine a parent sending a pre-teen to the store on a bike today? They’d be brought up on charges. But our parents thought nothing of it. Or maybe they did, and we just didn’t realize it.
To this day, one of my favorite leisure activities is tossing a ball to my younger daughter as she bounces on a trampoline. It’s actually a football and she can throw a spiral way over my head. I’m just happy I can keep up with her, although my wife is constantly reminding me to act my age.
Little does she know that when I’m playing ball, I’m still 12 years old.
Mine is quite simple. It’s a ball. A small pink rubber ball. The Spaldeen.
Today’s children, including my own, who grew up in the suburbs, cannot have the same affection for this small sphere of enjoyment. It was used in so many ways: thrown in a game called Running Bases; slapped in a game called Slapball; smashed with a broom handle in Stickball; bounced in Box ball; pitched against the red bricks in Stoop ball and even bounced on the asphalt in a game called “I declare war.”
The ball never got tired and neither did we.
Sure, I had an electric train set, cowboy six shooters, a Fort Apache set, Monopoly and Clue. But none of these things gave me the hours of pleasure that playing with that high bounce pink ball did.
The only thing that came close, but was still a distant second, was my bicycle. Like a car to a teenager, the bicycle gave a youngster freedom of movement. Can you imagine a parent sending a pre-teen to the store on a bike today? They’d be brought up on charges. But our parents thought nothing of it. Or maybe they did, and we just didn’t realize it.
To this day, one of my favorite leisure activities is tossing a ball to my younger daughter as she bounces on a trampoline. It’s actually a football and she can throw a spiral way over my head. I’m just happy I can keep up with her, although my wife is constantly reminding me to act my age.
Little does she know that when I’m playing ball, I’m still 12 years old.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Thinking Ahead
This school was established in 1902. Sometime in 2002, a sign extolling “100 Years of Excellence” was installed.
It is now 2009 and every time I see the sign, I wonder, “Which seven years weren’t so excellent?’
Perhaps the sign should have read: “100 Years of Excellence, and counting,” or, at the very least, “100 Years of Excellence, 1902- 2002.”
As it stands now, each year that passes just makes me wonder which years weren’t so excellent.”
A Sobering Realization
The other day I read about someone who was going through a mid-life crisis.
It occurred to me that for me to have a mid-life crisis now, I would have to live well past the age of 100.
So, not only has by youth gone by, but my mid-life has, too.
Now, that’s a sobering realization.
It occurred to me that for me to have a mid-life crisis now, I would have to live well past the age of 100.
So, not only has by youth gone by, but my mid-life has, too.
Now, that’s a sobering realization.
Beach books
I enjoy reading and listening to the radio. These two pleasures converged recently on the web. In July, NPR (National Public Radio) published a list of the “100 Best Beach Books Ever,” as complied by listeners. I was surprised to see nine of my favorites on the list (#2 is To Kill A Mockingbird). But the books listed are mostly those written some time ago (two by J.D. Salinger made the list).
This summer I read two novels recommended by author Stephen King: Shatter by Michael Robotham—and The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer. Both were published in March, 2009 and were hard to put down. Books like these make you wish they would never end.
The nice thing about finding a new book you enjoy is that it gives you hope that there is another undiscovered gem just around the corner.
Hope springs eternal.
Even in summer.
This summer I read two novels recommended by author Stephen King: Shatter by Michael Robotham—and The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer. Both were published in March, 2009 and were hard to put down. Books like these make you wish they would never end.
The nice thing about finding a new book you enjoy is that it gives you hope that there is another undiscovered gem just around the corner.
Hope springs eternal.
Even in summer.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Antiques
Most people understand that to be an antique, an object must be at least 100 years old (25 years for an automobile).
Assuming today is August 17, 2009, to be an antique, an object would have to have existed before August 17, 1909. An Indian head one-cent coin, commonly incorrectly called a “penny,” would qualify since those coins were last minted in 1909 before production began on the Lincoln head cents that same year. But how many people possess even one Indian head cent? Some may have silver dollar coins minted in the late 1880s or earlier, and they, too, would qualify using the standard definition.
But unless a person inherited something from a grandparent, he or she probably doesn’t possess any other antiques. As they get older, most people start to think of the toys from their childhood as antiques, as they fondly remember “the good old days.” But these are really just “collectibles” and not true antiques.
Fortunately, by the commonly accepted definition, “new” antiques are created every day. Since time does not stand still, something that is 99 years, 11 months and 30 days old today will be an antique tomorrow.
So hold on to everything you have and you will eventually be neck deep in antiques.
Assuming today is August 17, 2009, to be an antique, an object would have to have existed before August 17, 1909. An Indian head one-cent coin, commonly incorrectly called a “penny,” would qualify since those coins were last minted in 1909 before production began on the Lincoln head cents that same year. But how many people possess even one Indian head cent? Some may have silver dollar coins minted in the late 1880s or earlier, and they, too, would qualify using the standard definition.
But unless a person inherited something from a grandparent, he or she probably doesn’t possess any other antiques. As they get older, most people start to think of the toys from their childhood as antiques, as they fondly remember “the good old days.” But these are really just “collectibles” and not true antiques.
Fortunately, by the commonly accepted definition, “new” antiques are created every day. Since time does not stand still, something that is 99 years, 11 months and 30 days old today will be an antique tomorrow.
So hold on to everything you have and you will eventually be neck deep in antiques.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A world of Color
I read a story today that got me to thinking about crayons. I didn’t realize that it wasn’t until 1958 that Crayola crayons added 16 new colors to bring the large box to 64 shades. Those of you who have children should be familiar with this size box. Before 1958 there were only 48 standard crayon colors (one for each state at the time?).
Some crayons got more use than others. My early artwork included lots of blue skies and green lawns and even some brown trees. I always found white was the hardest color to work with.
Sadly, I have no copies of anything I colored as a child, but I have many examples of the artwork of my children. I trust they will appreciate this some day.
I have always been interested in recycling (even before that term became commonplace). Many of the drawings of my children are on the backs of old court calendars I saved from my days working in a courthouse. This was my attempt to reuse paper and save trees. It was also because I was cheap and real paper cost money. I recall one time when one teacher wondered why there were words like robbery and assault on the back of the drawings. I guess teachers didn’t have to worry about supplies because they didn’t pay for them.
As I said, I don’t have any copies of my artwork as a child.
I wish I did.
Some crayons got more use than others. My early artwork included lots of blue skies and green lawns and even some brown trees. I always found white was the hardest color to work with.
Sadly, I have no copies of anything I colored as a child, but I have many examples of the artwork of my children. I trust they will appreciate this some day.
I have always been interested in recycling (even before that term became commonplace). Many of the drawings of my children are on the backs of old court calendars I saved from my days working in a courthouse. This was my attempt to reuse paper and save trees. It was also because I was cheap and real paper cost money. I recall one time when one teacher wondered why there were words like robbery and assault on the back of the drawings. I guess teachers didn’t have to worry about supplies because they didn’t pay for them.
As I said, I don’t have any copies of my artwork as a child.
I wish I did.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
What did you call them?
When I was a kid, we knew about lightning bugs in July. We would capture as many as we could and place them inside a glass jar with a metal lid that had air holes punched in. It was amazing to see the bugs light up.
When my children were small, I remember reading the book Sam and the Firefly by P.D. Eastman. But it wasn’t until the other day that it dawned on me that lightning bugs were actually fireflies, or to be technical, the ones we knew were Cyphonocerus ruficollis.
I never used the term firefly. To me, these insects were simply lightning bugs. I wonder who first termed them that? Shouldn’t it be “lighting” bugs, because what they do is light up? How did they get to be “lightning” bugs? There was never any bolt of lightning coming from them. And who taught us the term for these bugs? Our parents? The kids on the block? Or did we just pick it up by osmosis?
This all came to mind when I looked out my second floor bedroom window in the middle of the night last week. It was pitch black in the backyard and suddenly several lightning bugs did what they do. It was a magical sight.
When my children were small, I remember reading the book Sam and the Firefly by P.D. Eastman. But it wasn’t until the other day that it dawned on me that lightning bugs were actually fireflies, or to be technical, the ones we knew were Cyphonocerus ruficollis.
I never used the term firefly. To me, these insects were simply lightning bugs. I wonder who first termed them that? Shouldn’t it be “lighting” bugs, because what they do is light up? How did they get to be “lightning” bugs? There was never any bolt of lightning coming from them. And who taught us the term for these bugs? Our parents? The kids on the block? Or did we just pick it up by osmosis?
This all came to mind when I looked out my second floor bedroom window in the middle of the night last week. It was pitch black in the backyard and suddenly several lightning bugs did what they do. It was a magical sight.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Dangerous Communication
The internet is dangerous because people can pass along bad information without fact-checking the source.
When communication was printed with ink on paper, people were more responsible about what they wrote. Rarely did they simply forward something someone else wrote. But easy access to e-mail and the internet changed all that. Not only don’t people write original letters, but many don’t even bother to cut and paste before forwarding e-mails that were sent to them.
A case in point – someone recently forwarded an email that expressed outrage that the words “In God We Trust” were no longer printed on the new presidential one dollar coins being released by the US Mint. Similar to the state quarters, which were issued at a rate of four per year, these one dollar coins depict each of our former presidents. The e-mail I received suggested we boycott these coins because of the lack of the religious motto. To some, this seemed like the appropriate thing to do in protest. A modern day Boston tea party, if you will. There was only one problem – the e-mail was bogus.
The words “In God We Trust,” are, in fact, etched onto each coin, albeit on the rim. Since many people don’t bother to check the facts, some will probably blindly follow the e-mail’s suggestion.
In the long run, such activity will not amount to a hill of beans in this instance. These coins will probably only be of interest to collectors and will not see very much acceptance in everyday commerce. But the mere fact that people can be influence by inaccurate, or worse yet, untrue information, is frightening.
A recent story about someone who died, included a quote the deceased allegedly uttered. The quote was innocuous, but it was later discovered that someone had fabricated it and had inserted it into a webpage about the deceased. A reporter writing an obituary, saw it and printed it without knowing it was a phony quote. The reporter’s obit was then published by a reputable news source. The question that must now be asked is: How can we believe anything we read?
Unfortunately, the answer is: We can’t always.
We have to become Doubting Thomases.
When communication was printed with ink on paper, people were more responsible about what they wrote. Rarely did they simply forward something someone else wrote. But easy access to e-mail and the internet changed all that. Not only don’t people write original letters, but many don’t even bother to cut and paste before forwarding e-mails that were sent to them.
A case in point – someone recently forwarded an email that expressed outrage that the words “In God We Trust” were no longer printed on the new presidential one dollar coins being released by the US Mint. Similar to the state quarters, which were issued at a rate of four per year, these one dollar coins depict each of our former presidents. The e-mail I received suggested we boycott these coins because of the lack of the religious motto. To some, this seemed like the appropriate thing to do in protest. A modern day Boston tea party, if you will. There was only one problem – the e-mail was bogus.
The words “In God We Trust,” are, in fact, etched onto each coin, albeit on the rim. Since many people don’t bother to check the facts, some will probably blindly follow the e-mail’s suggestion.
In the long run, such activity will not amount to a hill of beans in this instance. These coins will probably only be of interest to collectors and will not see very much acceptance in everyday commerce. But the mere fact that people can be influence by inaccurate, or worse yet, untrue information, is frightening.
A recent story about someone who died, included a quote the deceased allegedly uttered. The quote was innocuous, but it was later discovered that someone had fabricated it and had inserted it into a webpage about the deceased. A reporter writing an obituary, saw it and printed it without knowing it was a phony quote. The reporter’s obit was then published by a reputable news source. The question that must now be asked is: How can we believe anything we read?
Unfortunately, the answer is: We can’t always.
We have to become Doubting Thomases.
Baseball cards
The scratch-off lottery tickets common today remind me of something from my youth. The idea behind the tickets is that you scratch off hidden information in the hope of uncovering a winning combination of numbers, letters or symbols.
As a youth, I collected trading cards, both baseball and non-sport cards. Instead of scratching off a hidden winner, my friends and I would select a pack from the candy store and before purchasing it, carefully peel back the glued wrapper and push the stick of gum aside in the hope of revealing a Mickey Mantle or low numbered baseball card. For some reason, the numbers 1 through 10 were tough to find. If someone were to tell me that the card company actually printed fewer of these low numbered cards, I’d have no reason to doubt it. At least based on my experience.
It was next to impossible to collect a full set of any series, at least without spending a fortune, which in my case, would have been about a thousand times my weekly allowance. And it was not easy to trade for the cards you needed because usually none of your friends had them either. And if they did, they didn’t have doubles to trade. So we had to be satisfied with quantity over quality. So what if you had triples of some unknown pitcher for the Cleveland Indians. At least your stack of cards was higher than the other guy’s. Eventually the baseball year ended and the cards were tossed into a shoebox for the winter. Next season the old cards would be used to make noise when attached to the spokes of your bicycle wheels and the search for elusive cards would begin again.
Today, the luster, and fun, is gone from baseball card collecting. Especially when you can buy a complete boxed set at Walmart.
I never did get that elusive Mickey Mantle card and now I am no longer interested.
I’d rather toss a cowhide-covered baseball than contemplate a cardboard baseball card. Life is not like a box of baseball cards.
Get out there and live it.
As a youth, I collected trading cards, both baseball and non-sport cards. Instead of scratching off a hidden winner, my friends and I would select a pack from the candy store and before purchasing it, carefully peel back the glued wrapper and push the stick of gum aside in the hope of revealing a Mickey Mantle or low numbered baseball card. For some reason, the numbers 1 through 10 were tough to find. If someone were to tell me that the card company actually printed fewer of these low numbered cards, I’d have no reason to doubt it. At least based on my experience.
It was next to impossible to collect a full set of any series, at least without spending a fortune, which in my case, would have been about a thousand times my weekly allowance. And it was not easy to trade for the cards you needed because usually none of your friends had them either. And if they did, they didn’t have doubles to trade. So we had to be satisfied with quantity over quality. So what if you had triples of some unknown pitcher for the Cleveland Indians. At least your stack of cards was higher than the other guy’s. Eventually the baseball year ended and the cards were tossed into a shoebox for the winter. Next season the old cards would be used to make noise when attached to the spokes of your bicycle wheels and the search for elusive cards would begin again.
Today, the luster, and fun, is gone from baseball card collecting. Especially when you can buy a complete boxed set at Walmart.
I never did get that elusive Mickey Mantle card and now I am no longer interested.
I’d rather toss a cowhide-covered baseball than contemplate a cardboard baseball card. Life is not like a box of baseball cards.
Get out there and live it.
A book on a bus
The other day I had occasion to travel by bus. I made sure I brought a book to read because the trip would take several hours. I didn’t buy a newspaper because I didn’t want newsprint all over my hands.
I did a lot of reading when I traveled to and from college on mass transit through four of the five boroughs of New York City back in the day. Just as you never forget how to ride a bicycle, reading on the bus was no problem.
Standing out like a sore thumb was.
I was the only person on the bus who was reading ink on paper. Everyone else, who wasn’t napping, held a small electronic device. One was checking phone messages; another was making phone calls. One was listening to an iPod; another was watching a video. One was playing games; another was texting. There was even a guy with a normal size laptop computer, who was watching something on the screen. He wasn’t writing or surfing the net, but was watching something that had been downloaded.
I couldn’t help feeling like a dinosaur because I was reading an actual book printed on real paper. Each time I turned a page, I could almost hear someone snickering, “Look at that old guy reading a book.” Of course, no one actually said that. Each person was too busy with his or her own electronic device.
It suddenly dawned on me how shortsighted the premise of Ray Bradbury’s classic Fahrenheit 451 was. The title refers to the temperature at which paper burns and the story predicted a future where books were banned. It seems to me that can never happen now, because “books” have gone digital and are now just electrons running around inside electronic devices.
I did a lot of reading when I traveled to and from college on mass transit through four of the five boroughs of New York City back in the day. Just as you never forget how to ride a bicycle, reading on the bus was no problem.
Standing out like a sore thumb was.
I was the only person on the bus who was reading ink on paper. Everyone else, who wasn’t napping, held a small electronic device. One was checking phone messages; another was making phone calls. One was listening to an iPod; another was watching a video. One was playing games; another was texting. There was even a guy with a normal size laptop computer, who was watching something on the screen. He wasn’t writing or surfing the net, but was watching something that had been downloaded.
I couldn’t help feeling like a dinosaur because I was reading an actual book printed on real paper. Each time I turned a page, I could almost hear someone snickering, “Look at that old guy reading a book.” Of course, no one actually said that. Each person was too busy with his or her own electronic device.
It suddenly dawned on me how shortsighted the premise of Ray Bradbury’s classic Fahrenheit 451 was. The title refers to the temperature at which paper burns and the story predicted a future where books were banned. It seems to me that can never happen now, because “books” have gone digital and are now just electrons running around inside electronic devices.
Alternate endings
Recently I watched an enjoyable movie on DVD. Roger Ebert gave it 3 of 4 stars. I usually agree with his reviews and this one was no exception.
Unlike movies seen in a theater, movies on DVD usually come with bonus special features. This particular DVD’s special features included not one, not two, but three alternate endings to the movie.
After watching the movie, I watched all three alternate endings. Each started with the same scene – one that was not even in the movie. This scene had two of the main characters come to tragic endings in two of the three alternate endings. In alternate ending number one, one character was killed and the other murdered. A third character was then seen testifying at his trial to try to explain why he killed character number two.
Alternate ending number two had the same death/murder combo, but without the trial scene at the end.
In alternate ending number three, the two characters did not die, but drove off into the sunset.
Presumably the director liked the ending he chose for the theatrical version of the film. Why he bothered filming the three alternate endings is beyond me.
Can you imagine reading a novel and then reading three different endings?
It doesn’t make sense to me.
Alternate ending number one to this piece: I loved the different alternate endings. It was like watching four different movies for the price of one.
Alternate ending number two to this piece: I didn’t like any of the alternate endings.
Unlike movies seen in a theater, movies on DVD usually come with bonus special features. This particular DVD’s special features included not one, not two, but three alternate endings to the movie.
After watching the movie, I watched all three alternate endings. Each started with the same scene – one that was not even in the movie. This scene had two of the main characters come to tragic endings in two of the three alternate endings. In alternate ending number one, one character was killed and the other murdered. A third character was then seen testifying at his trial to try to explain why he killed character number two.
Alternate ending number two had the same death/murder combo, but without the trial scene at the end.
In alternate ending number three, the two characters did not die, but drove off into the sunset.
Presumably the director liked the ending he chose for the theatrical version of the film. Why he bothered filming the three alternate endings is beyond me.
Can you imagine reading a novel and then reading three different endings?
It doesn’t make sense to me.
Alternate ending number one to this piece: I loved the different alternate endings. It was like watching four different movies for the price of one.
Alternate ending number two to this piece: I didn’t like any of the alternate endings.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Why people dislike lawyers
The first line of a novel I am reading is this: “I remember someone once telling me that you know it’s cold when you see a lawyer with his hands in his own pockets.”
Lawyer jokes have been around for years. They are popular because many people don’t like lawyers. An incident which occurred the other day opened my eyes as to why that may be so. Someone I knew said to me, “Did I see you walking down the street just now?” A normal person would have said, “yes,” since I had just been walking down the street. But because of my legal training, I was compelled to reply, “How would I know what you saw?”
Lawyers are trained to think logically and to separate fact from opinion. When a witness is asked to state what he saw or heard, the witness is expected to simply state the facts without drawing any conclusions or interpreting them. Unfortunately this is not easy to do, because in everyday life, people tend to make judgments about what they see and hear. A lawyer is trained to object when a person puts forth something more than “just the facts.” Naturally, this makes the lawyer seem argumentative since the general public doesn’t always think logically. It was Henry Ford who once said, “Thinking is the hardest work there is, which is probably the reason so few engage in it.”
So the reason lawyers are disliked and made fun of is simply that they think logically and the rest of the world doesn’t.
Lawyer jokes have been around for years. They are popular because many people don’t like lawyers. An incident which occurred the other day opened my eyes as to why that may be so. Someone I knew said to me, “Did I see you walking down the street just now?” A normal person would have said, “yes,” since I had just been walking down the street. But because of my legal training, I was compelled to reply, “How would I know what you saw?”
Lawyers are trained to think logically and to separate fact from opinion. When a witness is asked to state what he saw or heard, the witness is expected to simply state the facts without drawing any conclusions or interpreting them. Unfortunately this is not easy to do, because in everyday life, people tend to make judgments about what they see and hear. A lawyer is trained to object when a person puts forth something more than “just the facts.” Naturally, this makes the lawyer seem argumentative since the general public doesn’t always think logically. It was Henry Ford who once said, “Thinking is the hardest work there is, which is probably the reason so few engage in it.”
So the reason lawyers are disliked and made fun of is simply that they think logically and the rest of the world doesn’t.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Another marriage vow
Everyone knows about the traditional vows the bride and groom take when they get married: to love, honor, etc. After many years of marriage, I am now convinced that grooms need to take an additional marriage vow. This vow calls for husbands to “avoid unnecessary utterances.” Basically, it means that the husband has to shut up. Too often, during conversations or arguments with his spouse, the husband will open his mouth in an attempt to get a word in edgewise. It rarely works, and only serves to upset the wife. And on the rare occasions when he succeeds in speaking, he usually says the wrong thing.
To avoid these unnecessary utterances, it’s not too late for the husband to take this vow.
My advice is really not that new. Many years ago the poet Ogden Nash wrote:
“To keep your marriage brimming,
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you're wrong, admit it;
Whenever you're right, shut up.”
I wonder if he, too, was writing from personal experience.
To avoid these unnecessary utterances, it’s not too late for the husband to take this vow.
My advice is really not that new. Many years ago the poet Ogden Nash wrote:
“To keep your marriage brimming,
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you're wrong, admit it;
Whenever you're right, shut up.”
I wonder if he, too, was writing from personal experience.
Clothing with a sense of humor?
I recently saw these words printed on labels affixed to a line of apparel whose target market is young men: “Wear when clean; wash when dirty.”
I can’t decide whether the manufacturer has a sense of humor or whether we should be worried about the future of our country when these consumers take control.
I’m hoping it’s the former, but based on my observations, it might be the latter.
I can’t decide whether the manufacturer has a sense of humor or whether we should be worried about the future of our country when these consumers take control.
I’m hoping it’s the former, but based on my observations, it might be the latter.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Home Visit
Recently I had an opportunity to visit the home of a wealthy 83 year old semi-retired professional. I’ll call him Ned. Ned lives with his wife and a dog (his grown children have long since left the nest) in a townhouse in an affluent section of suburban Westchester County, New York and had invited me to stop by on my lunch hour.
When I arrived at his home, I rang the doorbell and Ned answered. He said his wife wasn’t home, but the dog was. As he showed me around, I sensed that Ned and his dog had a lot in common. The dog slowly made his way into the foyer to greet me and I could see that he was no spring chicken. Obviously, neither was Ned. Both were closer to buying the farm than harvesting crops in the next growing season. The dog probably didn’t realize he was getting old; Ned knew it, but was acting as if the inevitable was a long way off. I’ve only known Ned for about two years and in that short time, I have noticed the aging process taking place. It seems to speed up as we get older.
Ned is proud of his professional accomplishments, if not his personal ones, and was pleased to show off his home to me. He gave me the full tour, including the unfinished cellar. Of particular note was a walk-in cedar closet in the cellar built by the previous owner. The room was immaculate and contained Ned’s clothes, neatly hung and arranged by season. Curiously, none of his wife’s clothes were in this cedar closet (and there was not a second cedar closet for her). I wasn’t sure if that was her choice or by Ned’s edict. In either event, the closet mirrored the man. Notwithstanding his advancing years, Ned was old school and took pride in dressing for the office where he worked. He always wore a jacket and tie to work, but at home, he wore his casual clothes: jeans and a shirt. I later learned that after my lunchtime visit, Ned changed back into a suit before returning to his office.
During the tour of his townhouse, Ned made it a point to show off certain items of personal property . “See that dresser?” he said while we were in the guest bedroom. “It’s a Herman Miller – an antique I picked up at a thrift store for $20. They don’t make furniture like that today.” In the living room, he proudly pointed to a large painting on one wall, which he said he got for $5 at another thrift store. Even the stationary bicycle had a story: “I got it for free. The person I bought the house from was going to remove it before the closing and when I found out she was throwing it out, I told her to leave it.”
Ned was born at the start of the depression and over the years he obviously watched his pennies.
By the end of the tour, I finally realized what was unusual about his home. There was nothing out of place, but there was also nothing in place. Sure, there was furniture: tables, chairs, beds, televisions. But something was missing. There was nothing else in the house that would indicate someone lived there. The house was as sterile as a motel room. There was no indication that anyone occupied this space on a daily basis. The kitchen counters were bare: not a dish or dish towel in sight; not a toothbrush or hairbrush on display in the bathroom; not a book, newspaper or magazine anywhere; no photographs on display, notwithstanding that several grandchildren existed. In short, the house had no personality. No possessions that would make it a home. Nothing to indicate that a living, breathing person (or two) lived there. Unless you count the spots on the rug left by the elderly dog.
It was sad.
I wondered whether there was any love in this house. After all, nothing says love like a home that looks “lived in.” At least that’s what I tell my wife when she asks why I leave things lying around. I figure if I put my clothes in the hamper or the dishes in the dishwasher, she’ll think I don’t love her.
Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
When I arrived at his home, I rang the doorbell and Ned answered. He said his wife wasn’t home, but the dog was. As he showed me around, I sensed that Ned and his dog had a lot in common. The dog slowly made his way into the foyer to greet me and I could see that he was no spring chicken. Obviously, neither was Ned. Both were closer to buying the farm than harvesting crops in the next growing season. The dog probably didn’t realize he was getting old; Ned knew it, but was acting as if the inevitable was a long way off. I’ve only known Ned for about two years and in that short time, I have noticed the aging process taking place. It seems to speed up as we get older.
Ned is proud of his professional accomplishments, if not his personal ones, and was pleased to show off his home to me. He gave me the full tour, including the unfinished cellar. Of particular note was a walk-in cedar closet in the cellar built by the previous owner. The room was immaculate and contained Ned’s clothes, neatly hung and arranged by season. Curiously, none of his wife’s clothes were in this cedar closet (and there was not a second cedar closet for her). I wasn’t sure if that was her choice or by Ned’s edict. In either event, the closet mirrored the man. Notwithstanding his advancing years, Ned was old school and took pride in dressing for the office where he worked. He always wore a jacket and tie to work, but at home, he wore his casual clothes: jeans and a shirt. I later learned that after my lunchtime visit, Ned changed back into a suit before returning to his office.
During the tour of his townhouse, Ned made it a point to show off certain items of personal property . “See that dresser?” he said while we were in the guest bedroom. “It’s a Herman Miller – an antique I picked up at a thrift store for $20. They don’t make furniture like that today.” In the living room, he proudly pointed to a large painting on one wall, which he said he got for $5 at another thrift store. Even the stationary bicycle had a story: “I got it for free. The person I bought the house from was going to remove it before the closing and when I found out she was throwing it out, I told her to leave it.”
Ned was born at the start of the depression and over the years he obviously watched his pennies.
By the end of the tour, I finally realized what was unusual about his home. There was nothing out of place, but there was also nothing in place. Sure, there was furniture: tables, chairs, beds, televisions. But something was missing. There was nothing else in the house that would indicate someone lived there. The house was as sterile as a motel room. There was no indication that anyone occupied this space on a daily basis. The kitchen counters were bare: not a dish or dish towel in sight; not a toothbrush or hairbrush on display in the bathroom; not a book, newspaper or magazine anywhere; no photographs on display, notwithstanding that several grandchildren existed. In short, the house had no personality. No possessions that would make it a home. Nothing to indicate that a living, breathing person (or two) lived there. Unless you count the spots on the rug left by the elderly dog.
It was sad.
I wondered whether there was any love in this house. After all, nothing says love like a home that looks “lived in.” At least that’s what I tell my wife when she asks why I leave things lying around. I figure if I put my clothes in the hamper or the dishes in the dishwasher, she’ll think I don’t love her.
Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Would you like fries with that?
This sign at a local McDonalds restaurant made me wonder if the vehicles of the violators would also be towed.
Friday, April 3, 2009
A Shakespeare Mystery
A library in Westchester County, New York has a plaque on a reading room wall. Underneath the person's name, it states that she was "A lover of Shakespeare & mysteries."
I guess the real mystery is that this woman would be about 400 years old if she were truly a lover of Shakespeare.
Had the plaque indicated she loved reading Shakespeare, or even that she loved Shakespeare, there would be no mystery.
The use of the word lover in this context is wrong.
And in a library, no less.
Had the plaque indicated she loved reading Shakespeare, or even that she loved Shakespeare, there would be no mystery.
The use of the word lover in this context is wrong.
And in a library, no less.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A marriage excuse
The following is a true story. The names have been changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I couldn't remember them!
A five-year old boy was attending pre-kindergarten classes. He became friends with two girls in the class, Sally and Katie, and decided to “marry” them. He “married” Sally on Monday and Katie on Wednesday. On Friday, his mom received a call from Sally’s mother.
“I just wanted to let you know that your son is causing problems between Sallie and Katie. They were best friends, but now are not talking to each other because your son ‘married’ both of them.”
“He doesn’t understand what that means,” said the boy’s mom. “I’ll have a talk with him about it.”
When she tried to explain the situation to her five year old son, his response was classic:
“I don’t see what the big deal is, Mom. I didn’t marry them both on the same day.”
A five-year old boy was attending pre-kindergarten classes. He became friends with two girls in the class, Sally and Katie, and decided to “marry” them. He “married” Sally on Monday and Katie on Wednesday. On Friday, his mom received a call from Sally’s mother.
“I just wanted to let you know that your son is causing problems between Sallie and Katie. They were best friends, but now are not talking to each other because your son ‘married’ both of them.”
“He doesn’t understand what that means,” said the boy’s mom. “I’ll have a talk with him about it.”
When she tried to explain the situation to her five year old son, his response was classic:
“I don’t see what the big deal is, Mom. I didn’t marry them both on the same day.”
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Spring
A poem from my youth:
Spring is sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where the birdies is.
The bird is on the wing.
How absurd.
The wing is on the bird.
I took this picture today outside a post office in Westchester County, New York:
Spring is sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where the birdies is.
The bird is on the wing.
How absurd.
The wing is on the bird.
I took this picture today outside a post office in Westchester County, New York:
Ask your doctor
For anyone who has seen all those annoying TV commercials for pharmaceuticals you never heard of, there was a very funny cartoon called The Lockhorns in the Sunday newspapers on March 15, 2009.
Usually it’s a wife making a funny comment about her husband or the husband doing the same about his wife.
This particular panel depicted the wife sitting on an examination table in a doctor’s office. She had a sheet of paper in her hand and was asking the doctor:
“Is Glomex right for me? Is Droeon right for me? Is Contane right for me?”
Brilliant satire!
Usually it’s a wife making a funny comment about her husband or the husband doing the same about his wife.
This particular panel depicted the wife sitting on an examination table in a doctor’s office. She had a sheet of paper in her hand and was asking the doctor:
“Is Glomex right for me? Is Droeon right for me? Is Contane right for me?”
Brilliant satire!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
A modest proposal
With apologies to Jonathan Swift, I am submitting this modest proposal.
In New York, it is a violation of the traffic law for a driver to use a hand-held cell phone while operating a moving vehicle. This law is based on the assumption that drivers using these devices pose a danger to others using the roadways.
Recently in New York, the police have been cracking down on the use of hand-held cell phones by drivers. They stop the vehicles and issue tickets to the offending drivers.
Based on my observations as a driver on New York roads, it might be beneficial for the police to stop only those drivers who are not using a hand-held cell phone. That way, they would be off the road and safely out of the way of those dangerous drivers who are using hand-held cell phones.
At least for a few minutes.
In New York, it is a violation of the traffic law for a driver to use a hand-held cell phone while operating a moving vehicle. This law is based on the assumption that drivers using these devices pose a danger to others using the roadways.
Recently in New York, the police have been cracking down on the use of hand-held cell phones by drivers. They stop the vehicles and issue tickets to the offending drivers.
Based on my observations as a driver on New York roads, it might be beneficial for the police to stop only those drivers who are not using a hand-held cell phone. That way, they would be off the road and safely out of the way of those dangerous drivers who are using hand-held cell phones.
At least for a few minutes.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Money Talks
With the airwaves filled with talk of money, bailouts and fraud schemes, I am reminded of an old advertising slogan:
MONEY TALKS,
NOBODY WALKS
Of course, today that slogan is more likely to read:
MONEY TALKS,
ALL MINE EVER SAYS IS GOODBYE.
MONEY TALKS,
NOBODY WALKS
Of course, today that slogan is more likely to read:
MONEY TALKS,
ALL MINE EVER SAYS IS GOODBYE.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
My newest hobby
The other day I was in my local supermarket, picking up a quart of milk at my wife’s request. While in the diary aisle, I spotted a sale sign for a brand of cheese I like. The sign indicated the containers were two for five dollars. I only wanted one, and since the sign did not require that I buy two to get the sale price, the cheese would cost me $2.50.
I have a habit of never taking the first item on the shelf, so I had to move the front container to reach the one behind it. As I did so, I noticed the “sell by” date on the first container was three weeks before. Thus, the product’s shelf life had expired.
The container behind it was still fresh, so that’s the one I would be buying. However, since I felt it wasn’t right to leave the expired container on the shelf, I took it to the customer service desk and explained that it was past it’s “sell by” date. The clerk then handed me a coupon for $1 off my order, in effect reducing the cost of my cheese purchase to $1.50.
It seems the supermarket has a policy of giving a one dollar coupon if a customer finds an expired item for sale on the store’s shelves. They call it their freshness guarantee.
So my new hobby is to check a few expiration dates each time I shop.
It’s a game with better odds than the lottery.
I have a habit of never taking the first item on the shelf, so I had to move the front container to reach the one behind it. As I did so, I noticed the “sell by” date on the first container was three weeks before. Thus, the product’s shelf life had expired.
The container behind it was still fresh, so that’s the one I would be buying. However, since I felt it wasn’t right to leave the expired container on the shelf, I took it to the customer service desk and explained that it was past it’s “sell by” date. The clerk then handed me a coupon for $1 off my order, in effect reducing the cost of my cheese purchase to $1.50.
It seems the supermarket has a policy of giving a one dollar coupon if a customer finds an expired item for sale on the store’s shelves. They call it their freshness guarantee.
So my new hobby is to check a few expiration dates each time I shop.
It’s a game with better odds than the lottery.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Luck
I don’t buy lottery tickets anymore because I never seem to win. But I still participate in the lottery. Here’s how:
I have a tendency to pick up discarded lottery tickets, in the hopes of finding a winning ticket someone has lost or thrown away. Within the last year, I found two unused scratch-off tickets, one of which, when scratched, was a winner, albeit for only three dollars.
Another found ticket had been purchased for $20 by someone and the ticket gave the purchaser ten chances to find a winning poker hand of Jacks or better. The better the hand, the higher the prize. Apparently the purchaser was looking for a full house or straight flush for a big payoff and overlooked line seven, which contained two Jacks. I collected five dollars on that one.
When I find an unscratched lottery ticket, and it turns out to be a non-winner, it causes me to reflect on the definition of luck. Was it unlucky for the purchaser to lose the ticket and was it lucky for me to find it? In both instances the ticket was a loser, so if there was any luck involved, it was not good luck.
Whether I find any more winning tickets or not, at least I’ll be content with knowing they cost me nothing. And I benefit from the exercise of bending down to pick them up.
I get the same exercise benefit from stooping to pick up a coin, plus the added satisfaction of having real money in my pocket.
Beats joining a health club.
I have a tendency to pick up discarded lottery tickets, in the hopes of finding a winning ticket someone has lost or thrown away. Within the last year, I found two unused scratch-off tickets, one of which, when scratched, was a winner, albeit for only three dollars.
Another found ticket had been purchased for $20 by someone and the ticket gave the purchaser ten chances to find a winning poker hand of Jacks or better. The better the hand, the higher the prize. Apparently the purchaser was looking for a full house or straight flush for a big payoff and overlooked line seven, which contained two Jacks. I collected five dollars on that one.
When I find an unscratched lottery ticket, and it turns out to be a non-winner, it causes me to reflect on the definition of luck. Was it unlucky for the purchaser to lose the ticket and was it lucky for me to find it? In both instances the ticket was a loser, so if there was any luck involved, it was not good luck.
Whether I find any more winning tickets or not, at least I’ll be content with knowing they cost me nothing. And I benefit from the exercise of bending down to pick them up.
I get the same exercise benefit from stooping to pick up a coin, plus the added satisfaction of having real money in my pocket.
Beats joining a health club.
Language
Language, specifically the improper use of language, has always been a pet peeve of mine. Each time I hear a commercial say something like, “over 4 out of 5 doctors recommend…,” when they really mean “more than 4 of 5,” I cringe.
So, too, when I see written phrases, like, “every single person…,” when they mean “each person,” not just the single ones, I silently shout, “Say what you really mean.”
For a long time, the signs at the supermarket checkout which read something like, “12 items or less,” when they mean “12 items or fewer,” bothered me. Then, one day, I was in a Publix supermarket in Florida and saw their sign, which read something like, “12 items or fewer.” I was so pleased I wanted to shout, “Right on,” or maybe even “Write on.” Each time I saw the sign, it was like an antidote for all the incorrect signs in the other stores.
Just recently, a Stop and Shop supermarket opened in my town. To my delight, their signs say “fewer” rather than “less than.” There may not be many of us who care, or even notice, but for me at least, it’s one less thing to be upset about. And as someone once said, it’s the little things that count.
I learned long ago that you can’t change the world overnight. But each little step in the right direction is progress.
So, too, when I see written phrases, like, “every single person…,” when they mean “each person,” not just the single ones, I silently shout, “Say what you really mean.”
For a long time, the signs at the supermarket checkout which read something like, “12 items or less,” when they mean “12 items or fewer,” bothered me. Then, one day, I was in a Publix supermarket in Florida and saw their sign, which read something like, “12 items or fewer.” I was so pleased I wanted to shout, “Right on,” or maybe even “Write on.” Each time I saw the sign, it was like an antidote for all the incorrect signs in the other stores.
Just recently, a Stop and Shop supermarket opened in my town. To my delight, their signs say “fewer” rather than “less than.” There may not be many of us who care, or even notice, but for me at least, it’s one less thing to be upset about. And as someone once said, it’s the little things that count.
I learned long ago that you can’t change the world overnight. But each little step in the right direction is progress.
Odds
As I was reading the sports pages at breakfast the other morning, I noticed something unusual. On the page which contained the “betting odds” for the week’s sporting events, there was a list of odds for the 2012 presidential nominations. The list was divided in two columns: one for the Democrats and one for the Republicans.
What struck me, beside the fact that these odds were being published, was that the 2008 presidential winner hadn’t even been sworn in yet. And the odds themselves were a little strange. For example, the Republican favorite was Mitt Romney, at 5 to 1. This is understandable, even though we haven’t heard from him since he dropped out of the 2008 race. But next in line was Sarah Palin at 6 to 1. How anyone in their right mind could envision this woman at the top of the 2012 presidential ticket, let alone as the number two favorite, escapes me. I’d sooner vote for Tina Fey.
Naturally, the Democratic front runner was Barak Obama, who would be the incumbent. No surprise there. But down the list, at only 100 to 1, was Caroline Kennedy! Based on hearing her speak as she seeks the soon to be vacated junior senate seat in New York, I can’t imagine why these odds shouldn’t be more like 1,000,000 to 1. Her father may have evoked visions of Camelot, but after hearing her speak, I’m reminded more of Spamalot.
On another page of the newspaper, I learned that on Inauguration Day, the vice president is sworn in first. I never realized that. Seems like putting the cart before the horse to me. The only advantage I see with that process is that it gets Cheney out of the picture that much sooner.
What struck me, beside the fact that these odds were being published, was that the 2008 presidential winner hadn’t even been sworn in yet. And the odds themselves were a little strange. For example, the Republican favorite was Mitt Romney, at 5 to 1. This is understandable, even though we haven’t heard from him since he dropped out of the 2008 race. But next in line was Sarah Palin at 6 to 1. How anyone in their right mind could envision this woman at the top of the 2012 presidential ticket, let alone as the number two favorite, escapes me. I’d sooner vote for Tina Fey.
Naturally, the Democratic front runner was Barak Obama, who would be the incumbent. No surprise there. But down the list, at only 100 to 1, was Caroline Kennedy! Based on hearing her speak as she seeks the soon to be vacated junior senate seat in New York, I can’t imagine why these odds shouldn’t be more like 1,000,000 to 1. Her father may have evoked visions of Camelot, but after hearing her speak, I’m reminded more of Spamalot.
On another page of the newspaper, I learned that on Inauguration Day, the vice president is sworn in first. I never realized that. Seems like putting the cart before the horse to me. The only advantage I see with that process is that it gets Cheney out of the picture that much sooner.
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