Budweiser Going To The Dogs

This is an image taken from Budweiser's planned "Puppy Love" Super Bowl ad to air on Sunday, February, 2nd.

Research is showing that the gender gap of Super Bowl watchers has been narrowing over the years.  In 2012, of the 111 million American viewers of Super Bowl XLVI, 54 percent were male compared to 46 percent female.

So, it makes me wonder who Budweiser is trying to target.  Are rough and ornery football fans easily charmed by a puppy?  Or is this to tug at the heartstrings of the growing number of female watchers?  Or it is perhaps for the kids in the house who are watching the game with their guardian(s)?  I think it's very interesting to put such a sweet, charming ad during one of the roughest sporting matches of the year.

Personally, I love it.  Watch the video below:

Open Letter to Carol Burnett

Below is a copy of a letter I mailed to Carol Burnett about a week ago.  Further below is the response I received from Ms. Burnett on Saturday, February 9th.

Dear Ms. Burnett:

I must admit that I am quite surprised to be writing you at this stage of my life.  I would consider any kind of letter written to you today to be about 40 years late. You see, I idolized you as a boy and never missed The Carol Burnett Show.  Without fail, every Saturday night at 10 o’clock, I sat perched in front of the TV in my pajamas and laughed myself silly.  There was something about you that made me feel warm inside.  I wanted you to be my mother, my best friend, and – yes – even my wife.  I guess even a boy of 8 can dream.

But the reason I am writing this letter to you is not because of what you did for me as a child, but rather what you’ve apparently done for my father today.  You see, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s several years ago.  He’s 74 now and has digressed to the point of relying on my mother for constant care.  He still recognizes and knows his family, but everything else in my father’s past seems to have been forgotten.  At night, while sitting in my parents’ dining room, he tells my mother that he needs to go home.  Sometimes, he tells my mother that after dinner, they should go visit her mother.  But he does not remember that my grandmother died in 1987.  We’ll show him photos of places and people and he looks at them with blank stares.  We wonder what he’s thinking, probably as much as he wonders himself.

I was visiting my parents over the 2013 Thanksgiving holiday.  While my parents and I were watching TV in the living room, I channel surfed and came upon the broadcast of your receiving the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor at the Kennedy Center (congratulations, by the way!).  My father, who had been sitting quietly as usual, seemed to spring to life when your face appeared on the television.

“Ha!”, he laughed.  “My God, there’s your girlfriend.”  I sat dumbfounded for a second and could only mutter something like, “yeah, there she is”.  And then my dad looked at me and said, “Do you still love her like you used to?”  And I said, “Yeah, Dad, I still love her.”

My mother and I simply looked at each other in astonishment.  "Like you used to?"  This wonderful, sad man – whose life has completely slipped away from him, robbing him of sacred and treasured memories by the millions – remembered you; not because of what you meant to him, but because of  what you meant to his son.  "Like you used to?"  It was a moment I will never forget.  There’s no explaining how or why he’s been able to cling to this particular memory, but I thank God that he has.  How grateful I am to you.

I know you read your fan mail.  And I hope this eventually finds its way to you because you should know what you’ve given to me and my family.   I guess all I can say is thank you for being you.  And thank you for what you did for me as a child, and what you’ve done for me today.  May God forever bless you.

Now click HERE to read Ms. Burnett's response.

Facebook Ruins Friendships

Several times in my life, when I’ve found myself alone in new situations, I’ve selected a person from the crowd and told myself, “That is going to be my new best friend”.   Being naturally distrusting, I’ve always had a talent for being able to quickly size-up a person – a trait even my most recent supervisor was able to acknowledge.  “You read people exceptionally well,” she said.  It’s easy to remember this compliment, since compliments were actually few and far between from her.  But then, that’s why I loved working for her

Jeff and I met and became instant friends in 1989.  We met one night in a bar when I ran into Matt, an old high school chum, who introduced Jeff to me.  Having just broken up with my first boyfriend, I needed a new best friend.  And I decided right then and there that Jeff would be that person.  He was new to being out and this was actually his first night in a gay bar.  He knew nothing, so I saw myself as his new mentor.  When I had come out a few years earlier, there was no one to show me the way.  I knew no other gay men.  There was no internet.  So I set out by myself to observe, absorb and learn what I could, on my own.  For the first few years – at least in those days – being gay was all trial and error.  And it is only for the fact that I can “read people exceptionally well” that I am still here.

But where previous best friends had eventually gone by the wayside over the course of time, Jeff somehow remained in my life as a constant.  I couldn’t possibly count the number of hours spent in a vehicle driving back and forth from everywhere we went; countless trips to the only gay bar within 100 miles of our homes; driving 300 miles round trip just to be on a gay bowling league; several journeys to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware; two vacations to Disney World; not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars we spent on brunches, lunches, dinners and cocktails.  And when the time came for me to move 150 miles away, the unimaginable amount of time we spent on the telephone, talking a few times a week, waxing sentimental on days gone by and planning our next great adventure.

Over the course of one score+ years, Jeff was there with me through my college education, 5 boyfriends, 9 jobs, and 12 apartments across 5 cities – not to mention all the stuff that both goes along with and comes in-between.  I figured we would be best friends until one of us died.

And then we both joined Facebook.

The ruination of our friendship didn’t happen overnight.  And there were extenuating circumstances as well.  But I blame Facebook for showing me a side of Jeff that I had never seen in the 20 years I had known him.  About 6 years ago, Jeff went on complete disability from work, which gave him lots of time to sit at home and watch TV.  And his TV show of choice:  Fox News.  I could write thousands of words on why Fox News is not healthy for America, but millions have come before me already doing just that.   What I know is that Jeff is well-educated in what Fox News espouses.  I don’t have the time to sit and listen to the news all day, every day.  I know the topics, but not the minute details as Jeff knows them.

One of our last exchanges on Facebook took place 2 years ago.  It was during the winter that the Washington, DC area was crippled with several blizzards and snowstorms.   The exchange went something like this:

Jeff:  Well, what do all those global warming enthusiasts have to say NOW?

Me:  Actually, Jeff, global warming is expected to increase heavy precipitation in winter storms, and for the Northern Hemisphere, there is evidence that these storms are already more frequent and intense.

It can’t be freezing outside for months at a time and expect me to believe the globe is getting hotter.

Well think about it, Jeff.  Global warming affects the entire GLOBE.  So when it’s winter here, it’s summer someplace else.  And right now, there are record hot temperatures in Australia.

Well excuse me for having an opinion!

You can certainly have an opinion.  I’m just debating you with actual facts.

…

Hello?

There are a few people in my life who I love in person, and hate on Facebook.  When I mention this to other friends, their response is usually something like, “well isn’t it better to know the real person?”  But I have to wonder, then, who IS the real person?  Is it the person I laugh with, drink with, joke with in his company – or is it the person who posts “Obama is a foreign-born Muslim”?

I don’t shy away from confrontation.  I’ll confront a friend who posts “Sarah Palin for President” by telling him that supporting the Tea Party is essentially supporting an organization that wants to put me to death.  And I’ll confront the relative who posts “Mike Huckabee is my kind of people” after Huckabee posts that the cast of Duck Dynasty is just supporting good ol’ American family values.  And when a Christian posts that we should “keep Christ in Christmas”, I tell them that it might be better to start by “keeping Christ in Christian.”  I’ll do all this, but I shouldn’t have to.  And I didn’t have to before Facebook.

Since that exchange, Jeff and I have chatted briefly and even curtly, through Facebook; usually he is responding to a post from me just checking in on him.  But he never initiates a conversation.  And we haven’t spoken on the phone or seen each other since. In some way, I feel like I have failed Jeff.  When we met, he was a sheltered person who didn’t know anything about gay life and I think he looked to me as a guide.  And as time wore on, I think I continued to be the lead in for him on how life situations are handled, how to talk to people, how to get what you want.  And when I finally became so caught up in my own life, I left him on his own to figure things out.  And he did it through a source that I find troubling and surprising.

I wonder when my opinions no longer mattered to him.  I wonder when he decided to no longer trust my advice.  And I wonder how on earth we had even remained friends, let alone best friends, for over two decades if my presence in his life was so disposable.  I wonder . . . and it breaks my heart. 

And I have Facebook to “thank”.

Snowclones

I learned a new word today:  snowclone.  When I first heard it, I immediately pictured a snowcone.  But that's not correct. 

A snowclone is actually is a neologism for a type of cliche and phrasal template originally defined as "a multi-use, customizable, instantly recognizable, time-worn, quoted or misquoted phrase or sentence that can be used in an entirely open array of different variants".

An example of a snowclone is "Tupperware is the Cadillac of Food Storage", giving rise to the template "X is the Cadillac of Y".  X and Y may be replaced with different words or phrases—for example, "Behr is the Cadillac of paint."  And if you were a fan of the WKRP in Cincinnati: "Red wigglers, the Cadillac of worms!"

Orange Is the New Black is not only a great series on Netflix, it's also a snowclone.  There are hundreds of them, but here are other examples are:

• A few X short of a Y.
• Yes, Virginia, there is an X.
• This is your brain on X.
• My kingdom for a(n) X.
• There's no crying in X.
• X?  We don't need no stinking X.
• We're going to need a bigger X.
• Whatever Xs your Y.
   

The term snowclone has only been around for about 10 years.

Travel Manners: Gone, Baby. Gone.

On a recent flight, I noticed so much rude and self-important behavior, it made my blood boil.  Admittedly, it doesn't take much to set me off.  But when people - adults who should know better - are misbehaving, how will future generations act? 

First of all, boarding a plane should be the easiest thing in the world to do.  Everyone is given a boarding pass that clearly defines when it is your turn to board.  But there are folks out there who don't seem to think that this process pertains to them.  On a recent flight, a businessman (dressed in suit and talking on his phone) in boarding group 5 tried to board the plane with groups 2, 3, and 4, each time being told by the gate attendant that he would have to wait until his group was called.  He didn't seem phased.  He apparently thought himself too important to wait his turn.  I've seen this behavior on just about every flight I've been on recently.

When my flight landed at its destination, the passengers bum-rushed the cabin door.  It used to be, when disembarking from the plane, that everyone exited 1 row at a time:  all 6 passengers in Row 1, followed by the passengers in Row 2 and so on.  The flight was actually a bit early, so it wasn't like people needed to tight connections.  Again, people just don't think they should have to wait their turn.

And on every flight since 9/11, attendants inform passengers that it is illegal for them to congregate in the forward cabin; that if the restroom is occupied, to please stay seated until the room is free.  This request - or should I say regulation - doesn't seem to prevent people from doing just the opposite.  And every time, a flight attendant has to approach the passenger and ask them to take their seat and the passenger argues with the attendant, essentially until the restroom is available.

There was a time, not really all that long ago, when passengers would actually dress to fly.  By that, I mean men wore suits or at least jackets, and women wore dresses.  Today, some passenger look like they are in pajamas.  And carrying their pillows, no less.  When did a flight become a slumber party? This is not a place to stretch across seats or curl into a ball in your jammies.  Sit up like an adult and act accordingly.

And I know the concept is tricky to grasp because although we are INSIDE a plane, it also feels like we are OUTSIDE as well due to being in the air, but for all intents and purposes, please use your INSIDE voice when you speak.  And since we are in such a tight space, make it your SUPER QUIET INSIDE voice.  I shouldn't be able to hear your conversation over the din of the engines 3 rows back.

While you're at it, please choose the correct seating for your situation.  If you are one of those people who has to "go" every 30 minutes, please take the aisle seat.  And if the sunshine bothers you, please take the aisle seat.  I don't know why people who either constantly need to get up or pull the shade closed immediately upon sitting down chose a window seat.  Ludicrous.

I personally don't care what kind of hoops I have to jump through when it comes to security.  If it prevents a hijackers or bomb-enthusiast from boarding my plane, I am all for it.  It's the passengers who have ruined flying for me.

 

Fort Jefferson

A few weekends ago, Kevin and I took a trip down to Key West.  It was my first time driving through the keys and visiting the "southernmost point in the continental USA".  It's charming and picturesque.  And loaded with chickens.  But as lovely as Key West is, my ulterior motive for going there was to visit Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas.

Any Lincoln Assassination buff worth his salt will know that Fort Jefferson was the prison where 4 of the Conspirators were sent to initially serve life sentences due to their flimsy participation in both the assassination and/or the failed kidnapping plot that never actually occurred.  One of the conspirators actually died on the island of yellow fever.  Perhaps the most famous prisoner was convicted conspirator Dr. Samuel Mudd.

Visiting Fort Jefferson would culminate my passion for visiting every site and location that had anything to do with the assassination.  I've lost count of the number of times I've been to Ford's Theater and the Peterson House.  I've visited the Surratt Tavern and Dr. Mudd's House, and I've traveled the escape route several times.  I've even visited Tudor Hall, the boyhood home of John Wilkes Booth.  But the one place I never ever thought I would get to see was Fort Jefferson.

Set on a small island about 70 miles off the coast of Key West, the Fort must be accessed by either boat or plane.  For me, being there was something unimaginable.  To be in the same spaces and see the same views and feel the same walls - it's why history is so exciting for me.  And the assassination story and the people involved will never stop fascinating me.  It's a feeling like I described when I visited John Wilkes Booth cemetery plot this past summer:  that when I stood on his gravesite, despite him dying 101 years before I was born, I was now just 6 feet away from him.  That's what gives me goosebumps about history.

I could give you lots of details about Fort Jefferson and our visit, but I will direct you to my friend Dave's website, BoothieBarn.  I took some photos that he posted so that everyone with the same interest could enjoy.  However, I will post here the video that Kevin created for me.  This really means something to me.  It's haunting and lonely and desperate, which is how I imagine the Conspirators - or any prisoner sent to this desolate place - would feel.

Where is Christmas?

It’s one week 'til Christmas, and in Miami-town

The palm trees are swaying, there’s no snow around.

There are beaches and cruise ships, not snowflakes and slush.

Instead there are swimsuits with buttocks a-plush.

No English is spoken; it’s all Spanish here,

Or Portuguese or Haitian are heard by the ear.

At midnight, children are out on Lincoln Road

Not home in their beds in their parents’ abode.

With mama and her boob job and dad in his shades

Pretending they make as much bank as Dwyane Wade.

There are people in sweaters, but it's 80 degrees,

“Just ‘cause it’s December, you’re not going to freeze!”

A tea in Starbuck’s red cup just ain’t the same.

There’s no need for cocoa, it’d set me aflame!

Home on the balcony I step out to see lights

But sadly, there’s little to see in the night.

There’s nothing to wondering eyes that appear

No trees or candles or menorahs down here.

 Not much Christmas spirit is spied from above,

No running around in hat, coat, and glove.

No greetings from strangers you pass on the street,

No holiday wishes from people you meet,

Not even "Feliz Navidad" from a dude.

It’s Miami after all - everyone here's so rude.

It’s all so depressing, and just not the norm.

I miss hustle and bustle - the whole Christmas storm.

It just isn’t “home” as I feel “home” should be,

It just isn’t Christmas, here in ol’ Miami.

And just when I think I can’t take anymore

I hear the sweet sound of someone at the door.

I listen to hear a brass key in the lock -

My "Bun" coming home from work at six o’clock!

He greets me with kisses (there’s never enough)

And I realize I don’t need all that other stuff.

'Cause Christmas is more than just lights on a tree,

It’s there with whomever you make family.

And I suddenly feel all warmed-up inside

Because he is my "home" - he’s where Christmas resides.

He’s my lights, my carols, my garland, my tree

All wrapped up so sweetly, and all just for me.

So whether it's hot or cold outside the door,

It’s always a “home Christmas”, with the man I adore. 

Merry Christmas, Everyone!!

Happy Birthday, Granny!

Had she lived, my maternal grandmother would be 104 years old tomorrow, December 14th.  She died in 1987 at the age of 77, and I've spent the last 36 years hoping that I've made her proud.  My mind is full of what-ifs.

When I was a boy, I spent just about every weekend with her at her house, usually just the two of us.  I'd watch TV and she would sit in her big recliner and read or crochet.  I still have the hat she made for me when I was 10.  It was during the country's 1976 bicentennial, so she made it red, white and blue.  On really cold days in Chicago, I'd still wear it.  Nothing kept me as warm.

I carry her spirit with me every day.  She was my hero and my champion.  And especially every December 14th, I miss the woman I loved so much.

Melted Plastic Popcorn

The melted plastic popcorn decorations were popular in the late 1960's through the 1970's and are enjoying a kitschy-cool comeback as vintage collectibles on Ebay and Etsy. Original pieces were made by The Kage Company, Inc., a plastic fabricating company in Hartford, CT.  The Kage Company went out of business in the mid 1970s and finding information on them is very difficult. Fortunately, it is still very easy to find your favorite pieces online from individual sellers.

They're called melted popcorn plastic decorations because they look like melted plastic shaped like popcorn. Older decorations, circa 1960, have edges that are not as flat and smooth as a newer melted plastic popcorn decoration.

Melted plastic popcorn decorations can been found in many shapes for the holidays. There are melted plastic popcorn decorations for all the holidays: Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Valentines and even melted popcorn decorations just for the fun of it. Snoopy, Tweety, The Road Runner, Pink Panther and Betty Boop have been immortalized in vintage melted popcorn plastic. A complete list of ALL the melted plastic popcorn items seems to be unattainable.  The prices range depending on the rarity of the plastic holiday decoration. They are designed to hang flat on a wall or door and the sturdy plastic stands up to tough weather conditions.

I grew up in a melted plastic popcorn home.  Every Christmas season, these decorations hung in our windows, including Santa Claus (both in a sleigh and standing with a tree, as seen above), Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer, a few snowmen in different poses, and Christmas trees.  It would not have seemed like Christmas without these cheerful decorations (also the window clings that went in the bathroom window every year.  My mom doesn't do anything in the house without knowing how it will affect Christmas decorating).

Mom also had pilgrims and a turkey in our front windows every Thanksgiving.  I loved them so much, that my mom gave them to me when I moved to Chicago, ostensibly so I could feel closer to home.  It meant all the more to me knowing how much she treasured them.

Since then, I've obtained several ghosts, witches and black cats for Halloween, a few red hearts for Valentine's day, and even a flag that I can use for Memorial, Independence, and Veteran's Days.  While not quite an obsession, I do love these things.  I'll probably collect more along the way.  You can never have too much popcorn.

William Amos Troutman

The search to fill in the branches of my family tree began in 2002 with the discovery of this photo:

This was all I had to go on; there is no date on the photo, but there is an engraving in the matte that states the photo was taken by E.E. Conrad, the leading photographer of his day in Meyersdale, PA.  Upon discovering the photo, my mind boggled.  Who was this dashing man with the very familiar eyes?  Where did he live?  What did he do?  What was his story?  In an almost obsessive state, I set out to try to find the answers to these questions.

My father's genealogical history was murky. I've discussed it before on here.  Most of the older generations passed away while my dad was still young.  He mostly only knew nicknames of people, not their legal names.  And their relationships to each other were incestuous at best.  By that, I mean that there were two families that intermarried several times down the line, where the siblings of one family married siblings in another family.  This was not an altogether unusual practice in the 19th and early 20th centuries, especially in small, rural/farming communities.  The pickings might be unfortunately slim; your nearest neighbor might live a mile away; your schoolhouse might have 10 kids ranging in ages 6 to 14, five of whom are your own siblings.

But after more than a dozen years researching both my parents' respective family trees, pouring over census records, visiting cemeteries, connecting with genealogists, researching ancestry websites, and submitting for copies of birth/death/marriage certificates, I have successfully researched the trees back 14 generations.  The farthest person I have found is Collin McKenzie, born in Cromarty, Scotland in 1630.  Oddly enough, both my father and mother's lines descend from this man and his wife, Isobel.  But that's another blog to be written later.  

Out of the 14 generations, I place William Amos Troutman in the 6th generation (our new two great-nephews are the 1st). The first thing I learned about William was that I couldn't find any information on his parents or siblings.  There is no birth certificate on record for him.  So it took reading several censuses and obtaining a copy of his death certificate to put it all together.

Amos Troutman and Mary Rickard (or Richard or Reichard) had a tryst in 1876, with William being the illegitimate outcome.  I know Amos and Mary didn't get married because Amos is listed on the 1880 Census as being single and living at home in Southampton, PA. The 1880 Census also states Mary, still listed with her maiden name, as living with her parents, Jacob and Mahala Rickard, in Larimer Township, PA.  Also in the Rickard household was a 4 year-old William. It would seem that William was born out of wedlock in 1876 when Mary was 18 and Amos was 20. 

What is also interesting is that they (or she) named the baby William Amos Troutman.  The name "William" is prevalent in Amos' family line:  his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all named William.  Therefore, baby William Amos was named after his father and grandfathers.  I find this odd since the couple didn't marry.  The romantic in me wants to think that Amos and Mary wanted to or perhaps planned to marry but were forbade.  Although the realist in me believes Amos didn't want to marry Mary and she named the baby after his father and grandfathers out of spite. 

(It's important to note here that also living in the Jacob Richard household was a 1 year-old boy named Harvey Deal, who like William, is listed as Jacob's grandson in the 1880 Census.  It would appear that Harvey was the son of Mary and some other young man, perhaps with the same name as the boy.  We can deduce that Mary got around.)

At this point, Mary disappears from the history books.  Amos goes on to marry Isabel "Belle" Bluebaugh in 1882.  They had 9 children together.  I have no information as to whether William and Amos ever stayed in touch or if William even knew his half-siblings.  They all remained living in Somerset County in PA, however.

I am guessing the photo of William above was taken around 1900 when William was 24.  I can't think of a reason why he had the photo taken as he was not a professional.  As there was no national census between 1880 and 1910, I can only assume he was a laborer all his life.  He could neither read nor write, except for signing his name.

Some more information on William:

• 1908 - Married Cecelia Agnes Winebrenner on January 28th.  She was from Mt. Savage, MD.  I'm curious what brought William to MD to find a bride, not to mention one so young.  On their wedding day, William was 31 and Cecelia was 16.  They shared their wedding date with her father, John E. Winebrenner, and his second wife, Julia.  A photo of the big event is below, with William and Cecelia on the left.  Everyone looks so happy, don't they?

• 1910 - William and Cecelia were living in Mt. Savage, MD, along with her brother James Winebrenner, listed as a boarder in the household.  At this point, William was a laborer with the County Roads Department.

• 1918 - William, at the age of 42, was issued his WWI draft card.  He was not activated  to service. 

• 1920 - William and Cecelia were living in Frostburg, MD, along with 3 of their children, Mary, John (my grandfather), and Frances.  At this point, William was working as a coal miner.

• 1930 - William and Cecelia were living in Larimer Township (William's hometown) in a house he bought for $250.  John and Frances were still living at home.  William was working as a trackman with the railroad.

William Amos died on August 26, 1937, at the age of 61 - two years before my father, his first grandchild, was born.  According to his death certificate, William died as a result of carcinomatosis (cancer in his stomach, liver, and lungs).  Cecelia was 45 years-old when William died and would remarry.  Contrary to what is written in William's obituary, he was not a lifelong resident of Somerset County.

Per the obit, William is buried in White Oak Church cemetery in Larimer, PA, sharing a tombstone with two of his children, Anna Marie and Alverta - both of whom were complete surprises to Dad, Mom, and my sister when we visited the cemetery for the first time in 2005. 

Planet of the Apes

As a kid, "Planet of the Apes" was my introduction to fanaticism (a few years before Lincoln, even).  I don't remember when I first saw the films, as I was only 2 when the original movie aired in 1968, with the 4 sequels to follow annually beginning in 1970.  But somewhere in my youth, before the TV series began in 1974, POTA appeared before my eyes.  And I was a changed boy because of it.

Let me first admit here that I am not really into science fiction; I'm a history buff.  I like knowing that the people who interest me really did walk the earth, that events really happened, and that places really existed.  I like "Star Wars" as much as the next guy, but my dorkdom is firmly rooted in non-fiction.  So looking back and knowing what I know about myself, I have to wonder what it was about POTA that flicked a little switch for me.

In any event, I was hooked.  I had the POTA Hallowe'en costume, lunchbox, trading cards, several posters, action figures, treehouse set, records, board game, coloring book, and probably much more stuff that I've forgotten about.  I. Couldn't. Get. Enough.

There were some things about POTA that I knew I did not like, even as a kid of, say, 8 years old: 

1. I didn't like Charlton Heston at all.  I liked his character, Taylor, okay but I didn't like the actor (I've always been a critic).  To me, he always looked thirsty.  I dunno, it was a just a feeling I had as a kid; a feeling validated when Heston became an outspoken proponent of the NRA.  ("..from my cold dead hands," indeed.)
2. I initially didn't like "Beneath the Planet of the Apes", the franchise's second movie.  As a kid, I guess I didn't really understand it, what with mutated humans, the bomb and all.  But as an adult, I've come to understand it.
3. It took me several years to realize that the chimp babies were switched in "Escape from the Planet of the Apes".  Like, maybe, 30 years.  It wasn't shown; the viewer had to draw a conclusion.  (I never said I was quick.)
4. Most recently, I have not been a fan of the new POTA movies.  I was very eager to see the Tim Burton remake in 2001, but was left disappointed.  As a result, I've not seen the other two which followed.

When the POTA series aired for one season in 1974, I watched it every Friday night from my favorite place on earth, my grandmother's house.  This was a big deal because the show was on CBS and she almost never turned the channel from NBC.  It helps to be the favorite.

And today, my devotion remains intact if not more sedate.  I now own the box set of the original 5 movies, and Kevin created a piece of art using Cornelius (a main protagonist) as the centerpiece.  And while POTA has not been as consuming as Mr. Lincoln, it has gone where no other SciFi has gone before in my life.  So much so, that even today, I can remember Cornelius's recitation of the 23rd Scroll at the end of the original film:

"Beware the beast man, for he is the devil's pawn. Alone among God's primates, he kills for sport, or lust or greed. Yes, he will murder his brother to possess his brother's land. Let him not breed in great numbers, for he will make a desert of his home and yours. Shun him. Drive him back into his jungle lair: For he is the harbinger of death."

The Time I Was In An Off-Broadway Play

My senior year in college, I got a call from the head of my university's theater department, Mr. Herman, who asked me if I would be interested in performing in a visiting play called "Johnny Got His Gun", based on the book by Dalton Trumbo.  The cast was largely made up of alumni visiting from NYC; the person playing my character could not make the trip.  The play would run for 3 performances.

I was a bit astounded by the request.  I was an English major in college.  And while all of my friends were in the theater program (I dated a music theater major) and I had been cast in a few productions, I was somewhat shocked that Mr. Herman was bypassing ALL of his theater students to pluck me for the role.  I could only figure that all the other students who could play this part were actually busy in other productions and either didn't have the time or couldn't be spared.  Nevertheless, I said yes.  These were the days when I was young and brave and would try just about anything.  Ah, youth.

When the time came, I met the cast and had just three days to learn my part.  The entire cast had to relearn the staging since we were performing the production in the studio theater, a black-box theater much smaller than where the play was performed in NYC.  My part was simple enough (about 20 lines throughout the course of the play) but was physically challenging.  Set during World War I, the play was narrated by a soldier horribly disfigured during battle.  My character was a dual role, "Sergeant/Jesus".  I opened the play by carrying a practically dead soldier (both of us in full, authentic WW1 war gear) up a flight of 10 or 11 steps, pause for dramatic effect while bombs exploded behind me (silhouetted for dramatic effect), then traverse around several obstacles on varying levels of risers to the other side of the stage where I then lay the body down on an wooden "army cot".

My costume.

Carrying the man (who was about 5'10", 170) in my arms across stage was one thing; carrying him as dead weight while he was in full fatigues and covered in a heavy wool blanket (and I was in full uniform and wearing a heavy wool coat) was quite another.  During the 6th rehearsal of the opening scene, my legs turned to jello.  As I moved to lay the soldier in the cot, I lost my balance and basically just dropped him onto it, practically falling on him in the process.  The director loved the look of that so much, he told me to keep it in for the performances.  (Whaddya know, I'm a 'method actor'.)

I don't remember any of my lines except for one:  every time a bell rang I was to place my hand on a specific soldier and firmly but compassionately say, "It's time." (that was the Jesus side of my character).  Just two words, but they were the hardest to say.  I couldn't get the emotion correct.  The director tried several line readings with me and I just could not emote what needed to be conveyed.  I either underplayed it or over-emoted.  At one point following me saying "it's time", he looked at me and drolly said, "That was more William Shatner than Jesus."  Oof.

I said the line differently in all 3 performances.  Sorry, but this is what you get when you go outside the theater department for actors.  I was not an actor.  I sucked and I knew it.  And all of my theater friends who came to see 1 of the 3 performances knew it too.  I wanted to be SO GOOD, but/and I knew I wasn't.  However, my mom and my sister, who came to see the final performance and thought I was amazing (that's what moms and sisters do, right?).  But I carried the hell out of that soldier across stage.

A few months later, I auditioned for Mr. Herman for the upcoming summer stock shows.  And although he cast me the year before, he didn't this time.  Can't say I blame him.  Still, it was an overall great experience.  And if i were to undertake such a task today, I'm sure I could do a better job.  But being in that scenario, surrounded by the most talented people I knew and being judged by their criteria, I choked.  My friends were kind and sweet, but we all knew.

This essentially ended my theater career.  And I thank God for it. 

My First Job: McDonald's

It's not that I am embarrassed about my first job; it's that I was actually so bad at it that I came within days of actually getting fired.

It was a job that I think most people would believe to be fairly straightforward and simple: working at McDonald's.  Sitting adjacent to my high school, McDonald's was a popular place, especially following high school events like football games and concerts.

I'd just turned 18 and got the job of working the grill in my hometown restaurant.  I'm not sure how restaurants are run today, but in those days (the mid 80s), you either worked the registers or the grill.  Working on the grill meant that those working the registers would bark orders back to you about what to make, how much to make, and how many items required cheese.  There were beepers going off all the time and there was always something that needed to be pulled out of a grease vat someplace.  You were constantly stocking supplies, washing dishes, and mopping up the slippery floor so you didn't lose your footing and fall into grime.  It was usually you and just one other person for a 4-, 5-, 6-, or longer-hour shift.  Job training was trial-by-fire, and let's just say I was burning up.

I was neither sure what I was doing wrong, nor how to correct it.  There was a definite rhythm needed to flow through all the procedures, but I just didn't have it.  Nor, apparently, could I obtain it.  And it seemed that after 4 months of this, my days were numbered.

One of the assistant managers, Chris, suggested moving me to the registers as a last-ditch effort.  The general manager, Bob, originally said no - he was ready to fire me.  Chris asked for two weeks "just to see"; that it would take that long to train a new person anyway.  Bob reluctantly agreed and I was moved out front.  The change in my performance was immediate.

Within days, I was controlling product, directing other crew members, assigning tasks, and taking orders.  I had no idea of it at the time, but it was this transition that taught me that my career would be based on managing and developing people.  What was originally done as a last-ditch effort ended up defining my eventual occupation.  This job taught me to quickly recognize strengths, assess abilities, delegate responsibilities, and listen to needs.

You wouldn't necessarily think that serving burgers at McDonald's could teach these skills.  But it's all about getting out what you put in.  Training and development is always there; sometimes you have to look for it or even create it yourself.

One month after this change, I was given my first achievement award in my career: Crew Member of the Month for September 1984.  I still have the plaque to remind me to never give up.  My mantra has always been, "They'll just have to fire me if I am not doing well; I refuse to quit."   I was lucky that Chris recognized my potential.  And that's what I continue to try to do in my management career.

When October Goes

"And when October goes
The snow begins to fly
Above the smokey roofs
I watch the planes go by,
The children running home
Beneath a twilight sky.
Oh, for the fun of them
When I was one of them.

"And when October goes
The same old dream appears
And you are in my arms
To share the happy years.
I turn my head away
To hide the helpless tears.
Oh, how I hate to see October go.

"And when October goes
The same old dream appears
And you are in my arms
To share the happy years.
I turn my head away
To hide the helpless tears.
Oh, how I hate to see October go.

"I should be over it now I know.
It doesn't matter much
How old I grow.
I hate to see October go."

Hallowe'en 2013

Oplusion

It came to me in a dream.  Quite literally.

The other morning I woke up and told Kevin that I think I have created a new word.  After rolling his eyes, he looked at me and drolly asked, "what's the word?"  And I blurted it out like the way a 50 year old woman yells out her first wedding vows.  The word is oplusion.

Oh-PLOO'-zhun.

I jumped out of bed to write down the word and its definition: "the measurable depth of any surface in which a hole has been made."  Here is a visual:

The thing is, I don't know if a word already exists for this.  It's not another word for the hole, but the sides of the hole that measure the thickness or depth of the hole.  I'm not an architect, designer or contractor so its possible this has a name already.  So I went to a good source, Kevin's dad, to find out if there was a word already.  Kevin's father is a retired VP of a cabinet company.  He said there is no such thing.

But since not, then have I just created something?

Bob Evans' Weirdness

Several years ago while visiting my parents, the three of us grabbed an easy dinner at their local Bob Evans' restaurant.  About halfway through our meal, the folks at the table next to us finished and left.  They consisted of a couple appearing to be in their early 70s (he with a cane and she in a wheelchair) and their daughter who appeared to be in her early to mid 50s.

So Dad, Mom and I finished up about 20 minutes later and as we exited the restaurant, we were somewhat surprised by what we saw.  A van was pulled up close to the entrance with its side door open.  The old man with the cane was sitting on a bench near the restaurant door, the old woman was by the van laying on the ground on her back, and the daughter (now sweating and looking exhausted) was leaning against the passenger seat in the van.  No one said anything to us as we approached the scene, but my dad had to stop to see if everything was okay.

Through her huffing and puffing, the daughter admitted that she just couldn't get her mother into the van.  Apparently after several attempts, the daughter had given up trying to get her mother from the wheelchair into the back of the van.  Neither of them were in the best of shape to start with.  And the old man seemed fairly frail so I doubt he was any help.  So Dad asked if we (he and I) could help in any way.  The daughter basically threw her hands up in the air and said, "Well if you can get her in the van that'd be helpful".

After rolling my eyes at my dad (the way I always did when he happily volunteered me to get involved in a situation I wanted to avoid completely), I drolly looked at him and said (while heaving a labored sigh), "Okay how do you want to handle this?"  While Dad and I took a second to discuss what to do (and my mom took the time to remind my dad that he was too old to do what he was about to attempt), the daughter lets out this gem: "You can just grab her by the harness and pull her up into the van".

Grab. Her. By. The. Harness.

Dad and I shot each other a look.  I looked over at my mom and she gave me her best WTF expression.  As much as I wanted to know why there was a harness on this old woman, I chose not to ask.  I just wanted to do what I had been volunteered to do and get out of there.  And let me tell you, there was no way in hell I was going to grab an old woman by a harness and lift her anyplace!

After Dad and I visually agreed we would not follow that procedure, we decided that Dad would help me lift her off the ground, then shift all of her weight into my arms and I would put her in the seat while Dad helped guide me in.  And that's what we did.   When we picked up the woman, I could feet the harness apparatus.  It felt more like a life preserver.  I guess it was something the daughter made the mother wear so she could more easily maneuver her around when necessary.

So after the woman was safely in her seat, we got a simple thank you from the daughter (neither the old man or woman said anything through the entire ordeal) and assumed she could take it from there.  When Mom, Dad and I got back to our own car, we started talking about the situation and asking each other the questions that we would never be able to answer:  "What the hell had just happened?", "How long was the woman laying there?", "Would the daughter have asked us for help if we hadn't volunteered?"  The list went on and on, each question adding more incredulity to the situation.

But I also left that situation with a clear answer to an unasked question:  my parents are genuinely nice people who want to help when they see someone in need.  While I would have been completely content just walking by and not getting involved, Mom and Dad saw that something wasn't right and offered to help in any way.  This is but one of the millions of reasons that my parents are my heroes.  They have always given what they could to help whomever they could.  And in this situation, they knew exactly when to leave just in case someone might have been embarrassed by the situation, including one of us.  I was proud of them and even felt better about myself for helping out.

But I still made them buy me a Peanut Buster Parfait at the Dairy Queen on the ride home.

Ebony, Ivory & Jade

Way before McCartney and Jackson's "Ebony and Ivory", there was "Ebony, Ivory & Jade", a 1979 movie starring Bert Convy as Mick Jade, a former tennis bum-turned-Las Vegas song-and-dance man, who doubles as a private eye with two female dancers, Ebony and Ivory (Debbie Allen and Martha Smith) in which the trio go undercover to protect a lady scientist from international hit-men as she heads for Washington D.C. from the Middle East with her super-secret formulas.  Check out the intro and first few minutes.  The music is classic 70's super funk.  Hoping to build on the Charlie's Angels phenomenon, the movie didn't quite live up to expectations so no series was created.

But the really BIG shame is that this cheesy Spelling/Goldberg T&A wannabe is a knockoff of a pretty damn funky blaxploitation film of the same name that premiered 3 years earlier in 1976.  Only this time, the namesakes are three kidnapped lady athletes.  Ebony and Ivory are African American and Caucasian women, and Jade is Asian - kinda make more sense.  As the poster says, they are "3 Foxy Mama's" who "can lick any man ever made!"  'Nuff said there.

Here's a sampling of what we all missed. Seems like the black chick is the one who is doing all the work.  And you just know she throw some major shade as a result.