Fictional Characters Whose Names You Don't Know

I read all this on mental_floss and thought it would be fun trivia to know.  So I am sharing with you to impress your friends and family.  Here are the names of several fictional characters Enjoy! 

 

Food:

All right, lets start with the most logical place, breakfast. The Pillsbury Doughboy's name is Poppin Fresh, first name Poppin, last name Fresh. Everyone knows that, right?  But you probably should also know that he has a wife, Poppy fresh, and two kids; Popper and Bun Bun Fresh (one of my favorites). His cat and dog are named Biscuit and Flap Jack.

That guy smirking at you from the oatmeal cannister is not William Penn; the good people at Quaker Oats refer to him as Larry. In 2012, Larry got a mini-makeover. His hair was trimmed, he lost a little weight, and Quaker says he acquired "more radiant skin from his daily oatmeal mask".

Before he was a distinguished captain of the S.S. Guppy, the good Captain Crunch was Horatio Magellan Crunch.

Thanks to a marketing campaign in 2009, Mrs. Butterworth was finally given a first name; please call her Joy in all future correspondence.

In 1916, 14-year-old Antonio Gentille entered Planter's Peanuts contest to create a mascot. His winning entry was a version of the dapper Mr. Peanut we all know and love today. And he also suggested the name, Bartholomew Richard Fitzgerald-Smythe.

Products:
Those fortunate enough to be on a first name basis with Mr. Clean call him Veritably. That's right, Veritably Clean. The name comes from a "Give Mr. Clean a First Name" promotion in 1962.

The Michelin Man's real name, Bibendum, means "drinking to be done" in Latin, and people used to refer to him as the Road Drunkard. The name comes from a bizarre, early advertisement, that showed the Michelin Man holding a questionable cocktail of nails and broken glass, with the tagline, "Michelin Tires: Drink up obstacles!"

Mr. Whipple, the poor grocer who so desperately wanted his customers to leave the Charmin alone, did have a first name: George.

So, did you know that the friendly little bird over on Twitter goes by the name Larry? Larry Bird.  Yeesh. 

Toys:
Before he was simply Geoffrey, the Toys R Us mascot was known as Dr. G. Raffe. Boo.

The next time you land on the 'go directly to jail' spot on Monopoly, direct your disgruntlement at Officer Edgar Mallory, the cop who inhabits that space.  And while you're hanging out in jail, feel free to chat up Jake the Jailbird, who's been serving time since 1933.  And when you get that unexpected ten dollar windfall for coming in second place in a beauty pageant, you need to thank Rich Uncle Pennybags. Rich Uncle Pennybags used to have a wife whose name was Marge, but you know how repeated bankruptcies can affect a marriage.  Don't worry, I'm sure she got Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues.

Barbara Millicent Roberts, better known as Barbie, was named for creator Ruth Handler's daughter, so that must have been great for Barbara's body image. And here's the rub: Barbie's long time love and fellow fashionisto is named Ken Carson, and is ALSO named after Handler's offspring. That's right, the real Barbie and Ken are siblings!  Eeww.

The perpetual patient in the game Operation is an unfortunate fellow named Cavity Sam.

Movies:
According to Toy Story 3 director Lee Unrick, Woody from Toy Story has a last name, Pride.

Minch Yoda, at least according to George Lucas' earliest notes.  I'm sure he took some good-natured ribbing back in his Jedi training days.

For most of us, the evil queen from Snow White has always been known as "the scary lady from the Disney World ride." Her occupation was her name, which was scary enough.  Simply mention Evil Queen and everyone thinks of this woman, or perhaps Leona Helmsley.  But early promotions for Walt Disney's first feature length animation film referred to the world's worst stepmother as Queen Grimhilda.  I don't know - if I was a king looking for a new queen and came across a woman named Grimhilda, I would get a serious case of foreshadowing.  Marrying a woman who has the word "grim" in her name couldn't possibly lead to the happiest of marriages.

Comics:
In a Peanuts comic strip, Peppermint Patty's real name is Patricia Reichardt.  And Linus' annoying teacher, who sounded suspiciously like a muted trumpet, Miss Othmar, who later got married and became Mrs. Hagameir.

Now, over to Archie comics. Of course, Jughead's parents didn't name him Jughead. They named him a much better name, Forsythe P. Jones III.

And on the subject of comics, Comic Book Guy on The Simpsons is really named Jeff Albertson.  Creator Matt Groening wanted to call him Louis Lane. This seques nicely into...

Television:

Big bird's friend Snuffaluppagus has a first name, Alouicious. Alouicious Snuffaluppagus.  Speaking of Sesame Street, in a 2004 episode Cookie Monster admitted that before he got hooked on cookies, his name was Sid. You know Guy Smiley, from Sesame Street? Yeah, his real name was Bernie Liederkrantz. 

Dana Carvey's judgemental, lips-pursing, holier-than-thou church lady, has a name: Enid Strict.

If you go by the 1995 Casper movie, Casper's family name is McFadden.

Although Shaggy probably fits him better, the frightened ghost hunter's real name is Norville Rogers.  Scooby has a more proper name as well, Scoobert Doo.  The rest of the gang is made up of Frederick Jones, Jr., Daphne Blake, and Velma Dinkley.

And from Gilligan's Island, the full names we don't know are Jonas Grumby, better known as Skipper, Roy Hinkley is the Professor's real name, Mary Ann's last name is Summers, and Gilligan's full name is William "Willie" Gilligan.  Along with Ginger Grant, Thurston Howell III, and Lovie Howell, you can now invite them all to dinner and use proper place cards.

Other television names:
Angus MacGyver
Salvatore Assante, aka Turtle from Entourage
Wilson W. Wilson Jr. from Home Improvement
Aristotle Nostradamus Shannon, aka Bull from Night Court 

And just one more thing, Columbo. On his police badge, Lt. Columbo's name was Frank, but many sources will tell you that his name is Philip. However, that's not true. It's a copyright trap that first appeared in the book The Trivia Encyclopedia. When Trivial Pursuit later included a question with the incorrect answer, the author of The Trivia Encyclopedia knew that they had used information from his book, and so he sued. But then the court ruled in favor of Trivial Pursuit, saying that facts, even false ones, cannot be copyrighted...

which is good news for me.

PhD in Organization

I have a special talent that everyone needs, but not many people possess.  I am an organizer - not of people, but of things.  I love putting items where they ought to/should be.  I get some kind of endorphin rush when I have organized a space, files, storage, etc.  I wouldn't necessarily call myself a "neat freak", but I do live by the mantra that everything has its place.  A few examples:

• Every photo I own is scanned and stored on a drive, organized by year, then month, then event.
• I've kept a personal calendar since 1982, all of which are scanned onto a drive.
• The clothes in my closet hang in ROYGBIV order.
• My bed is made every day.
• I have a metal muck box (Kevin calls it my "cube of importance") in which all my important papers are kept.

I believe that disorganization is the physical manifestation of one's mental and emotional states, a reflection of where one is in life.

I know this is a skill for which some people pay handsomely.  I should start farming myself out to friends who lack this skill.  I know one friend in particular who could REALLY use help.  I wonder what professional organizers get paid?

Holiday Bonuses

So, I've been holding on to this one for a few months to see if my mind would change.  But not so, as I am still annoyed.  Again.

Back in December, I received the following in an email from the management in our condo building:

Dear Residents: During these beautiful holidays, and a time for caring and sharing, it is also a time for (building) employee appreciation. For your convenience, the BOD has placed a donation box at the front desk to show gratitude to employees of the (building) community. We must thank our employees for assisting in maintaining and beautifying your home and ours. We wish you a wonderful holiday and the happiest of new years.

Thank you, BOD and Management.

First of all, I find this extremely presumptuous. Secondly, it just feels wrong. But more importantly, it is the responsibility of the building management to dole out holiday bonuses to ITS employees. These folks work in a hospitality industry. It's their job, literally, to provide excellent customer service. This email would be the equivalent to me sending an email to the staff of my company letting them know I am putting a bowl on my desk for their "monetary thank yous", you know, since I helped them out all year. In other words, doing my job.

I liken this to be the business/professional side of tip jars that are placed in coffee shops and small stores.  And we know how I feel about that.

The staff is nice enough here and the place is clean for the most part, except for the pool deck which had a Michelob bottle cap sitting in the same location for two months. Of course neither liquor nor glass are to be at the pool in the first place, according to the building rules. Which I follow. Perhaps I should put out my OWN donation box for following all the rules and being an ideal tenant.

This is the first time we've lived in a concierge building, so I am wondering if this is usual. In Chicago, we didn't have a concierge, but we did have a cleaning service that cleaned the common areas once a week. There was never a request on their behalf from the building management for holiday donations. 

So can you see why I think this is out of line?

Actresses Who Annoy Me

I am super excited that Cate Blanchett won the Best Actress Oscar on Sunday night.  I've loved her since I first saw her in Elizabeth in 1998.  She's always good and she seems like a fun and nice person as well - someone with whom I would like to be friends.  On the flip, there are a few actresses in the biz who, for various reasons, just annoy the hell outta me. In no particular order, they are:

1. Maggie Gyllenhaal
2. Julianne Moore
3. Zooey Deschanel
4. Kristen Stewart
5. Julia Roberts

I've written about Maggie on my blog already.  And despite that post being more than 5 years old, my opinion has remained the same.  So moving on.  These are just my perceptions.

Julianne is just awkward.  She's got the worst posture I've ever seen on an actress, her laugh always seems fake, and her mouth always looks like she needs a glass of water.  She looks dry.  And she seems to pick roles that portray her as an offbeat underdog for whom we are supposed to root and sympathize.  Her characters are usually whiny and helpless and I can't help but think she's like that in real life.  And c'mon, her acting on "30 Rock" was atrocious.

Zooey - oh God, Zooey - where do I start?  The girl has two expressions:  1) blank stare and 2) blank stare with wider eyes.  That's it.  When you've seen those two expressions, you've just witnessed Zooey's entire emotional range.  She doesn't even try.  And I can say the same for her singing, if we can call it that.  It sounds like she's still laying in bed with a mic on her pillow and she just staring at the ceiling, getting through it.  And the Siri commercial where she's looking at the rain and asks her phone if it's going to rain today?  Wake up and brush your bangs!  "Siri, are there any signs of active brainwaves?"

Kristen.  Kristen.  Kristen.  She's on the same plane as Zooey but on the opposite end.  While Zooey seems to live more on the positive side of life (rainbows, fluffy clouds, unicorns, what?), Kristen always looks like the guy in front of her just farted.  Her big go-to pose of vulnerability is acting like she's cold or shivering while she tucks her hair behind her ear.  I feel like if I met her, I would catch myself whispering to her because she always looks like either she's suffering a hangover or we just intruded on her nap - regardless of the time of day.  And her poetry sucks.

Joooolia.  Beyond all those teeth, that fake laugh (I mean did you see her overreact in the Oscar audience on Sunday night?), and her holier-than-thou attitude lurks a condescending she-devil (I know people who have worked with her).  She seems like a mean girl who would gather her friends around her at a party to deliberately let you know that she is leaving you out.  Her acting is never above so-so.  She only won an Oscar because the other 4 actresses that year (all amazing!) decided to tell the Academy to screw itself.  Or something.  There's really no other explanation.

This list will continue to grow over time.  I'll probably write an update in another 5 years or so.  But who do I actually like, you ask, other than Cate?

Meryl, of course.  Duh.

Miami, On The Whole, Is Inefficient

We moved to Miami from Chicago in June 2013.  It's been an adventure, for sure.  There's so much to talk about I could probably start a whole new blog just devoted to life in the "The Sexiest Place On The Planet", as Miami likes to call itself.  For today though, I will focus on just one topic:  it takes forever to get anything done here.

Everyone who knows me well knows that I am not a super-hyped up, "Type A", go-go-get' em kinda guy; I am almost never in a hurry.  BUT - I do appreciate and expect efficiency.  Don't take three steps when one will do.  For example:

Hotwire Communications (our building provider, not to be confused with hotwire.com) installed TV and internet in our new apartment.  Since we never had DISH (never EVER get dish), I tried to ask the installing technician for a tutorial on how to use the remote.  He did not speak English.  After the technician left, I tried to make the TV work using the remote; sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.  So the next day, Tuesday, I called Hotwire and told them I had a faulty remote and needed a replacement.  I was scheduled for service the following day.

The next day, Wednesday, a technician (not the same one) called me and said he was rescheduling the appointment for Thursday because he "didn't want to drive downtown".  I told him all I needed was a new remote.  He showed up on Thursday, 3 hours late, and tested my remote.  He definitively informed me that there was something wrong with the remote as it was not working correctly.  The look I gave him was nothing compared to the one that followed a minute later, when he said he didn't have an extra remote with him and would need to come back next week.  "But I told you on the phone that it was the remote.  Why didn't you bring one with you?"  Suddenly, the technician no longer understood English.

I heard nothing from Hotwire on the following Monday.  On Tuesday (one week and one day after the initial installation), I noticed a Hotwire van in front of our building.  I went to the building management office and asked for assistance tracking the Hotwire technician down.  It was a different technician (again) and I told him I needed a new remote.  He pulled one out of his tool belt and gave it to me, without knowing in which unit I lived or even asking my name.  I never did hear back from the 2nd technician who must assume that I just gave up.

I know I know - first world problem.  Poor baby didn't have a remote for a week.  It's not that at all.  It was the incompetence of customer service and 3 different technicians.  I had enough to deal with unpacking 200+ boxes while job hunting in a new, strange city.  This was a completely avoidable situation if Hotwire had just been efficient.

And this is just one example (there are many more) of how things just move at a slower, more "island time" pace in Miami.  It really took some getting used to for me.  I'm not really sure I have yet.

Facebook Abandonment

Lately I've noticed that my friends are dropping off of Facebook.  I don't pay attention to the actual number of friends I have on the site; I'll just realize one day that I haven't communicated with so-and-so in weeks or months, so I go searching for them on Facebook only to discover they are no longer on the site.

This happened to me 3 times just last week.  I reached out to all three through stored email addresses.  One responded that he had recently moved and just wanted to take a break from it.  Another, I found out through a friend, is now settled into a relationship and mostly just communicates through texting.  The third has yet to respond.

Just like with its predecessors (Friendster, MySpace), Facebook is starting to plateau if not decline.  Adults and teens are leaving the site for different reasons.  Some adults cite the security issues, lack of transparency, the bad (and possibly criminal) IPO, and the fact that Facebook takes for granted its users and what they have to share.

Twitter is fast becoming the site of choice among America's teens preferring messenger apps just as their parent's are getting the hang of Facebook.  Teens are leaving the site because they don't want to be on the same social site as their parents.

Facebook will eventually die out, despite what Mark Zuckerberg tells his investors.  What we know for certain is that from now on, there will always need to be some sort of social media for the public to use.  Millennials are uncomfortable communicating any other way, thinking face-to-face communication is almost too personal.

So there will always be something.  The trick will be knowing what it is and how to use it before it loses its popularity.

My Eating Disorder

I will admit it here:  I have an eating disorder.

Unless a food comes with a specific set of instructions, or it's painfully obvious how to consume it (like, um, soup), I do not possess the innate ability to know how to eat it.  I'm not worldly that way.  Now, I'm not talking about recipes and how to cook something; I'm talking about the proper way to eat some foods.  Examples:

Shrimp
I never knew I was supposed to remove the shell from a shrimp before eating it.  I hadn't eaten much shrimp as a kid/teen and had only watched other people eat it.  I knew something got pulled off first - which I assumed (correctly) was the legs - but I completely missed the part about removing the shell.  Are there instructions about that?  No.  So for several years, I pulled off the legs and ate the rest.  I learned of my mistake one Christmas when I was eating shrimp with my brother.  I was about 35 at the time.  I innocently asked him what he was doing:

Matt:  Pulling the legs off?
Me:  No, after that.
Matt:  Peeling off the shell?
Me:  Are you supposed to do that?
Matt:  !?!?
Me:  I didn't know you were supposed to do that.  I always just ate the shell.
Matt:  You're lying.
Me:  No, watch.  (pop shrimp in mouth)
Matt:  I'm gonna barf.

Edamame
I knew Kevin wanted me to eat a little healthier and I knew he loved Asian food, so one time early in our relationship, I stopped by a Chinese restaurant on my way home from work and ordered edamame to go.  On the walk home, I thought I would start eating, so I just popped a pod into my mouth and started chewing.  Let me ask again here:  Where are the written instructions on how to eat edamame?  Answer:  Nowhere!  After 15 minutes of chewing, I finally had to pull the stringy pod out of my mouth and toss it.

"How does Kevin eat these things?", I marveled.  And looking at the container in front of me, I wondered how on earth I would be able to finish all of them when it took me 15 minutes to just eat ONE.

Kevin (laughing):  Oh my God, you don't eat the pod!  You eat the soy beans inside!
Me:  Well that would explain why the pod is practically unchewable.
Kevin:  (laughing too hard to speak)
Me:  Well how was I supposed to know??

Calamari 
While perhaps not really the same eating disorder as shrimp and edamame, I ordered calamari on a vacation in Cancun in 1998.  Based on the sound of the word, I thought calamari was pasta.  I mean come on:  capellini, fusilli, spaghetti, CAL-A-MAR-I...   I mean, it ends in an "i" - sounds like pasta to me.  Admittedly it looked a little weird when it arrived at the table because it didn't look like it had marinara sauce on it, but I started eating it anyway.  The look on my face immediately gave me away.  I'm trying to chew the mouthful I had:

Me:  God this is just awful!
Chad:  I was surprised you ordered it in the first place.  I didn't think you would like squid.
Me:  (spit!)

If there are other foods out there that need to be accompanied with instructions or directions, please let me know.  Or should I simply just check myself into rehab?

It's Been A Great Week!!

The past several days have been surreal.

The blogs I recently posted about Dad's Alzheimer's and the conversation I had with Carol Burnett (still floating on air here) seem to have struck a chord with thousands of people across the U.S. who either have dealt with or are dealing with a family member suffering with Alzheimer's, or who love and respect Ms. Burnett as much as I.  Or in many instances, people experiencing both.  I've received emails, tweets, Facebook messages, and Google+ comments.  And to be perfectly honest, I have no idea how to follow it all up.

When Rosie O'Donnell tweeted my blog out to her 700,000+ followers, it was hard not to think, "what's going to happen next?"  I've been writing this blog off and on since 2005, and am just a few posts shy of 600 total postings.  That's a lot of personal opinions I have shoved out into the world.  Or as I have always told Kevin, "I'm just pointing things out."

It would be amazing if the (at this posting) 60,000+ people who took the time to stop by my blog this week would continue to do so in the weeks and months to come.  But realistically I know that will not happen.  Still, I continue to write because one summer many years ago, Dan Sullivan told me that "there will never be enough written material for the number of people who can read it". 

I want to say thank you to everyone who shared their stories with me, as well as those who have wished love and luck to me and my family.  And to those who have shed a tear or two upon reading what I've written, I hope the tears helped in your healing process.

And now as the hubbub begins to wane and my 15-minutes of fame clicks to 14:59, I can reflect on an incredible week - one where I "brightened a lot of days" as one tweet put it.  Because it was never my intention to make anyone sad; this has been so joyous for me and my family and friends.  I got to speak to my childhood hero, and people all around the country stopped to remember the people they love.

So thank you all for a great week.  And Happy Valentine's Day!

My awesome Dad wearing the pipe cleaner bifocals I made for him. 
November 2013

Isaac Winebrenner, Sr.

As I've mentioned before, I've been researching both sides of my family trees for many years.  

Today, I'd like you to meet Mr. Isaac Winebrenner, Sr.  Isaac was my father's mother's Great-Great-Grandfather.  Interestingly enough, yet not all that surprising, Isaac is also my father's father's Great-Great-Grandfather.  Two of Isaac's sons, Isaac Jr. and James Hiram, sired Dad's father's line and Dad's mother's line, respectively, which then came back together when Dad's parents married.  While certainly not at all uncommon in small rural areas, it still seems a little weird and perhaps a touch creepy.

Isaac Sr. was born in 1804 and died April 3, 1895.  He was a farmer and, together with his wife Nancy, had 10 children - all of whom survived into adulthood, which was also uncommon for the time.

Below is his rather colorful obituary:

Yesterday, Carol Burnett Called Me

In follow up to this blog I posted a few  weeks ago, I want to update you on what transpired this weekend.  Kevin and I were watching the Olympics and my phone rang around 2:30 p.m.  The caller was listed as "Unknown" with no number showing, so I just dismissed the call.  The caller called again about an hour later, and again I dismissed the call.

About an hour or so after that, I walked down to get the mail and stop in 7-Eleven for a Diet Pepsi, when my phone rang.  And, again, it was the unknown caller.  I decided to answer it this time so that the caller would just stop calling:

Me:  Hello?
Caller:  May I speak to Dop Troutman?
Me:  This is he.
Caller:  Dop, this is Carol Burnett.

Heartbeat....heartbeat....heartbeat....

Me:  Oh my gosh!
Carol:  Dop I just had to call you because I got your letter and it meant so much to me and touched me so deeply that I wanted to call and let you know.

We talked for a few minutes and I admitted to her that I was having a surreal moment, standing in 7-Eleven and talking to this woman I've loved all my life.  She laughed that familiar, wonderful laugh.

Me:  I know you've tried a few times to reach me today but your ID is coming up as unknown on my phone and I typically don't answer those.
Carol:  Well I didn't want to leave a message in case I had the wrong number, so I figured I would just keep calling until someone answered.

 And after several more minutes, we said our good-byes:

Carol:  Please give my love to your family and to your Mom and Dad.
Me:  I will.  I cannot tell you what this means to me.
Carol:  Well I am just so touched.
Me:  Thank you so much for calling.
Carol:  Thank you, darling.  Bye bye.

And then I fainted.

I called my mother immediately following the conversation and asked her to tell Dad and to let me know if he had any reaction to the news.  And what's really wonderful and beautiful and sad about all this, is that this is an experience my dad gave to me . . . and he may never realize or understand what he did.  What father doesn't want his children to meet their heroes?  There would never have been an occasion in my life where I would have spoken with Ms. Burnett, either on the phone or even in person.  And certainly not to the length where she would go out of her way to keep trying to reach me until she got me.  My dad made that possible for me.

I couldn't possibly love and respect my parents more than I do today.  And as they continue on this journey together, I pray that my dad continues to have these times of normalcy, no matter how brief they are.  For us, they are epiphanies, but for Dad, they are memories.  The precious few he is able to cling to because - at some point - they made his children happy.

Now click here for another update.

Getting My PHR

Recently I obtained my PHR certification (Professional in Human Resources).  It's sorta like getting your real estate license for human resources.  It proves that you have the body of knowledge to be both a support to staff and a strategic partner to leadership, and that you know the laws that govern what a business can and cannot do. 

There are six disciplines in HR that need to be known:

1. Business Management and Strategy
2. Workforce Planning and Employment
3. Human Resource Development
4. Compensation and Benefits
5. Employee and Labor Relations
6. Risk Management

The trick is that you are tested on all of these subjects in one exam.  It's not like you study for Risk Management, take an exam, then study for HR Development, take an exam...   It's just one long 4-hour final on all the topics at once.  It has a 50% pass rate, which means as many people fail as pass.

It was, perhaps, the hardest exam I've ever taken.  And studying was really challenging for me; I haven't studied for an exam in over 20 years.  And I found that my retention is not as good at 47 as it was at 27, and neither is my attention span.  I was diagnosed a few years ago with ADHD.  So for this, I basically had to not necessarily learn the information as much as I just needed to become familiar with it or at least recognize series of words.  I studied - no joke - for 3 months. 

Ultimately, it was all worth the agony.  It was either this or grad school and I didn't want to spend the money or the time, or even try to convince myself that I would be a good student again.  It took me a while to really figure out what I wanted to do with my career and this was worth the investment for me.  Now I can command a higher salary because of the credential. 

And I get to put a few letters after my name now.  So that's cool, too.

World Cancer Day

Since today is World Cancer Day, I thought I would post something personal about cancer in my own life.  Just within this past year alone, I fought two battles with skin cancer - both located on my head.

The first one showed up about a year ago as small bumps on top of my head.  At first I thought it was just dry skin from the winter air. I went to see my amazing dermatologist in Chicago and he very quickly diagnosed me as having Actinic Keratosis ("AK").  AK is found on the skin that has often been exposed to the sun for long periods of time.  Untreated AKs can advance to squamous cell carcinoma ("SCC"), the second most common form of skin cancer, and some experts believe they are actually the earliest stage of SCC.

Day 14

"Dr. Amazing" gave me a prescription for Fluorouracil, a topical ointment that I was to apply to my head twice a day for 2 weeks.  He warned me to use this medication during a time when I was not planning on being particularly social.  Look up images online and you will see why (fortunately mine never got that bad.)  The medication essentially burns the AK off the skin.  We discovered that my skin was slow to react to the medication, so I increased the application time by another week.  By Day 21, my skin was raw, sensitive, and ugly.  I wondered how it could ever heal from this procedure.  But it only took 1 week for my skin to restore to normal, with all traces of the AK and bumps gone. 

6 days after surgery

My second bout came after living in Miami for about 4 months.   I noticed what looked like a pimple on the right bridge of my nose, probably from wearing my reading glasses so often or not washing my face well enough.  So this time I went to a dermatologist in Miami who diagnosed it as basal-cell carcinoma ("BCC").  Unfortunately, a topical cream wouldn't help.  I needed to have surgery to have it removed.  The surgery required 6 stitches.  I also had a reaction to the sutures and had to have them removed about 2 weeks after the surgery.  I was fine with the scar on my nose, but because the skin was pulled, the right side of my nose ended up being higher than the left for about 2 months. 

It would be easy to blame Miami or Southern Florida sun on my problems, but the truth is these both started while I was living in Chicago.  Still, the warning is the same:  sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen.  Most skin cancers can be avoidable, but they can also be undetectable.  I thought I just had a pimple on my nose and it ended up being cancer.  You can never be too sure.  I have my face and head checked annually.  And on World Cancer Day, I say that it is a good idea for everyone.

FACT: Lincoln Has No Contemporary Descendants

If you ever come across a person who's last name is Lincoln, and they try to pass themselves off as a direct descendant of the 16th President, you can confidently school them in the fact that there is no such thing.  Yes, there are cousins many times removed, but none in The President's direct lineage.

Abraham Lincoln’s great-great-great grandfather came to Massachusetts from England in 1637 and went into farming initially, but became a businessman and active member of the church. Over the generations his ancestors moved south, eventually settling themselves in Kentucky. The President's grandfather, for whom Abraham was named, was a captain during the American Revolution but ironically was killed by a Native American while farming with his sons.

President Lincoln’s life was filled with death. His little brother, Thomas Jr., died days after Thomas’s birth in 1812. Lincoln’s mother died in 1818, when Abraham was just nine years old. Then, in 1828, his sister Sarah died in childbirth, along with her stillborn baby. Lincoln also mourned the woman he had intended to marry, Ann Rutledge, when she died in 1835.

After Lincoln’s marriage to Mary Todd (#2 in the image at right) in 1842, the couple settled down to start their own family. They would have four sons.

The first, Robert (#3), was born in 1843 and would live a long and prestigious life. The second son, Edward, was born in 1846 and died in 1850 of what is believed to be tuberculosis. Another son, William (a favorite of Mary and Abraham Lincoln and nicknamed “Willie”), was born less than a year after Edward’s death and died at age 11 while the Lincolns resided in the White House. Willie’s death was a harsh blow to the family. His body would eventually be exhumed and accompany his father’s to be buried in Springfield, Illinois. The Lincolns’ youngest son, Thomas (also known as “Tad”), was born in 1853. Tad would outlive his father by only six years. He died at the age of 18.

The Lincolns’ only son to marry and have children was Robert. Robert married Mary ("Mamie") Harlan (#4) in 1868 and had three children: Mary (#5), Abraham (#6) and Jessie (#7).  Abraham died of blood poisoning at the age of 16.  Robert’s two daughters each lived well into the 1900s:  Mary Lincoln Isham, had one son, Lincoln Isham (#8), who ultimately did not have children, and Jessie Lincoln Beckwith, had two children: a daughter, Mary (#9) who never wed, and a son, Robert (#10).  Mary Beckwith died in 1975.  

Robert Todd Lincoln Beckwith (Robert Lincoln's grandson) married three times but had no children. During the time Robert divorced his second wife, she became pregnant and claimed the child to be his. Due to Robert having had a vasectomy prior to this marriage, he protested the paternity of the child, and the courts ordered a blood test be performed. When the mother failed to comply, the court ruled that the child was not Robert Lincoln’s. In 1985, Robert Todd Lincoln Beckwith, the great grandson of President Abraham Lincoln, died with no heir to carry on the family name. With his death, an American family that had lived and worked in this country for more than nine generations came to an end.

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!!