Don't look now

Last year the price of gasoline reached an all time high.
....( this space is for you to read between the lines)....
Last year Exxon Inc.'s profits reached an all time high.

And did you even get a kiss?

Money Talks

Justice

“Justice delayed is justice denied.” I take this to mean that if a person is innocent and the length of time for judgment is unnecessarily extended while he is held by the authorities, he has suffered unduly. How about the reverse, where someone who is guilty is allowed to roam about freely spending millions of dollars while the authorities piddle around for years before bringing him to trial? A case in point is the infamous pair of Enron crooks, Jeff Skilling and Ken Lay.
A poor person who is hurting no one but himself caught using illegal drugs is dragged off to the pokey with no questions asked. Jeffy and Kenny have destroyed the lives of tens of thousands of employees and shareholders and yet for the past four years they have been living the good life to the full. Suppose Kenny is found guilty and sentenced to 20 years. Life expectancy is 77 years and Kenny is 64. We, the people, have been gypped out of 7 years the he owes us for his crime, which he could have been serving if it weren’t for the fact that there is a different justice system for the wealthy.
Do you think O.J. would have walked if he were a poor black man? How about Robert Durst, who admitted cutting up his neighbor but had nothing to do with his death. And my all time favorite, the freak known as Michael Jackson.
And on the International front, there’s the joke of a “trial” for Goddam Whoseinsane. How the people who found him let him take another breath is beyond me.
The trick for the rich people is to keep a balance where the poor have just enough so that they won’t revolt. What can a human being as a big cheese in a giant corporation ACTUALLY DO to be worth millions of dollars in compensation? How can they even spend it? Too many people have too much money. I am not a student of politics or economy but I can see how the lure of communism could be sold in a country where the balance of money tilted too far to the rich.
I have no answer, I only know, in my heart, that what we have, even if it may be the best available, is not right.

Commerce

Giant Economy Size

The quest for the almighty dollar has birthed some marketing schemes which go well beyond what was intended as nature’s way. When I was young (it may have been the stone age) soda drinks were usually 12 ounces, a bag of potato chips was a pound, candy bars were all the same size and sold for a nickel, a can of coffee was a pound. I think Maxwell House coffee was the first to produce the “new” weight of about 13 ounces in the same size “pound” can so you might be fooled. Today the pound can contains 11 ½ ounces. The plethora of sizes for anything you might choose to buy is mind boggling. Since even the manufacturers have trouble keeping up with their chicanery, you will often find that the smaller sizes are actually the better buy. Packaging products in bags or boxes that are way too big for what they contain are explained by such things as “may have settled during shipping.”
Wouldn’t it be cheaper to produce disposable items all in one handy-dandy size? Do we really need to choose between a 1 lb, 2 lb, 2 ½ lb, 5 lb or 10 lb box of laundry detergent? How about toilet paper in the handy one pack, 2 pack, 4 pack, 6 pack, etc., not to mention the “double roll” where magically they squeeze twice as many sheets on the same size roll! Take a survey to find out how many double rolls the average family of 4 ½ people use in two weeks. Let’s say the answer is 3.2. Make all packages 4 double rolls. Single people can either store the extras or give them away as gifts to their friends. Larger families can either shop weekly or buy two packages at the same time – what a concept!
The most amazing product is tooth paste (do they still make tooth powder?). Not only must you choose between dozens of brands – but then – pick a flavor. Now pick a size. Pick a shape. Tube or squeeze bottle. Now choose the one that is specifically designed for whatever horrible oral disease you fear most – tartar control, gum disease, tooth decay, or maybe you are one of the lucky ones and only need your paste to make your teeth extra white. Ever try baking soda for brushing? Effective and refreshing.
Just what is a “jumbo” shrimp? (other than the most famous oxymoron) I’ve seen the ones that are about a quarter of an inch long that they call “salad” shrimp and big ones that look like little lobster tails. They are usually graded in size by how many are in a pound, 15-20, 30-40, 50-60, etc. “Jumbo” is used by sellers for about the largest 50% of the sizes.
Years ago, when I went to buy a bushel of crabs for a party, I asked the prices and was told they had some nice “medium” crabs for “X” dollars. Thinking this was a little high, I asked for the price of the “small” crabs. Without blinking, the answer was “the mediums ARE the small.” Pithy.
Chastity may save us from Hades, but who will save us from ourselves?

New Year

Junior adios

1955 and I’m comin’ alive. Let it snow, let it blow, I’m getting my driver’s license as soon after January 15th as my little legs will get me to the door of the DMV! I’m a MAN! Well, sort of, at least I can get a real date now – since the first question a prospect asks is “Do you have a car?” Even terminal acne doesn’t prevent me from getting dates now. The gym magically transforms into a magnificent ballroom for the school dances. Colored crepe paper strung from rafter to rafter is the main decoration. Unlucky teachers are drafted to chaperone these jolly affairs. Testosterone, estrogen, pheromones and all kinds of moans permeate the area as puberty is in full blossom. Some of the hornier boys think they should wear their athletic supporters lest unwanted (at the moment) evidence of their lust appear while they are dancing closely with the object of their desire.
Couples who thought they had found “the one” would exchange “friendship” rings and then would be “going steady.” Very few of these lasted through a whole school year.
Cars brought new opportunities for privacy desired by the dating pairs. If you had a spare buck or two you could take your date to the drive-in movie, otherwise known as the “passion pit.” A fifteen minute drive would get you to the parking area of Liberty dam, jam packed in the evening with cars whose windows were covered with steam.
All this driving about was not without cost of course. The rich kids would pull into the service (yes, service, remember this is the ‘50s) station as say “fill-er-up.” Gas was about twenty cents a gallon. When I was flush I could request “two dollar’s worth” otherwise a dollar had to do. The Packard was also very thirsty for oil, using about a quart every couple hundred miles.
Drag racing on the street in front of the school was stupid, dangerous and common.
None the less, the Packard was KING, much to the dismay of assorted hopped-up ’49 Fords and Chevys. Taking off with a 10 foot patch of rubber behind, the Packard would hit 45 MPH in first gear, wham bam, 2nd gear and another patch of rubber and then at 70, unbelievably, third gear left behind another patch. Passengers in the other cars were yelling to their driver “Step on it!” - “I am!” as the black beauty left them in the dust. I later found out that the transmission was the reason for the amazing performance and was much sought after by professional drag racers.
The social highlight of the year was the “Junior Prom”, open only to the Junior class and their dates. Some of the less popular kids resorted to getting cousins or other relatives as “dates” or just stayed home. Once again, the gym was adorned.
I believe we got our class rings sometime during the year but had to wear them backwards until the end of the year when there was a brief ceremony and the rings were turned around signifying that we were now the upper class to be.
Then our last summer vacation from school began…

Putt Putt

VROOOOM!

This will have little interest to most, but I was thinking of all the motorized transportation I’ve had over the years and decided to make a list. I’ve rated my top 3.
You don’t have to read it so don’t complain.

Cushman motor scooter – max speed 30 MPH, no tags, no license
1941 (#3) Packard 2 door sedan – 10 MPG, 1 qt of oil per 100 miles
1936 Plymouth 4 door sedan – fabric roof top
1935 Plymouth Coupe – spare tire holder outside on the trunk
1941 Chevrolet 2 door sedan – last car in High school
1939 Chevrolet 4 door sedan – got me to the job on time
1952 Chevrolet 4 door sedan – bought in ’56, my “newest” car
1956 MGA Sports car – caught up in the sport car craze
1952 MG TD Sports car – a classic red with wire wheels
1958 (#2) Volvo 2 door sedan – looked like a ’46 Ford, great car.
Parilla motorcycle – slightly more than a motor bike
1963 Volkswagen Bus – 32 HP engine had trouble up hill
1947 Volkswagen Beetle – split rear window
1958 Ford Falcon – lived up to FORD: Fix Or Repair Daily
Honda motorcycle – looked like a small Harley
1958 Mercedes 4 door sedan – very comfy
1960 Volvo Station wagon – kids, kept this a long time
1961 Mercedes 4 door sedan – more troubles than ’58 Mercedes
1968 Volvo 4 door sedan – not nearly as good as the ’58 Volvo
1978 Ford Fiesta – real economy, still sold overseas, not in USA
1970 Chevy pickup truck – moved to small town, pickup must have
1973 Lincoln Town Car – moved to city, comfort required
1985 (#1) Mazda RX7 (rotary engine) bought new, best car ever
1996 Nissan 4 door sedan – excellent car, low maintenance
1979 Volkswagen Beetle Convertible – bought on EBAY, restored
2000 Lincoln Town Car – good deal from a good friend

Junior

Fall of ’54, as I begin my Junior year the countdown has already begun for that magic day when I will get behind the wheel of a car and terrorize the driving public. As I am younger than most of my classmates, they already have or are getting their driver’s license before me. Jealousy increases as my best friend, Jordan Kilgour, is allowed to drive the family car, a late model Cadillac sedan. Every boy, or course wants his own car so when Jordan and I spy an old ’35 Plymouth coupe that hasn’t run for years outside a home we knock on the door and offer to take it off the owner’s hands. The owner counter-offers a price of $25 and Jordan is now the proud owner of his very own car. Engines in those days were not very complicated and for the price of a rebuilt carburetor we created a lean mean driving machine!

Meanwhile, the school day begins with the students reporting to their “homerooms”, a gathering spot for taking the roll and reciting our pledges to God and country. School administrators are not so subtle when they divide the students in each grade by their supposed academic prowess into homeroom groups labeled by letter. 11 “A” were the brains, 11“B” next, and on until all were accounted for. A bell rang and the homeroom captives were released to try to find their first class. After a few minutes, the halls were off-limits to stragglers and you were subject to punitive action if you were caught without a “hall pass”, usually issued for potty emergencies or trips to the principal’s office.

The girls are all so cute with “poodle” skirts and “bobby sox.” The boys debate about which of them has “enhanced” their bosom. Some of the wise guys claim to “know” about certain ones thru first “hand” knowledge. The boys may be divided into five groups and identified by their footwear. The “brains” with their penny loafers; the “squares” with saddle oxfords; the “jocks” with tennis shoes; the “tough guys” with engineer boots; and the “cool dudes” or “drapes” with blue suede shoes.

This was the year that I had my only class where I got a failing grade, geometry. It wasn’t that I couldn’t find the right angle, but the teacher had a novel idea about “homework” (which I refused to do). You were supposed to maintain a “notebook” and add to it each night’s assignment and then turn the book in at the end of the year. Need I say more? I had no note book. Big “F” for me.

Brown V Board of Education is brought home to Milford. I remember one black boy joining our class. There were no protests, cross-burnings, or any other untoward acts. It was a non-event. He came to school, took a seat, and was miserable like the rest of us.

My hard work delivering the “Sunpaper” and summer job at the Federal Tin Co. is finally paying off. I have amassed the tidy sum of just over $50 when I spot the car of my dreams on the Seymour Chevrolet Used Car lot, a 1941 Packard 2 door sedan. They are asking $75 for it. My big brother, God bless him, knows the pain of lusting for a car and donates the last $25 so that my dream comes true. I still have a few months before I can drive on the street, so our back yard becomes a holy mess from me going back and forth about 20 feet in each direction.

Czech this out

“Im Himmel gibt's kein Bier” -Czech drinking song
(In heaven there is no beer.)Just one more reason, along with the endless hymns and hosannas, to count me out.

Beer first appeared, perhaps in Egypt, some 5000 years ago. People have been tweaking it ever since. When will it end? My personal relationship with beer began a few years before I was of legal drinking age. I was the tallest of my gang of high school hoodlums so I was elected to try to look aged and try to score a six pack at a liquor store. We would ride around and try different places, being rebuffed a few times and then – the owner was more interested in making a buck than messing with drivers permits and such, and we got our prize, a six pack of Rolling Rock Pony bottles, 8 full ounces each, right from the mountain springs in Latrobe, PA.

As a child groom, I had been married for almost 2 years before I could legally buy beer. Back in the ‘60s in Baltimore imported beer was a rarity. We had “Arrow”, “Gunther”, and “National Bohemian.” Premium beer came from far away cities, “Schlitz”, “Budweiser”, “Carling.” Special occasions called for going all the way and buying a case of “Lowenbrau” brewed in Germany. The “Miller Brewing Co,” made an enemy of me forever when they “bought” the Lowenbrau recipe and name and began mixing it in the U.S.A. The original from Germany was banned from import as part of the deal. That prohibition expired in 2002 and once again “real” Lowenbrau is available for we connoisseurs. Not too long after that travesty, once again I believe the culprit was “Miller”, an abomination appeared on the same shelves as beer, calling itself “Lite!” For the love of God, people, if you want to have less calories and save money just buy regular beer and add another 12 ounces of water!

There apparently are no boundaries that are too far fetched for the marketing departments of brewmeisters. Hey folks! Look at us! We have “Dry” beer! Oh, but wait!, now we have “Ice” beer! “Draft” beer in a can! Since marketeers are familiar with the fact that the public are idiots, they invent cute names, like “Red Dog”, for a product they hope will sell based on the name only and create subsidiary companies to package it so you won’t know it’s really just another “Miller” beer in disguise.

Moving ahead to the early ‘90s, I became enamored of Austrialia’s “Foster’s Lager” sold in 23 ounce “oil cans” as they were called. Some months later I noticed the quantity was now 22 ounces. Upon closer inspection of the can I discovered it was “Brewed in Canada!” It was the beginning of another marketing sham. Today I looked at a package of Sapporo Beer, proudly proclaiming itself to be Japan’s oldest brewery with red letters “imported beer” From where? Canada. Asahi – Canada. Kirin – Canada. Eh?

And finally, the unkindest cut of all, some despicable low ranking marketeer in a brewery has convinced their superiors that they can “pull a ‘Maxwell House*’” and decrease the amount of beer in a regular looking bottle and no one will know the difference! Yes, it is disclosed in the fine print that each bottle contains 11.2 ounces of beer as opposed to the forever and ever standard of 12 ounces. Two brands are “Stella Artois” from Belgium and “Carlsberg” from Denmark. Nowhere does it shout “New, improved, less beer for your hard earned money!” I don’t know who is more culpable, the idiot that came up with this idea or the managers who approved it. Heat up the tar, pluck the chickens and prepare the rail for riding them all out of town.

“Drum trinken wir es hier” (That’s why we drink it here.)

*Remember when coffee always came in a one pound can? Maxwell reduced the amount of coffee by an ounce or 2 without changing the size of the can. I checked today and the one pound can now contains 11.5 ounces. God Bless America.

Got Crabs?

Chicken Neckers

“Chicken Neckers” was the derisive term used by the professional crabbers to describe us amateurs. Chicken necks were inexpensive and crab lore had it that the quarry found them quite tasty, so naturally it was our bait of choice. The Pros used things like eels for bait and hundreds of big wire traps they called “pots.” We used lengths of string, old bolts for weights, the aforementioned chicken parts for bait and dip nets. The more experienced amateurs replaced the cords in their nets with “chicken wire” which made it easier to eject the crab when caught.
Several times each summer, two or three of us city boys would take a day off from work, get up at three AM, load up a car with Styrofoam coolers filled with beer and bait and head for the land of plenty, the “sacred” (to crabbers) Wye river. From Baltimore, we had to cross the Chesapeake Bay bridge to get to the part of Maryland known as the “Eastern Shore.” Daybreak at the Wye river was rumored to be the ultimate, optimum time to capture the crafty crustaceans. A marina (a wooden shack with a refrigerator outside) there had small rowboats for rent and for those not fortunate enough to catch their limit (never happens) when day was done, they had crabs for sale so that your fish stories would have evidence to prove to your wives that the trip was worth every penny.
And…We’re off! After the experts (all) aboard the craft settled on the most likely spot for action, we proceeded full speed ahead, or sideways, or crisscross to our target, usually a spot not too far from shore in about 8 to 10 feet of water. A chicken neck and a weight are tied to the end of a cord and thrown from the boat so that it lands about 15 feet away. A little slack is allowed and then the other end is attached to the boat. This is repeated until you think you have enough lines (maybe 10 – 12) in the water all around the boat. Then the waiting and beer drinking begins. A lot of false hopes happen early as the cord is moved by the current or flotsam. But there is no doubt when the first real crab starts chompin’ on that succulent neck. The cord becomes taut as the crab tries to eat and retreat simultaneously. We maintain a whispered silence as one of the crew s.l.o.w.l.y reels the cord toward the boat. Based on the “pull” of the crab on the line, speculation on its size begins among the crew… it’s a monster! (hardly ever).
Crabs are very skittish unless they are REALLY hungry. At any untoward movement they let go of the bait and swim backwards like a shot. Our quarry is visible when it gets about 3 feet from the surface…GET THE NET! GET THE NET! (spoken excitedly, but softly). The net man slowly and deftly slides the net into the water and comes up from underneath and behind the crab so that when it attempts its backward escape – he is ours!
We always had an official bushel basket but only filled it when we left the marina with extra crabs bought there. Early afternoon was time to leave, too much sun, too much beer, not (nearly ) enough crabs. The designated driver (designated not because he was sober, but because it was his car) would steer us home where our loving families awaited with GIANT pots to steam our crabs with “Old Bay.”
And one more beer…and one more beer…and one more…and more…ZZZZZZZ