Cruel and Unusual Punishment

The other morning while driving I heard a story on Michigan radio I found utterly disturbing. It seems the Michigan legislature is volleying back and forth about what to do with the loss of funding that provides assistance to low or no income families to assist with paying their winter utility bills. The funding is about to expire and the debate is how and if it can be painlessly replaced. One legislator interviewed said something to the effect of, "we want to take care of this because we don't want anyone to freeze to death this winter."

Not freezing to death seems like a rather absurdly low benchmark. In this state freezing to death is more than hyperbole, however, it happens. The sad thing about the funding in jeopardy is that the population most needing assistance are the elderly and families with small children. Knowing those demographic parameters I can understand the legislator's concern: frozen kids and old people send one's chances for re-election straight down the toilet.

In spite of the lame comment, the part of this situation that bugs the crap out of me is the fact that we should be having this dilemma at all. Losing one's utilities during life threatening conditions because of economic hardship seems down right inhumane, anti-social, and beyond possible in these United States. Free enterprise? Sorry. Please make another selection. I have confidence the matter will find legislative resolution before any lives are threatened but I find it maddening that our system- economic and political- plays chess with lives in deference to corporate prosperity. In a country with the wealth and resources of ours, poverty should not carry a death sentence.

Pearl Harbor Day

As a kid my Mom used to always announce, "Today is Pearl Harbor Day." She and my Dad would recall where they were and what they were doing when the news came that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. They would usually then recollect the many personal hardships associated with wartime. The discussion always included the Japanese families they knew who lost everything as they were relocated to internment camps for the duration of the war. Accounts of World War II in my childhood home included discussions of events and conditions that led to war but certainly gave emphasis to the cost of war as measured in terms of human suffering, loss of life, and the interruption of peacetime lifestyle. We didn't get much in the way of nationalistic glorification of battle. We received volumes speaking to the social and human cost.

A recent article in our local paper featured an interview with Pearl Harbor survivors from that December 7th 70 years ago. In it they describe the terror experienced in the events of that day, the loss of colleagues, the grotesque injuries, the disturbing memories which have lasted a 90 year lifetime. "I'd like people to stop and think about staying away from wars" says one of those interviewed.

I've never been in a war. Most of my family has been spared the experience as well. Reading these accounts, however, leads me to the following three thoughts:
1.)  In spite of the hatred and horror inflected by both sides on the other, I am amazed and grateful that today we count Japan among our most dedicated friends. The bitter pill of war appears to have dissolved with time.
 2.)  In spite of a chorus of stories along with modern media reporting that graphically conveys the terror, destruction, and inhumanity of war, we are still, in 2011, unable or unwilling to find any other recourse than to send young people to die in order to confront differing political, economic, and religious agendas. There still seems to be no limit to what we as a nation are willing to spend, measured in both dollars and lives, to wage war.
3.)  In spite of the terror and inhumanity of war, one of the most popular and sought after entertainments today is "Call of Duty Modern Warfare," a video game that brings realistic action, death and destruction into millions of homes-- as entertainment. One would hope that people would have lost their appetite for "playing war"at this time in world history. It's beyond my comprehension how the explicit violence of war has become palatable entertainment amassing an enormous following of enthusiastic "players." I wonder how many veterans of Pearl Harbor would enjoy the game.  How many veterans of any conflict who have had to literally scoop up the remains of a buddy, retrieve a severed limb, or have felt the searing heat of a battle injury?

Then again, perhaps we should promote and encourage war gaming. Going forward perhaps we should advocate a change in the way in which wars are conducted, letting gamers worldwide fight our battles virtually via interactive web based conflicts and give real conflict a rest. It should be obvious by now the real thing doesn't work.

Old People's Phones

This past Thanksgiving both my 19 year old daughter and my north of 65 year old sister were here for the holiday. I notivced something then that I've seen before but really came into focus with them both in the house: Old people's phones.

The same is true in the office. If you're in the clinic area and you here an "old phone ringer" or Seger's "Old Time Rock 'n Roll," you know who owns the phone. Heavy metal, late 40's to late 50's; A Broadway show tune? The answer depends on how high the volume. But here's the deal: If you can't hear the phone, the user is under the age of 25.

I guess I'm fortunate to have nothing more to complain about but visual and hearing loss drives me crazy. Being reminded of the fact is worse. Thus it was that having both my daughter and sister here at the same time was an assault on two fronts. My sister's phone, always misplaced, would be ringing away. My daughter's phone, never out of her hand, was a nonstop center of texting and voice messaging and was never heard.

I was probably just being over sensitive but it drove me crazy: My sister's phone was an audible reminder of what lies ahead while my daughter's was audible proof of what's fallen behind. Geez-- one more use for a cell phone!

Cotton Candy

Each year between Thanksgiving and Christmas our local Steam Railroading Institute operates "Polar Express" excursions as a fund raiser. They take passengers by train to the North Pole and Santa's Village (a surprisingly short 45 minute ride through the country from here). It's great for kid's and once at Santa's Village there is a large building filled with amusements and activities for kids as well as crafts and junk for adults to buy. It was there, this weekend, at Santa's Village, at the North Pole, that I discovered one of those bizarre twists in this modern regulated life.

Among the many concessions available was a cotton candy vendor. It was staffed by a young woman who appeared to be a junior or senior in highschool. Thinking this might be a good time to introduce Evan to cotton candy I wandered over and poked my head in the service window. The walls were lined with plastic bags stuffed with multicolored cotton candy, but she had the big round open metal tubs one uses to make the confection and they appeared to be on and ready for action. "Can you still make one of those pink numbers that comes on the paper tube?" I asked. She shook her head no. "The Health Inspector won't let us. He says it's unsanitary or something."

Unsanitary? Who cares, unsanitary! It's a friggin' Phyllis Diller wig of spun sugar. There's not one thing in the world to recommend ingesting cotton candy beyond its color, the experience of it melting on your tongue, and holding onto that paper tube as you pick, pull, and bite at the thing. Et tu, cotton candy? Would they cloak you in the false dignity of sanitation?

I walked away as much disgusted as disappointed. We re-boarded the train before departure time and ate the peanut butter sandwiches we'd packed. I didn't even stop to consider an Elephant Ear, French Fries, or Deep Fried Oreo-- all of which were available and all of which must have met the approval of the health inspector. Fat free spun sugar on a paper cone? Not on your life. Deep fried Oreo? Step right up.

A Small Voice

I'm the kinda guy who likes to mix and match.  Cereal, that is. So it's not unusual that I have Grape Nuts and Granola, or Cheerios and Raisin Bran. The other morning I had what my brother-in-law Leon likes to call "mustgos." Those are all the remainders, left-overs, less than one portion items that must go. First on the list, about a quarter cup of Rice Krispies. Then some oat bran squares, some Cheerios, and, finally, a dash of granola. (Hey, at least I don't drown the mess with coffee like my old friend Danny's Dad would do. By way of explanation to a wide-eyed 10 year old: "It all gets mixed up in your stomach anyway." Okay. But can't you wait til it gets there?)

The thing I noticed was that, even under the weight of all those other cereals,  even after pouring on the milk-like-substance and submerging that little quarter cup of cereal well below deck-- walking back to the fridge I could hear that small band of Rice Krispies, out numbered and crushed under the weight of their bowl mates-- I could still hear "Snap, Krackle, Pop." Maybe I'm stoned but, is there a message in that, or what? Perhaps a reminder about personal integrity?

Here, Drink This

Tam and I went to a holiday party put on by the hospital here in town. They did a nice job, too. Well decorated in a big room at the local country club. They found a very sweet jazz duo, guitar and saxophone. And there was wine and beer and cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. May be its the economy or maybe it's just that we never go to these type functions, but it sure seemed like there was a big turnout.

The hors d'oeuvres were quite good and Tam and I, both having expected this would be a dinner party, stood beside the round tables and slowly made the loop, noshing all the way. Suddenly, Tam takes a drink of cab and pulls back the glass in horror, "Oh crap! Yuck!" It wasn't the cab. It was just that she was drinking cab, not her white zin. Just who's cabernet it was we never determined as it was quickly trotted over to the nearest bus tray.

Tam's a little squeamish about sharing a glass with a total stranger-- perhaps even more so when you never find out just who it was. I had to laugh, however. "Obviously you've never been to a bar mitzvah." I never attended that many bar mitzvahs but it takes only a couple to surmise there must be an unwritten rule: At least 3 kids will circulate and drain any unattended cocktails. In fact, I think there is actually a sign that is placed in the center of each table: "Caution: Unattended cocktails will be ingested by unattended children."

Now that's a fun idea. Next year we could have a holiday party where the guests are challenged to see how many drinks they can sneak without getting caught. Take a sip, put it back. Move on to the next. On second thought, maybe not: The older you get the more you realize just how dirty a mouth can be.

Cake Balls

Well here's a subject that'll make you think twice before you hit Google Images. Someone in the OR the other day was lamenting the fact she was going to miss out on a potluck where one of the "girls" was going to bring "her famous cake balls." That's what I said: "What?!"

Cake balls, unbeknownst to me, are a popular item on the food circuit these days. (That'll teach me to give up on the Food Network.) For the curious, you can check out a recipe here. If you need an enticement, just consider the author's comments which accompany the recipe:

"This recipe is very versatile and heavily addictive. You can mix and match cake and icing flavors as well as the chocolate coatings. If you want to go the extra mile, cake balls can be rolled in nuts, sprinkles, coconut, etc. or double dipped in white and dark chocolates." (Emphasis is mine.)


How does one say no to that?? Sounds like an activity taylor made for a couple of glasses of wine, a fireplace, and a bearskin rug.

What's amazing to me is this: I've been making "cake balls" since I was probably around 8 or 9. I made one giant one tonight. I just take my slice of cake, mash it in a bowl with its frosting, and then mash in some ice cream. Presto! It's a freakin' cake ball happenin'. Been doin' it for years! If only my Mom would have known all those years ago that I was creating a dessert sensation to sweep the nation off it's bored little 21st century culinary feet, then maybe she wouldn't have made such a fuss about my playing with my food. Granted, my method is a little more free-form but, with time and encouragement, I certainly could have become the Kake Ball King.