All
Grown-up Now?
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
We know the definition of a teenager: that is, we human
creatures who put up with all the trials and tribulations,
the invasion of an acne army and moaning growing pains,
between the ages of 13 to 19. We know a baby is a small
human in diapers with an insatiable appetite, and a tweener
is somebody between a baby and a teenager; 'too young
for this' and 'too old for that'. And it is assumed an
adult is anyone with enough cumulative heartbeats to legally
purchase and drink liquor, smoke cigarettes and gamble,
be qualified to vote (if they want to), sign a contract,
and do generally anything to enhance or defame the human
image.
But when are we officially considered a grown-up? You
know; someone who is full-sized, full-fledged, fully developed
both mentally and physically and qualified for an enhanced
lifestyle. Is that retirement? Is retirement the natural
passage between adulthood and grownup hood? There are
so many things they didn't tell us when we were handed
a birth certificate and declared to be a human, and this
is one of those transparent smudges in life we cross with
no instructions or even a amusement-park-type map for
directions.
Maybe people must qualify to be a grown-up: A mental test
must be passed or anyone can claim this status of nobility.
To be really qualified I bet there are questions like:
Do you know who Rosie the Riveter is and the Yankee Clipper?
Do Pearl Harbor and Air Raid Sirens shatter your memories?
And to be a little less qualified I bet there are questions
like: Can you define 'I like Ike', Rock Around the Clock,
Ozzie and Harriet, and the Brooklyn Dodgers? Do you remember
dancing the Twist or the Bunny Hop in Pegger pants, or
pedal pushers, and a turned up collar, and for some of
us, with our greasy hair shining under the revolving mirrored
globe hanging from the gymnasium ceiling, while listening
to music on the Hi-fi?
The physical qualifications are easier to ascertain. If
your well-weathered face doesn't qualify for the cover
of Elle or GQ magazine, you're in. Now you might be able
to run a marathon race, but more than likely if your bones
ache going from the front door to the car, you're in.
If you believe gravity is the worst element in all of
nature's wonders, and the southern environment sunshine
is the best, you're in. If you purchase canned food and
you quit purchasing food in jars because you can no longer
open the lids with your hands, you're in.
Social qualifications take on the traits of a Bill hop-scotching
through Congress. What being grown-up is to one person
is different to the next person. (You see, lobbyists have
already taken a nibble out of the process.) Responsibility
seems to loom as a defining guideline for grown-ups: Learning
to take responsibility and consequences for your actions.
Learning to treat people as you would like to be treated
yourself. When you realize the entire world does not revolve
around you and that it will go on tomorrow, with or without
you, you are now socially a grown-up. Come On! Is this
grownup hood or the Boy Scouts?
Then other critical questions arise: Is anyone ever completely
grown-up? Does everyone really want to be a grown-up?
Do we have to go through all this trouble? Can we be grown-up
and still be an adult and have the energy and attitude
of a teenager? Maybe just being a plain old adult is better.
If I admit to being a grown-up, will somebody fix the
bathroom mirror that makes me look like my grownup father?
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The
Aging Battle
(The
Immortality Dream)
By: Patrick M. Kennedy
The anti-aging, age-defying, longevity, staying
young, never aging, and the most extreme, the never-ever
dying goals in life, have spawned industries that create
solutions and concoctions that materialize in the form
of lotions, oils, skin creams, growth hormones, mud baths,
secret herbs, nutritional supplements, and laser beams,
etc. They are short-term answers to the age-old problem
of a longer life. Last year, 2004, Americans spent $20
billion on various anti-aging products. To this date there
is absolutely no scientific proof that any commercially
available product will stop time or reverse aging, no
matter how many lobbyists the pharmaceutical companies
put in Washington; of course optimistically, anything
can still happen in this scientific age.
Let us examine the core of the aging problem.
There is only one legitimate, workable counter-attack
in the battle against this process: Stop all the intimidating
sweeping hands on clocks and rip the calendar numbers
off the walls. Ignore everything and anything that announces
the date or time such as newspapers, TV and the Town Crier.
Mainly, don't celebrate birthdays.
Age is the duration of time one has existed.
And after all, aging is in actuality the passing of time,
isn't it? That steady arrow that silently moves in an
undisturbed motion invisibly passing in front of our eyes
through life on ball-bearing castors. It's the movement
of the planets and tides, hopeful buds popping from the
earth in the spring and tree leaves drying in the autumn
like weathered skin. It is the organic process of growing
older and showing effects of increasing age. 'No time,
no aging,' it's as easy as that. Unless science can stop
time we have a problem.
If Juan Ponce de León had discovered
the Fountain of Youth in Florida in about 1513, we wouldn't
have to worry. If we each had a portrait similar to the
Dorian Gray picture that cracked, wrinkled and aged for
us, we wouldn't have to worry. A sip of the elixir of
life potion and the resulting immortality would be fun.
But, NOT! It's a fact and historical consensus proves
it: Without a doubt 9999 out of every 10,000 humans unsuccessfully
inhibit the aging process. And that lonely 1 in 10,000,
it is rumored, manages to beat the process and shows up
as a same-old rehashed politician. The odds are against
all of us: We either pass to the other side or become
a politician.
As has been acknowledged, after all, aging
is the organic process of growing older and showing the
effects of increasing age; graying, wrinkling, sagging,
and shrinking. But there are some positive qualities to
aging, like acquiring desirable qualities by being left
undisturbed for some time, you know, like good bourbon
or tasty cheese or becoming a ripe banana or pomegranate.
Maturing, as some people look at it, is the process of
developing an entity until it reaches perfection. Somebody
forgot to define perfection in the eternal human life
process. It can be anything in the eyes of the beholder
in this twilight zone between being and not.
The immortality dream can take on many concepts
when mixed with personal and debatable reality. "Do
not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against
the dying of the light," said Dylan Thomas. "Time
to turn back and descend the stair, with a bald spot in
the middle of my hair--," said T. S. Eliot. These
are observations on facing the phenomena of life and aging.
"Look younger," says every beauty magazine on
the drugstore rack: This is nothing but sales gibberish.
Unfortunately, eternal youth can not be found in a bottle
or a jar, or even in a poem, but is a myth perpetuated
by the anti-aging agents of profit. But, anything can
happen.
Becoming a robot is one way to attain perfection
and beat aging, but how can someone walk in high heels
or sneakers with those club feet. The touchy-feely part
of life is discombobulated. Wigs, weaves, plugs, dyes,
skin grafts, wrinkle removers and plastic surgery don't
make anyone younger but can make anyone feel younger;
and they come close to the ultimate answer: robotic renovation
- that is, becoming a mechanical device that sometimes
resembles a human and is capable of performing a variety
of often complex human tasks on command or by being programmed
in advance. I've seen some individuals who feel plastic
is fantastic and believe they will never die because they
can never decompose. But being a robot, or wanna-be robot,
leaves out the option of tasting that fine bourbon and
cheese, or eating a banana.
But again, something may eventually happen
because we believe time is eternal, hope is not lost;
maybe the scientific community of anti-aging gurus can
clone time's eternal properties into the human DNA.
Packrat
Assets
(Moving
our Hodgepodge of Memories)
By: Patrick M. Kennedy
Sometimes we must do it. Most of us consider
doing it shortly after we withdraw from our labor for
subsistence. We must make our change of life complete.
It is a financially advantageous thing to do and maybe
a good thing, too, we justify: That is, the dreaded act
of relocating from our Colonial full-family model 4-bedroom
1.5-bath middle-class home (stuffed with a hodgepodge
of memories stacked and stored in many closets, bedrooms,
an attic, a basement, a garage, and a yard, and countless
dusty nooks and crannies) in a nice lawn-groomed neighborhood,
and move to a down-sized dwelling in another neighborhood
with homes stacked one on top of the other with less space.
It will make us happier; we fanaticize, and give us more
time to do the things we want to do; we anticipate.
It is an intimidating chore, this moving,
we soon discover. Somehow, after all these years, our
collection of memories has magically materialized into
solid and heavy structures and shapes, and just possibly,
there aren't enough boxes on earth to transport them,
or a truck strong enough to drag away the bulk called
our packrat assets. And concurrently, putting toothpaste
back into the tube comes to mind. Some memories will have
to be forgotten.
The unpacked boxes in the attic have gathered
dust there since our previous move. We strongly consider
leaving them unopened and add them to the charity pile
near the curb; and we nervously do, unopened, dump them
in the garbage. What are we going to do with semi-rusty
garden tools and a gas-eating, smoke-spewing lawnmower
let alone a snaking never-could-coil-it-anyway rubber
hose? We can't water and mow the carpet in our new and
tinier abode. We know why we kept the photos and artwork,
but why the 1987 phone book, and TV Rabbit Ears? We must
have considered at one time of stuffing them and hanging
them on the wall as souvenir of our first boob tube.
More books than shelves. It is an accepted
extraterrestrial law (which is more powerful than Murphy's
Law) and known by cosmic travelers for eons, that whenever
someone moves from one space to another space the books
that fit in those shelves before, don't anymore. I've
begun to tell small children to read a lot and read everything,
but give away the books when you're done with them.
We must also determine if all the T- and
Sweat-Shirts, and baseball caps for the Grateful Dead
and Give Peace and Chance and other advertising infinitum
souvenirs, and so forth, are all worth moving again: Especially
since they are quite a few sizes too small for us to ever
wear again and are of in the basic condition of cleaning
rags. And as we look at our other rags (clothes) we decide
we have stockpiled too many coats and sweaters for the
warm weather environment, and are head-nodding affirmative
in our belief that we purchased shoes by the pair and
not by the dozen. Rabbit genes are involved here somehow,
we believe.
Additional cardboard boxes are always available
at any of the local moving-truck rental spots. They are
sold in multiple sizes and shapes for encasing any conceivable
item and cost from $1.10 to$7.25 each. The key here is
we must be sure that what we pack in a box is at least
worth the price of the box or we are losing money. And
that poses another hitch: Establishing the difference
between assets and junk is like defining the difference
between a rock and a boulder, and we found, all have the
properties of being dirty, ugly and heavy.
A yard or garage sale is out of the question.
Many of these small items are only as valuable as the
memories attached to them, and we decided those were not
for sale. Our boxes and piles of donations to charity
are slowly growing at the curb into an estate of its own.
We see a bird picking pieces out of a wicker chair to
build a nest. We are pleased that some part of it will
be useful in a new home.
They say the earlier years of life lay the
foundation for the later years and it is important to
build on that foundation. 'They' who said that most likely
haven't moved their assets lately.
Zen
vs. Nap
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
A glazed donut smothered with a dark chocolate
and garnished with a rainbow of sprinkles vs. a sugarless/non-raisin
bran muffin: Like asking me to choose between riding on
a trike with a square front tire or in a stretch Limo
with a complimentary bar. Since exchanging my occupation
machine routine for a serene state of eternal retreat,
I've had to make so many new choices between happiness
and health … 'one leads to the other' I've been told
… but to me they're like animate forks in the road
through life that interweave around each other. One leads
to the other and they mirror each other just like a couple
married for countless years.
How do I best treat my body and mind to become
a healthier and yet happier person? I asked my inner self
who at the time was busy reading the TV schedule.
Meditation, of course, or Zen as some people
refer to it, is a subject often linked to the state of
true happiness (I guess as opposed to ordinary happiness
being a small fib). Zen meditation refers to a condition
in which the body is consciously relaxed and the mind
is allowed to become calm and focused: 'Continuous and
profound contemplation or musing on a subject or series
of subjects of a deep or abstruse nature'. This could
easily describe my state just before I take my afternoon
Nap on the couch. Do toes count as subjects of abstruse
nature? A Nap, as you are aware, is 'a sleep for a brief
period, often during the day … to doze': and it also
has another meaning; 'to pour or put a sauce or gravy
over a cooked dish'. I could easily be a cooked dish when
I vegetate on the couch during my afternoon siesta, but
not for this purpose of pursuing happiness in the psychic
sense.
I believe for me the Nap option is closer
to the phenomenon of meditation. Both these approaches
to true happiness, Zen and Nap, position the mind (and
body) in a relaxed state in order to become calm and focused.
If I tell my friends I take a short Zen period every afternoon,
would I be far from the truth? And I would appear to be
a deep person since I am seeking happiness using a universal,
trendy, contemplative method. Besides, Naps aren't that
far from true happiness. I have free-flowing happy dreams
in old style Technicolor; although mostly in slow motion
and vivid flashbacks these days, and unfortunately I must
I sit in the senior discount seats.
Breakfast is another and the first genuine
challenge in the choices between happiness and health
during the day (besides pushing or not pushing the snooze
button on the alarm). There's that bran muffin again.
Add a bowl of oatmeal and black coffee and I have a breakfast
as exciting as a one-horse race: How about ham or sausage
or bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast. I hover over this
platter of happiness at least once a week at Ma's Café
on the corner of cholesterol and glucose. I have to admit
this weekly weakness trashes the health aspects of happiness
but raises the joy-of-life happiness to a temporary level
of ecstasy.
I've found, since being allowed to make my
own decisions and not wedged into a rut, seemingly commonplace
everyday choices can be earthshakingly important options
in the quest for a healthy and happy life (WOW! is that
a mouthful of gingersnap words), such as to walk or to
drive (depends on the weather); cola or diet soda; (with
or without spirits); regular or decaf; a few laps on the
treadmill or a session of Tai Chi.
Now Tai Chi is my game at my speed …
slow, fluid and gentle, and can be practiced outdoors,
if I don't mind looking like a fool. It's a physical meditation
I'm told. I've seen some neighbors practice it down the
street in the park (it must be practice because it never
looks completely refined). They say it can help with everything
from blood pressure to increased bone density to lowering
stress. That's a lot for an exercise that imitates a stork
stuck in the mud. They claim it gives them a better perspective
of their life challenges and problems; and I can say that
would be an indisputable fact each time they lose their
balance and fall to the ground flat on their back. Everything
looks up from down there.
But I return to the original question: How
do I best treat my body to become a healthier and yet
happier person? And my fence-walking answer is simple
… chocolate flavored bran donuts with raisins and
sugarless sprinkles.
A
Second Heartbeat
(Or a Cuddle Buddy)
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
A crony recently advised me that I needed
another heartbeat. I immediately threw my hand to my chest
hoping for another … and again another after that.
'But the doctor says I'm in great shape', I gasped. 'Not
a transplant, idiot,' he put in plain words, 'a second
heartbeat, a companion.' Because I am a single senior
and tired of eating TV dinners and take-out food my mind
immediately flashed brilliant colors of Las Vegas ladies
and gala parties, but I knew with all that going on I
may need a third or fourth heartbeat to keep up the pace.
'A pet,' he clarified, 'a second heartbeat, a cuddle buddy,
someone to talk to rather than your impassive walls.'
My walls do just hang their and hold up the
pictures and doorways. My friend probably had a point.
I had to give it some sober thought … and thorough
research … so I started analyzing my way through
the animal kingdom … starting with the most common
heartbeats …dogs and cats.
For the most part dogs seem to be slow on
the uptake, but loveable and active, and they come in
a variety of sizes and colors. I figured size related
directly to food consumption and dumption (if there is
such a word to tolerably describe the process of following
an animal down the street with a plastic bag in hand),
and color related to shedding to match the carpet. Cats
are too mysterious and I am positive each one stares at
me with the intention of trying to possess my human soul.
That scares me. I have enough trouble keeping my soul
pointed in the right direction without it being attached
to a cat. But cats do have a lot of fun and are fun to
watch, from a distance. They run around the neighborhood,
unleashed, and chase birds and an array of imaginary wildlife
they eyeball from an ancestral crouch.
But cats and dogs are old hat and everyone
has one, I figured, so a visit to a local pet store might
reveal a menagerie of other heartbeats.
Birds are colorful, small and easy to maintain
and can chirp or chatter or sing. Canaries are small and
sociable, as long as you don't touch them (sounds like
some people I know), and can live up to 25 years. 'Wait
a minute,' I worried, 'I may have to include the canary
in my will.' Macaws are beautiful, but large and they
can live to the age of 50 … another inheritor to
my vast estate of packrat artifacts. And a plain old parrot,
if taught to sing O Solo Mio like Enrico Caruso, will
be a real pain in the brain in no time. Besides, where
do you put a birdcage in a SUV while traveling across
country?
Do snakes have heartbeat … a heart?
Does a fish have a personality?
When is the last time you had the opportunity
to cuddle and pet a rat, or even escort one down the street
on a leash? I was told a fancy rat, I supposed as opposed
to a Cinderella-before-the-Ball rat, is an ideal pet for
the ages 8 and up with adult supervision. (Being over
8 I didn't know who I could ask to supervise me in my
pet play time.) They grow up to 10-inches long with up
to an 8-inch tail. My O' My! That's a foot-and-a half
of rodent fun and maybe I could escort mine on a leash
down the street - if I want to lose all my neighbors as
friends and be attacked by cats … and 'you should
have two rats', I was told, 'they are smart and can learn
tricks …but they have large front teeth and need
something to chew on.' Between the tangled leashes and
my gnawed finger stumps, I passed on the rat(s) as a second
heartbeat.
Then there is the reptile family of pets.
There is a variety of reptiles beyond the slithery snake
group. How about a Crocodile Greco, a Panther Chameleon,
a Blue-tongued Skink, or an Argentine Horned Pac Man Frog?
All are genuine animals and not Sci-Fi creatures. And
you know what? These pets eat live insects and worms that
also must be fed nutrients before they are fed to the
second heartbeat. I passed again.
While considering the second heartbeat I
also reflected on some of the secondary responsibilities.
Cleaning up after any second heartbeat will be an olfactory
challenge no matter what the source: Cats are not clean
animals - have you cleaned out a cat box lately? Little
doggie-poop baggies are just disgusting. Stained and dirty
newspaper bottoms and littered water that must be changed,
and sweeping the floor of a reptile cage littered with
insect carcasses could be downright memorable.
There are a few other outlandish things to
consider, such as, a decent burial for my second heartbeat
in a Pet Cemetery; before that Veterinarian expenses;
related to that I recently read that I may have to send
my second heartbeat to be consulted by a member of the
IAABC (International Association of Animal Behavior Consultants).
I saw a sign in a pet shop I was browsing that advertised
'Have your pet's photo taken with Santa'. Come On! But
the one I read written on a bathroom wall made me feel
a little queasy, 'Keep our city clean. Eat your dog!"
There you have it, and as a man of strict
indecision and sticking to it, I decided my friend was
right and decided on two second heartbeats to keep me
in high spirits: a spaniel puppy and a wirehair kitten.
Dressing
Down
By: Patrick M. Kennedy
And I was positive I knew what I looked like
in the mirror all these years. But, to say it wildly,
the other oxford dropped when someone asked, "Do
you know what you look like in those clothes? Are you
comfortable? It's a barbeque, man. Loosen up!" I
had to admit I'd ventured out on very few shopping expeditions
for new rags since I embarked on my finer life of leisure.
I began to feel like an eight ball at a beach ball party.
Someone then suggested I wear a brighter
and more colorful shirt for a photo shoot. I can catch
a hint. I figured I'd better examine my closet and I found
it looked like a typical day in the Pacific Northwest;
a dull assortment of grays, blacks, whites and occasional
shades of blue…my dress-up clothes for many years
that served me perfectly well in the cubicle world. The
only traces of a rainbow in my closet were the neckties,
which I pledged I would never knot to my neck again; at
least I knew that much about casual wear. A light bulb
lit up in my brain, wearing my old work clothes as party
clothes wasn't socially acceptable and a major fashion
modification was in order.
After that degrading comment about my casual rags I scrutinized
the attire of my friends at the party (men only, because
women always have two or three floors of wardrobe to choose
from at any department store, even work clothes, while
men's clothes are strung along racks between the tools
and the shoes), and I deduced that casual clothes for
men materialize in three fundamental styles: The golfer
motif, which depicts the impression that the displayer
of this costume is arriving at or coming from the 18th
or 19th hole; Hawaiian-loud designed attire says vacation
is my game and I've been around and I don't want you to
forget it; or then there's the racetrack bookie garb that
falls between an imitation of Cary Grant and the used
finery purchased from a pawn shop. Believe me; any combination
of two of these styles creates chaos in the GQ world.
I decided it was time to dress down and I
ventured into unknown territory to shop for my new rags;
I wandered the streets of the city rather than the aisles
of the clotheshorse arcade. I stumbled on a store that
specialized in sneakers where just about any creature
from the animal kingdom or any barometric condition on
the weather map could encase my feet: choosing from the
basic activities of walking, running, cross training,
basketball, skateboarding, casual or courting. Being a
single guy I opted for the latter; it seemed like an all-purpose
shoe with a sort-of-flat sole and a conservative gray
color … hard to kick the habit.
Working my way up the torso new pants was
my next objective. I remember when jeans were simply called
blue jeans and had the little watch pocket in the front
and a leather label on the back under the belt. Now they
are called denims, Levi's®, Wranglers®, and an
assortment of cowboy (girl) descriptive action adjectives
and fashion designer dialog. They carry descriptive styles
like boot cut, pre-shrunk, cargo, carpenter, relaxed,
easy fit, form fit, loose fit, straight leg (What? As
opposed to a broken leg?), patch pocket, paint splatter,
boomer (now if that means baby boomer, they might fit
me), and adult cut; baggies were out because they dropped
below my love handles.
I had to make a fundamental style decision, that is, do
I want to look like an adult type or a preshrunk-relaxed-easy
fit type of casual person? I assumed the obvious and bought
the adult style, which I quickly splattered with paint
and dragged behind my SUV a few miles to make them look
in style. Of course, there are alternative choices such
as casual slacks, khakis, cords, and wash and wears, but
I decided to hold off on buying those until I lose my
extra weight at the gym.
I was beginning to get into this fashion-plate
mood and decided to venture up the body parts and cover
my middle-aged spread around the bread basket. Since I
live in warm territory, and because the color of my jeans
and sneakers were close in color to my work clothes, I
decided on a clashing rainbow collection of polo, golf,
tennis, and sport shirts; long and short sleeve; pocket
and non-pocket; with or without a moose, alligator, brand
name and golf club embroidered on the chest; multi-colored
and plain; and one size larger than usual to cover all
the good-time meals I'd eaten in my previous life.
Hats are a mood thing and my mood is usually
not to wear one, unless it's raining too hard or the sun
is shining too bright. I could hold off on jackets and
sweats until the weather cooled to room temperature.
There, it was done; I'd bit the bullet and
shopped till I dropped. I selected a set of sporty clothes
that I'll wear to the next barbeque. It's a different
approach than the three styles I'd observed on others.
I looked into the mirror again and recognized that I'm
now a retired teenager: Next, a pony tail, tattoo, and
pierced ear.
Help
Wanted
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Hat in hand, I must carry out the most multi-faceted
and degrading action-reaction performance devised for
humans since the beginning of the Industrial Age: A job
interview. The unexpected is always expected. Humility
is the strongest asset to bring to the table. I know that.
I must be pleasant and have a silk suit and tie on my
tongue with a button-down brain cluttered with pearly
smiles and polished pleases. The interview process, usually,
in the past, in my case, unfortunately, after the interviewer,
typically a fresh very-young graduate in Human Resources
from Matchbook Trade School, after glancing halfheartedly
at my resume, seems to consist of two questions: Why do
you want this job? And, can you find the door? My gray
hair trips me up every time.
While waiting – sweating – in the waiting room
before this interview, dwarfed by youth, vitality, and
the latest fashionable outfits, reality hits me in the
face like the bottom side of a frying pan. It must be
a weighty enough task for a young person to apply for
a job or plan a career in these days of high-speed mutation:
but what about me, a senior and proven useful individual?
I just want a meager supplemental income to keep the corporate
collectors from my door while at the same time doing something
with my idle time. I squirm in my folding chair and feel
like a no-nonsense tennis shoe at the Governor’s
Ball as the tasseled loafers pass me by.
I remember what President Clinton so eloquently orated
to an audience a few years ago, “By the time our
young people reach your age, they will be working jobs
that haven’t been invented yet.” Great! I see
a lot of young people around me who have fingered through
the yellow pages shopping for the Acme Trade School so
they can master those yet-to-be invented jobs, or have
applied at a local community college and asked, “Can
you enroll me in all the classes for a job that doesn’t
exist right now, but will pay me those ‘big bucks’
twenty years from now. And by the way, I’ll take
my $1500 tax credit in cash.” They are at least smart
enough to know that whatever they learn today will be
obsolete tomorrow because technology is moving too fast.
I feel their distress. I didn’t know the Pres was
also talking about me.
What about me? I’m available, a neat dresser, experienced,
and actively in the job hunt, but I’ve found, though,
the openings for a trained and proven professional range
from Superstore Greeter to Café Swamper. I guess
they have determined any old person can shake a hand or
swing a mop or drive a delivery van. If all else fails
I can always resort back to delivering the morning newspaper
like I did when I was 10 years old.
Despite all I continue the game. Two dailies thumping my
door: Opportunity knocking? Wonderful! Men Wanted. Man
Wanted For. Circle and call. Circle and call. I do the
expected newspaper routine. “Not today, sorry! All
filled up today, call again tomorrow or after you reincarnate
as a younger version and own a bigger car.” I can’t
demand. My resume and applications are probably stashed
in file drawers all over town between chopped olive sandwiches
and Mercy Missy Napkins. Because I have a young sounding
voice I finally land this interview. Looking around I
begin to wonder if this is actually an interview, or maybe
I was invited as an example of what could be if they don’t
play the interview game by the inflexible rules. My folding
chair squeaks from the squirming.
Our great nation has fabricated a Great Society by blending
all the melting-pot of newcomers, and has created some
wonderful children so-far: The Beat Generation of Zen.;
The Age of Aquarius or Where are we?; The Boomer’s
Generation of Now; The X-Generation of Whatever; And they
all boil down to the Skip Generation: Us, the cream at
the top of the pot. The 500 skeptically intelligent and
superficially compassionate people we’ve elected
to rent homes in Washington D. C., and who qualified for
their jobs by passing a political opinion poll in the
comics section, are no help. They throw around a lot of
words to get votes. We haven’t been defined yet.
Our jobs haven’t been invented yet; they haven’t
trickled down yet, because we don’t need work, they
say, we’re not expected to work, they believe. We’ve
been skipped.
A pleasant voice finally sings in demonic harmony through
the room calling my name. I rise and a recent-undergraduate
young lady beckons me to follow her through the gates
of hell, the interview room. As I follow her, pleas echoes
through my mind, ‘Please don’t ask me my age.
I’ll have to lie, and then I’ll have to explain
how I could be in the Army and Grade School at the same
time. Don’t ask me my favorite song or singer because
that certainly will date me as a Civil War Veteran’.
In the cubicle I am the perfect interviewee. My tie is
straight, I’ve swallowed my gum, my cell phone is
turned off, I’ve laid out the correct resume (out
of four I’ve had to concoct depending upon my experience
as related to the prospective job), and I answer all her
questions while looking directly into her eyes and avoid
the trap, the distracting movie posters hung on the walls.
Then: “Thank you for coming in. We’ll call you
when we have an opening you qualify for.”
“…But?”
Deja
Vu Driving
(Haunting
Habits Happen)
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
There are times when I really must do things
different than I did for so many years. But things happen.
Recently my Chevy took over my life and dictated my destination.
Have you ever had that happen? I was heading home from
an insignificant event, coupon shopping at a supermarket
down the road, when it happened. I wanted to make a left
at the next light to shop at another market that had wonderful
savings on vitamins and tissues: A cheap price and it
was the last day of the sale. My car ignored the left
and continued on until it turned right into my driveway.
I'd missed the turn, missed the sale, and didn't realize
it until I started taking bags out of the back seat.
What happened? I scratched my head, which
I know solves all my problems, and realized that that
was the route I drove home every workday for years. My
Chevy was on auto-mode into that old routine. It drove
home on its own. Like a faithful horse it had that feeling
it had been here before and out of habit followed the
beaten path. Some call it sort of an eerie Déjà
vu phenomenon. I call it a habit not broken. My Chevy
just didn't know any better. Notice, I don't blame my
memory, I blame the whole thing on the car. I also blame
the Déjà vu God of Order in Life who is
as overpowering and as intrusive as cheap cologne.
I'm all for order. It can be a good thing
sometimes, like if I'm looking for matched sox in the
dresser drawer, but enough is enough. For example, I finally
realized a while back that I no longer must set an alarm
because of the habitual pattern and many years of waking
up at 6am; I still do, no matter how hard I try to sleep
in. It's a routine I can't break. I eat lunch at the same
time every day, hungry or not. The remote appears in my
hand and TV news goes on the same time every evening.
The experience of being controlled by the Déjà
vu God of Order in Life is usually accompanied by a compelling
sense of familiarity (read boredom) and also a sense of
eeriness or strangeness. This I know from personal practice.
I found through research that the previous experience
is most frequently attributed to a dream, although in
my case there is a firm sense that the experience genuinely
happened in the past. My work history proves this last
point. The only thing missing is my cubicle and desk.
I don't want to be here. You know what I mean?
I also found that these haunting habits aren't
just created through work-related patterns; they can spring
from any repetitive action. A friend of mine owned a cat
for years and each evening before bedtime brought it in
from the wilds of the back yard to sleep in the warm house.
After the cat jumped through its ninth life cycle by unsuccessfully
challenging a wild raccoon, my friend still hopefully
ambled to the door before bedtime, opened it, and looked
around. 'Just checking for burglars,' she would justify.
In the corner of the kitchen there still sat the lonely
clean food bowl and a sand box. Visual habits, a place
for everything and everything in its place, are just as
hard to break. I still trip over the ottoman that was
there before the invention of the recliner.
Then there is the haunting habit that never
happens. Another friend spent work days in a bank data-processing
department. Her job was to put out the fire if a system
or cash machine crashed. She anxiously waited but never
broke into an intense work mode unless reacting to a crisis;
then she went into full throttle speed to solve the problem.
Since retiring she is still anxiously waiting, and waiting,
but not reacting because the problems aren't there: A
habit not happening. Is this good or bad?
All habits are not as bad as smoking: Like
brushing my teeth; washing my hands after a workout at
the gym; and eating soup with a spoon and not a fork.
But I want to have that soup for lunch at 2:00 and maybe
drive to a market too far. Better yet, drive around the
city until I'm lost then find my way home. The opposite
of haunting habits, I find, must be memorable adventures.
A light bulb lit up over my head. Small sojourns
into the world of the unknown around the city are what
will make this retirement thing a little easier to cope
with. Big adventures like trips to Maui and New Orleans
are nice, and costly, but the little book store or small
café across town once in a while can make the day:
The road unknown and the parkway to somewhere else suddenly
became inviting. It will take me a while to retrain my
Chevy to seek the unfamiliar, but once I brush the Déjà
vu voodoo dust off its steering wheel and take charge
again, good things will happen. They've happened before
haven't they?
My
Gastronomic Chemistry Set
(The
Battle for the Body)
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Analyzing the components of my meals using
my gastronomic chemistry set is essential for concocting
a wall of defense against the assault on my health or
a longer lifespan. Being a senior citizen and wanting
to graduate to being a wise old person is a constant challenge
that makes it necessary to carefully pick and choose my
poisons. This full-time battle against all odds involves
not only the woeful time spent at the table, but also
the pre-research and calculation processes I must perform
to decide what and when to eat; and if it is good or bad
for me, what it will cure, what it will prevent, and what
body part will fall off or be added by its consumption.
I prepare oatmeal for breakfast because it
is a heart-healthy fiber that supports my body's fight
against BAD cholesterol; not because the glob in the bowl
is a mouth-watering delicacy. I use non-fat milk because
it is what it says it is, and instead of sugar I use honey,
since it is rich in antioxidants that prevent cancer and
adds a golden color to the glob. I remember when I ate
honey just because it tasted good. I add a few blueberries
or raisins to the glob, if I have any; they also help
fight the BAD cholesterol. Salmon also helps the heart
but I just can't see it on my oatmeal this early in the
day. I sprinkle a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon on it,
more decorative color, to improve the glucose metabolism
that keeps my body from being taken prisoner by diabetes
2. I do all these things because I was told to do so by
my supporting army of published nutritionists, and I add
a glass of orange juice since it contains everything good,
including the sun, as does any fresh fruit. It also lowers
blood pressure.
Eating has become a full-time struggle to
protect myself against the invasion of bad things. Now
I'm not an expert, and I'm not a member of the accumulation
of experienced researchers and nutritionists who rally
around to protect my body, if I were I'd have to write
a book to qualify, but I do bring a lifetime of eating
experience to the table.
Lately I've had the paranoid feeling that
everything I consume is a life threatening plot against
my longevity. Believe me, this isn't half as much fun
as downing hash browns, ham or bacon or sausage, and eggs
with buttered toast. Many days I've been tempted to sacrifice
a few hours of the unknown future for a single meal of
joy; and some days the temptation wins. But don't tell
anyone in my army.
There are so many convoluting, contradicting,
and proven studies and marketing statements that it's
hard to boil them down to fit into an ideal, yet non-intrusive,
nutritional lifestyle.
Let's take 'Cool … Clear … Water'.
I've always been told to drink eight 8oz. glasses of water
per day. Recently that has been revealed as a myth, probably
started by well diggers, because we only lose about 1
liter of water a day through sweat and bodily processes;
about four glasses. What is the world coming to? If nutritionists
can't figure out water, how can I believe them about steak?
That raises the questions: How much to drink, when, and
what? By the time I feel really thirsty, they say, I'm
already dehydrated. Bottled water doesn't contain enough
fluoride to prevent cavities in children (not my problem
anymore), and some tap water may contain health-harming
bacteria or parasites. A filtration system under the sink
that performs reverse osmosis (RO) is a great answer while
I'm at home, but a better answer would be a RO built into
my body so I can drink from a public fountain or out of
the river. There's a $1,000,000 idea.
The scariest part of the day: What's for
lunch? Here my gastronomic chemistry set is used to analyze
the rations I'm about to eat, and choose what I will not
eat. Hot dogs and the usual processed meats I use for
sandwiches, besides being fattening, contain preservatives,
additives, and other chemicals used for processing including
toxic nitrates and nitrites, or chemicals that are formed
during processing, and can pull the trigger against my
nervous system. They are snipers in the body also knocking
off elements sensitive to insulin, and thus provide another
chance of being taken prisoner by Diabetes 2. Soup is
good, home cooked is better and some canned are OK, but
there are so many flavors and recipes that thorough research
is involved to avoid fats and retain nutrients. Eating
fast food is a notoriously and highly publicized bad-bad
no-no exposed for a multitude of chemical outlaws. A salad
bar never fails the fast food test unless it is loaded
with pepperoni and sausage from the pizza bar or covered
with chocolate syrup from the desert bar.
Dinner can be one hope in this siege against
my body surrounded by an army of destructive elements.
That is if I avoid: red meat and pork, which poke red
flags along the colon; pizza, which has more artery hardening
fat than a cheeseburger; potatoes are good, but with butter
or gravy are fattening; pasta carries a guarantee to make
love-handle bulges on my sides; chicken and turkey sans
fatty skin are OK if not deep fried or smothered in a
fattening cream sauce. Fish is great and filled with the
impressive sounding element Omega-3 fatty acids that are
good for all things heart related. Fresh vegetables steamed
or slightly boiled are good chemicals but taste like vegetables
that are steamed or boiled. No butter again. Fresh vegetable
salads are the best if tainted with vinegar and olive
oil.
Dessert is OK if it's non-fat, non-sugar,
non-white flour, and served with the perfect taste and
texture of cardboard or Plaster of Paris. Dark chocolate
contains those helpful antioxidants. What can I say about
Jell-O?
My gastronomic chemistry set, as you may
see, is merely a lifetime of knowledge I've collected
over the years in my fight for life. After a while it
becomes a habit to me, and should be for you, sort of
like breathing … and that's not a bad idea either.
Asset
or Liability?
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
When you dripped out of the shower this morning
and looked into that steamy full-length mirror, were you
looking at an asset, or a liability? A while back a friend
and I were leaving the city dump and I asked the attendant
at the scale, "What is the fee for dumping."
She answered, "$20.55 per ton including tax."
That meant, my friend quickly figured, it would only cost
a little over $2.00 to leave your body here at the city
dump instead of disturbing the soil someplace. That led
to a conversation and exploration into the value of a
human body, that is, the entire material or physical structure
of the organism humans carry around every day.
We found too many statistics and studies
conducted to determine the chemical value of the human
body. They range from the $.89 value we were taught in
school, excluding of course the cost of extraction the
elements, inflation and the fluctuating stock market for
the price of chemicals, to a $4.50 value including the
skin. Apparently a Japanese team meticulously measured
the square area of the skin on a human body and determined
it was between 14 and 18 square feet; depending upon the
body size. They also determined using the approximate
price of quality cowhide, about $.25 per square foot,
the skin of the human body averaged out to be worth about
$3.50. Now that means the other day when I was participating
in one of my asset building activities, softball, and
I scrapped my rear sliding into second, it cost me a several
pennies off my asset. The question is: Did that negate
the afternoon of asset building?
But this is a mere pittance of the real value.
New studies have found you can feel like 45 million bucks,
instead of a million, on a good day. Replacement body
parts are only a fraction of the value. A lung, heart
or a kidney is worth only between 50 and 100 grand. The
brain has no value, sometimes even an active one. But
throwing in the DNA, antibodies, male sperm, female eggs
(Here again women are worth more than men.), and especially
the bone marrow, these elevate the value up into the comfort
zone, that is if you believe insurance companies and hospitals.
Put the items on E-bay and you will probably watch the
value climb from the comfort zone to the stratosphere.
There is only one drawback to the economic process of
this evaluation: All prices are based on living tissue
and I don't know how long I could sit still for having
the DNA, or other things, extracted from my body, molecule
by molecule.
But getting back to earth, we had to determine
whether the human body was worth more than a plug nickel
other than to a chemist or surgeon. There are value scales
other than the scientific. To fly your body from New York,
NY to Melbourne, Australia and back, first class, makes
your live body worth $16,906 to the airlines for taking
up one seat on a 747. If you feel you have an economy
type body, it is only worth $3,197 for a less comfortable
seat. Being too close to the subject, we didn't venture
to ask the cost of a departed body on the same trip. But
to ride a bus it is only worth about a buck or so. To
sit that same body in a VIP seat at the Broadway show,
The Producers, for 2 hours and 40 minutes it will cost
you $200 plus $40 service charge, whatever that is.
Looking at all the figures we determined
that our body-asset is like a small business. Any balance
sheet, even for our body-asset, has expenses subtracted
from the actual value. We figured haircuts, perms, manicures,
body waxing, cosmetics, shaving, some visits to the dentist,
and the like, were minor maintenance expenses that improve
the package, but not the product. Plastic surgery, we
figured, was in a neutral zone between body maintenance
and mental maintenance. Doctor appointments and operations
were major and necessary maintenance expenses to keep
our asset an asset and not a total liability. Physically
working out the body in one form of exercise or another
was positively split between minor and major expenses;
looking good on the outside, and feeling good on the inside
… with a dash of mental maintenance thrown in.
What to eat? What to eat? This is a totally
different subject and deserving of a full examination.
But in a nutshell, and by the way nuts are good for you
and your cholesterol level, if you follow every recommended
diet and believe every scientific study, you'll wither
your asset away from the confusion. How to exercise? That's
another profit making decision to be studied in your spare
time, and a personal preference.
The bottom line comes down to the fact that
the body reflected in the steamy mirror is our primary
asset and it must be taken care of while we haul it around.
Eat correctly and exercise smartly and we have a long-term
asset; don't and we have a short term liability. Sooner
or later, you know, we will be asked to quit carrying
it around and exchange it for a no-maintenance Casper
the Friendly Ghost type body that won't be reflected in
the mirror. In the meantime, watch your asset.
Bad-Hair
Days
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Most of us want the high-quality kind of luck that brings
a random chance for prosperity and good fortune. It just
takes one lucky day in a lifetime to be someone else.
Some people have it, but most of us don't. I have bad-hair
days, we all do, and I believe in all justice we should
do something about it, because some of us have them most
days of the year. You know who you are and I don't mean
those with frightening combovers, split ends whipping
you on the back like a cat o'nine tails, or frizzy curls
undomesticated and maddening. I mean that for many of
us who pat the decades on the shoulder as they pass us
by believe good fortune has been left outside in someone
else's sunshine - while it rains all over us inside. "It's
just one of those days", has become a daily mantra.
We are the victims of Murphy's Law. It is a fact and not
just an old saying, "If anything can go wrong, it
will." There should be some kind of cosmic balance
to this phenomenon. I'm of the notion that there are so
many of us on this side of the scale that we have normal-hair
days, and those on the sunshine side are freaks of nature.
While THEY win the lottery or are four steps ahead when
the truck barreling down the street hits the mud puddle
near the curb, we lose and get splashed. That's the odds-in-your-favor
existence that's always left to glow under someone else's
sun.
But, like I said, we should do something about it, and
I don't think a march on Washington DC would do the trick;
besides most of us don't have the extra change for airfare
anyhow. And I don't think we should duplicate the actions
I read about one woman. She received a bad haircut at
her local salon: This is a bad-hair day in the real sense
of the word. The next day she came back with a pistol,
demanded her $100 back, shot up the beauticians car, and
went down the street to another salon to have her hair
repaired. My guess, she probably is will be spending a
lot of bad-hair days in the gray-bar hotel.
There is quite a variety of old sayings that try to smooth
ruffled feathers (hair). "We have to play the hand
we're dealt." "It all evens out in the end."
And my favorite, "What goes around comes around."
What the heck does that mean? Does it mean on days when
I feel like a dog chasing its own tail, I'm OK? Does it
mean that someday I will catch it? Then what? Will I find
the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow or just another
good saying? These are all nice feel-good sayings that
function as pacifiers, but only work about as long as
it takes to shoot up a beautician's car.
I think we should ignore that disgruntled Irishman, Murphy,
and follow the advice of another distinguished philosopher,
Simon. Simon says, "If anything can wrong, and does,
pay no attention to it and chalk it up to experience."
I know there are some of us who play the same Lottery
numbers every week, and the one week we forget to buy
a ticket, they draw our numbers. Now that's a bona fide
bad-hair day and hard to ignore after you've jumped up
and down on the coffee table and created a piece of pulp
art. But, all in all, it is a real character building
experience - isn't it?
Luck is all relative anyhow. If I win $100 at the local
casino, I say "WOW!" If someone in the stratosphere
of Mr. Gates or Trump wins the same prize, their reaction
would probably be "That's nice, another drop in the
bucket." These are both acts of good luck, so I guess
luck is just in the eye of the beholder. Some of us see
others gliding along through life like a silk butterfly
in a slight breeze without a care in the world. Most of
us feel like a caterpillar crawling along in the fast
lane of a freeway. If we can only make it to the off ramp
we may turn into a butterfly. "Hope springs eternal",
I guess.
All in all if bad-hair days build character, and that's
what we like to tell ourselves, then most of us have positive
qualities to spare; and I'm a candidate for sainthood.
We've endured the worst of days and are now trying to
enjoy the best of days. There's nothing we can do to change
it now. I look back at the scrapes and scuffs, black eye,
and a broken arm; a car accident or two; sickness here
and there; the lost loves; the lost lotteries; the fact
that Ed McMahon never delivered my million-dollar check;
and the reality that I was born and grew up less than
tall, and know I must take it all "with a grain of
salt". I know I'll move on. I'll comb my hair every
day, shampoo when I feel like it, get a haircut once a
month, pretend my hair is good, and croon a little show
tune, "Luck be a Lady tonight."
Hunting
the Elusive Hobby
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Now I could be talking about hunting for the Old World
falcon, an elegant bird of prey, or simply called a Hobby,
but I’m not. These are elusive birds that dine on
insects and small birds, and sometimes dragonflies, but
I’m not. I am talking about my pursuit of an auxiliary
activity, outside my regular occupation, that I can be
engaged in for relaxation. While hunting for this perfect
hobby, I, at times, felt like that dragonfly, because
I had to flit from here to there to discover the ideal
and most enjoyable way to use my spare time. My regular
occupation these days of course is in the past tense,
such as, I once was a worker bee, and so keeping my mind
alert and my body fairly active are my only objectives.
Hobbies I found come in many shapes, forms and activities,
and to choose one I had to delve into a NASA sized research
project. I discovered the list of options to be infinite
and with all the properties of a can of worms. Some come
under the category of keeping idle hands, the devils workshop,
busy and creative. These would include for example: model
building; painting in oil or water; carving in wood, stone
or clay; needlepoint; jewelry making; and on and on. Others
can be categorized under legs on the move because you
have to walk, ride, dance, or tramp. This category combines
physical health with mental health. Not an entirely bad
idea. And another category would be keeping the brain
waving and lively. This consists of activities like: collecting
anything, playing chess, electronic games, cards (i.e.,
poker or canasta); genealogy; gambling; reading; and yes,
even writing.
As an ex-worker bee I have a creepy need to fill my idle
time with activity. I can’t just sit around and listen
to the rust build up around me. I get anxious, like I’m
doing something wrong by having nothing to do. I think
early in life I must have been bitten by the work-ethic
wasp, and it has stuck. I finally understand the problem,
and realize now I must find the perfect solution, a hobby—but
where to start?
The local hobby superstore was a bonanza of information
and ideas. I strolled down the crisscrossing aisles and
immediately my work synapses snapped signals to my pleasure
genes hidden deep inside my libido. The aroma of glue
and the small, slicing tools hanging on the racks brought
visions of a cluttered workbench. I was in love with everything
and I could envision my home beautified with the creations:
Model airplanes flying from wires attached to the ceiling.
Better yet, remote-controlled model airplanes screaming
across the skies over the neighborhood schoolyard; boats
floating in my bath tub and in the community pool, or
just casually sailing across my fireplace mantle; or model
cars from every age and every country covering every spare
road and highway in my home. Wow! There’s not enough
time to do it all, but I will try.
Unfortunately the rules and boundaries of a home invaded
my fantasy. We need the kitchen for cooking, the dining
room for eating, the bedroom for sleeping and dressing,
the bathroom for other stuff, and the living room for
entertaining (although we may allow a little space for
one or two models). That leaves the closets. There is
also some room left in the basement and the attic. My
planes crashed, my boats all sank, and the cars were stuck
on a freeway someplace. My glue gummed up the kitchen
sink and I suddenly had small-tool cuts on my fingers.
I moved on to the next category of options which proved
simpler. Dancing was immediately obliterated from the
equation because I hadn’t danced since Chubby Checker
asked me to do the Twist. Tramping the woods and camping
seemed like a pleasant pastime, but it is mostly done
on weekends, when it doesn’t rain, which is mostly
in the summer and in the mountains, a far drive away.
What about the rest of the year, and week. Now walking
is easy, but I do that anyhow, and I don’t consider
it a hobby, but a necessity. Gardening is good, and I’ll
leave it at that. Running is just walking faster. I don’t
want to do that.
Bike riding is another subject and one I can wrap my legs
around. I’ve noticed bikes being ridden everywhere,
by every one of every age, and I’m part of the ‘everyone’
species. City, country, day, night, fast, slow, stop for
ice cream or chase the sunset, an extension of walking,
only with wheels: It has it all. With 24 speeds, a crash
helmet, water bottle, a neat little pack on the back rack,
and riding gloves like an Indy racecar driver, it all
sounds great. I moved this hobby to the top of my list—especially
after visiting the local bike shop and seeing all the
models and colors and accessories. I should be in good
enough shape; after all, I walk don’t I?
I figured in fairness to the collection aficionados I shouldn’t
dismiss this category altogether. There may be some fun
here, and definitely another method for passing the time,
as well as meeting people of similar interests. The other
people element is an important secondary benefit of getting
any hobby. Stamp or coin or comic book collecting, it
seems to me, is something that should have begun in childhood
and build itself into a passion, sort of like gambling,
but I can’t see that happening overnight. Collecting
dolls eliminates about half of us. Although collecting
action figure dolls eliminates the better half. Antiques
are nice. Collecting old cars is something I could really
get into, but my garage is too small: About as small as
my budget.
My choice was obvious. I would have to combine two or more
hobbies into one. Some options were immediately out. I
couldn’t bring together candle making and knot tying;
or jewelry making and collecting action-hero toys (well,
maybe not); Stamp collecting and bowling don’t seem
to fit within my personality profile; and dodge ball and
acting my age would never be a good mix … although
I’d like to try dodge ball, just once.
I thought bike riding and collecting something could be
combined; throw in traveling and/or camping, take a few
notes for writing, and a hobby could emerge. Reviewing
the combinations is endless and could be a hobby in itself,
but is best left to each individual’s quirks. But
Watch Out, if a medium-sized falcon mistakes you for lunch.
You’re hunting the wrong hobby.
Eating
Smart
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
I’ve spun a lot of miles under my vehicles in my days
as I’ve traveled the country, and the most important
question I ask myself after ‘How far is the next
gas station?”, or “Where is the next restroom?”
is, ‘What can I eat and still make time?” A
fast-food drive-through eatery always looms alongside
the highway, but is that smart and will my arteries harden
before I get to my destination? Refolding maps is hard
enough without deciding on what to eat while driving 70mph
past the menu.
On the more serious side, a colorful crop of graphs, charts
and pyramids bloom and are printed on a regular basis
that categorize and dramatize all the food qualities recognized
by man. We should be familiar with these. It must be some
kind of rule for prolonged existence. They have been cranked
out by the government, as well as other health and profit
conscience parties, to educate eaters on the benefits
of eating correctly, thus living longer and more productive
lives. (This is important to the government because it
collects most of its taxes from living humans and to a
flam-flam few other parties who collect profits from the
same group.)
Humans, referring to you and I, are the logical targets
of this information bonanza because most of the other
animal groups have their diet thoroughly and naturally
figured out without by-the-numbers education. They munch
through it on a daily basis. Giraffes chomp on treetops
and lions gobble up giraffe meat. Dogs eat dry or canned
food, and canned food eats…that’s another story.
Big fish eat little fish. It’s a cliché as
well as a fact. The animal kingdom has a regular diet
program called a food chain that has evolved and been
tested through the ages, and it works. Most are still
alive and eating, reproducing on a regular basis and looking
darn healthy. And to be perfectly clear, in this definition
Taco Tommy’s just off the freeway is not considered
a food chain.
We know Eating Smart is the current mantra pounded from
print, infomercials, PBS, and an occasional snake-oil
salesperson that comes through each city, gathers a crowd,
charges a fee, spouts some spiel, and tries to sell us
a book. Does that mean eating Smart Food? What is Smart
Food? Are we to eat Rhodes-Scholar rutabagas, or PhD peas,
or morsels of IQ like iron or iodine spread over Quail
or Quiche: So many decisions beyond the bacon-burger with
cheese served at the quaint little drive-in along the
highway.
Eat to live longer is the complete notion, but isn’t
that a given? If we stop eating, we die! Even a pretzel-poppin’
nincompoop knows that! It is a simple nutritional reality
known since the Garden of Eden. Why was the first residence
of man in a garden of smart food occupied and shared by
the original snake-oil and apple salesman? It was a tempting
taste of the future.
But let us get back to that bacon-burger with cheese and
stack it up against the Smart Food Guide Pyramid pushed
by the government and its allies. First, we start from
the bottom, the bread layer. The burger has that, twice…two
buns…another on the top. It is recommended by the
perfect-food pyramid and is packed with complex carbohydrates
and essential vitamins, though it calls for whole wheat
instead of white bread in the pyramid, it is close but
not with the full nutritionists blessing. The next level
up is the vegetable group. We can unquestionably confirm
that the burger stacks up well against the pyramid in
this layer: All those garden bits and pieces like onions,
tomatoes, lettuce, pickles, ketchup, mustard, and maybe
a gas-blasting jalapeno. What a potpourri of healthy stuff,
i.e., smart food: A regular Garden of Eating.
Meat and cheese overwhelmingly satisfy the next level of
the pyramid. A quarter pound, or more, of ground meat,
and a serving or two of American cheese, provides a daily
supply of all the carnivorous protein, vitamins and nutrients
needed by man’s body since menus were illustrated
cave drawings of food on the run.
Now holding to the pyramid pattern, neatly at the top of
the perfect-pyramid burger is a serving or two of bacon.
It contains a little meat burnt to the proper charcoal
level, and a little oil (grease) to assure things run
smooth. And also lurking at the top of the pyramid are
the sweets and spices, because we know that any reputable
burger bar has mixed in a hefty helping of sugar and salt
in that special sauce used for added flavor.
There it is. We can find smart food anywhere if we look
hard enough with a vivid imagination. The conclusion we
must come to is that a bacon-burger with cheese served
through a window is in effect smart food, but the party
pooper group of three-piece-suit nutritionists from the
USDA recommend it as a dish only 2 or 3 times a month,
not a day. Now that’s dumb. Who wants to endure a
burger famine for 27 days a month? Anything sounds better
than Rhodes-Scholar rutabagas, which any breathing human
animal would probably eat only 2 or 3 times a year, and
try finding a drive-through supply just off the freeway.
Smart Food is a smart idea for people who have the time
to investigate it, cook it, eat at a kitchen table, and
write a book or tape a video, but should only be a life-surviving
hobby for us, the animal kingdom group referred to as
Homo sapiens.
Single
Senior Show
(Or: Dinner after the Wallflower Parade)
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Eating fine food in a quality restaurant is
a dream for all citizens who have worked a lifetime for
it. So occasionally I have the urge to enjoy a quality
meal while indulging a setting with tablecloths, linen
napkins, and silver not plastic tableware, please. Eating
it alone is the nightmare. You see, I know what it’s
like to be the focus of attention as I cross a dining
room like a wallflower parade with a of string of toilet
paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe, trailing me like
a bridal train, and people gawking at me, or worse, averting
their eyes so they don’t display any impression of
an I-know-him glance. That’s what I feel like, sometimes.
I’m a single senior, and this lightning strikes me
whenever I participate in a social occasion of any kind.
The most uncomfortable event, and probably
the most frequent, is at a stylish restaurant. It inescapably
begins when I approach my first adversary, the hostess,
with mild apprehension, because the first embarrassment
typically is manifested when I say, “One for dinner,
non-smoking, please.” “Only one?” she asks.
“Yes, Please.” Then the exaggerated yanking
of one menu from the rack, and a full body twist, “This
way, please,” and the show begins.
I know the spotlight is on me and I can feel
the buzzing of gnats as they surround me, attracted by
the nervous sweat rolling down my brow and back. Every
eye in the place is directed at me, I’m sure. ‘Please
get me to my table as quickly as you can,’ I silently
plead with the hostess from the paranoid caverns of my
mind. Then, after weaving around every table so I have
been fully displayed, I arrive at my table. “A table
for six, don’t you have anything smaller?” I
appeal to the hostess. “This is all we have, unless
you want to take a table in the bar?”
They always ask that. They always want singles
to be with other singles in the bar, drinking, so maybe
we, some day, will be couples and can become a full-table
bigger-tip customer. “No, thank you, this will be
fine.” I want to explain to her that all bars smell
like dirty ashtrays and carpets soaked with spilt cocktails,
and that truly spoils the taste of the fine dinner I am
about to pay a good hunk of change for.
“OK. Your waiter will be, Smiley, and
will be right with you.”
“Thank you.”
Now the second embarrassing adversarial event
takes place. Smiley’s ally, Busboy Bill, charges
the table and meticulously, with the grandiose flair of
a Las Vegas magician, salvages the clean place settings
of the five friends and family who obviously must have
snubbed my dinner invitation. One, two, three, etc., the
napkins, silverware, water glasses and placemats are scooped
up and paraded across the room to the little nook in the
corner where waiters and busboys congregate to plan my
social demise. It happens. It must. These degrading rituals
can’t be an accident. It has to be a social behavior
created by generations of service workers, or taught in
Restaurant 101. Who knows?
“Can I bring you something to drink?”
asks Smiley. “Just coffee.” “Just coffee?”
“With cream, please.” “Nothing from the
bar?” There it is again: the bar. “No thank
you.” From that time on the dinner goes just fine,
except the eternity between when I’ve ordered the
meal, and the point when the meal arrives. What to do?
In a small diner or café I usually whip out the
daily paper or a paperback and read it while sipping my
coffee. Here? No way. It would be like waving a red banner,
Lonely Person! Lonely Person!
During the meal, the eating part of it, after
it parades in dish by dish, I get the usual courtesy drop-bys
from Smiley, “More Coffee?” “Everything
OK?” “Will there be anything else?” And
invariably on each of these occasional visits, my mouth
is full of food and I must either nod my head or spray
a mouthful of it across the table if I say “More
coffee, please”. They must also instruct waiters
and waitresses how to do this with faultless timing at
Restaurant 101. This is where universal sign language
enters. I point at the cup and nod, yes … or no.
After the meal is complete I need, must obtain,
the check so I can calculate the amount of a tip and escape
out the front door. Smiley walks past me with 6 desserts
somehow attached to all hands and arms and strides a beeline
for a family at another large table. I move my plate away
from me to signal that I am done. Smiley brings a pot
of coffee … to another table: I need coffee, too.
I don’t get it. I place my napkin atop the fragments
of food I’ve left on the plate and nudge it to the
edge of the table … and wait. Busboy Bill is more
attentive and captures the plate, silver, cup, saucer,
and water glass, and remaining are a couple of peas I’d
accidentally brushed off my plate. They somehow have become
plugged into an electrical outlet and develop strobe-light
characteristics, which are attracting the critical eyes
of everyone in the area.
Smiley passes again. I try a casual wave.
Once. Twice. Then I realize I must make a dash for it.
I put enough cash and a proportionate amount of gratuity,
undeserved I must say, on the table and attempt to sneak
out around the happy diners, past the hostess, and toward
the front door, hoping all the time I don’t get stopped
and accused of an act of Dine and Dash. And again, all
the time, of course, dragging the same toilet paper train
behind me that I dragged in. I must keep, it so I can
display it at my next stop, the theater, alone.
Is
FREE a Fixed Price – Or a Down Payment?
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Offers for FREE goods and services are being delivered
daily to my mail box and sent to me by e-mail, overwhelming
me on TV, and falling like snowflakes from my magazines.
As a frugal individual I pay attention to saving a buck
or two. If I accept as true these offers, I may never
have to spend another penny, on anything. But what is
FREE to me? I’m not imprisoned or shackled, and I’m
not under the control of another’s will, except by
my Better Half, of course, who imposes house arrest, so
set me free mostly doesn’t apply here … I hope.
That only leaves the option that someone is going be a
kind spirit and give me something at no cost, no money
that is, complimentary, gratis … I hope.
For example, the other day a standard 4x6 pre-addressed
postcard fell from a magazine and floated to my floor
like a graceful and disarming dove. After it alit from
its flight, the blazing red letters rose from the card
like a ruthless hawk and cried FREE. I had to inspect
the details of such a blazon command. 10 issues of the
magazine FREE for the mere action of ordering a subscription
for 30 issues at a low cost of $29 plus change. At the
low per-issue rate the card advertised, it was just like
getting 10 issues for FREE. I believe it was more like
a down payment. Some deal, huh? Maybe the same company
would sell me 10 acres in Manhattan and give me one for
free. Fat Chance!
On TV the telemarketer rambles his spiel, “A FREE
bottle of magic liquid cleaner… just buy one bottle
and we will send you a second one FREE … and we’ll
throw in two FREE bottles of shoe dye, the color of your
choice, a FREE sponge on a stick, two all-purpose rags,
and an entry form that entitles you to enter a contest
that offers a FREE trip to Orlando as first prize. And
if you order now, the telemarketer continues, for each
future order you will receive 2 bottles for the price
of 1 … for life” WOW, I cry out, all this for
just purchasing one 20 oz. bottle of supernatural cleaner
for the dirt-low price of $10 plus change. Now I no longer
wonder why they immediately fill the TV screen with flashing
phone numbers, replicas of credit cards, and attractive
dusting housewives; because the announcer is definitely
and uncontrollably laughing up his sleeve off camera after
the pitch.
Now another scam (excuse me, offer) that is closely related
to the magazine offer is the book-club offer printed on
an attractive brochure personally addressed and slipped
into my mailbox: First book, FREE; second book, FREE,
third book, FREE (WOW!); fourth book at the Regular Price
plus Shipping and Handling (OOPS!). All this for just
signing up for a years supply of other and more books
that I may or may not order or want. FREE in this case
is definitely a down payment on my future reading activities
and an iron clad guarantee of less space in my bookshelf.
I like to imagine I’m just as frugal with my bookshelf
space as I am with my cash … but I really believe
I fall short of both.
Now in most cases Shipping charges I can see and understand.
The product has to get from there to me, somehow, but
Handling charges are a mystery. Does this mean they wear
clean or latex gloves during the packing process? Does
this charge guarantee the product will not be dented,
torn, wrinkled or maimed, and the order will be complete,
correct and properly addressed? I doubt it. I believe
this handling charge is how they handle the lost profit
on the FREE part of the offer. I’ve seen some Shipping
and Handling charges range from 6 to 30 bucks, depending
upon how fast I want their FREE product, when in fact
postage glued to a brown envelop would be sufficient for
delivery. Go figure!
Some things are really and truly FREE … excluding
the obvious, air. E-mail offers of FREE newsletters are
a windfall for the penny pinchers like me. I just sign
up for the weekly/monthly/daily e-mail delivery to my
inbox of a newsletter explaining the values of modern
poetry and its effect on the environmental extinction
of concrete libraries, and the filling in of mud flats
in Nevada, or something along that order of madness. The
neat thing is the newsletter will also offer bargains
on everything. That’s all. But to sign up I have
to fill out 3 web pages of personal information: likes
and dislikes, shopping habits, income level, sex, etc.,
and recommend my friends. Hmmmm! No outlay of cash for
me, so it must be FREE, and since I now loiter in semi-retirement
I have oodles of time on my hands to read every word of
every offer generated and sent to me in my personalized
and valuable FREE newsletter. Is this a fixed price, or
a down payment?
Some other things are FREE: Samples of products delivered
to my home by a charming, bright-eyed, gray-haired lady;
Catalogs, for obvious reasons, are FREE; CDs with multi-purpose
programs to install on my computer are FREE (but SAFE?);
Kittens are FREE if I want to take one home; Coins are
FREE if I want to stand on a street corner with a cup
in my hand; FREE tips; FREE hand up; and FREE peanuts
or popcorn at the bar where I will contemplate and categorize
all the FREEEEEE stuff in the world.
But here is some FREE advice; the most important and generally
FREE item is my will or self control. I can or can not,
will or will not, or must or must not, fall for FREE offers
from even the most attractive offerer person.
The
Enemies I Buy
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
I, as a red-blooded and very experience
human being, have always had the self-belief
that I was smarter than a toaster. I know
the younger generation with all their gizmos
and thingamabobs could fry me in a one-on-one
contest of technology trivia. But I always
thought my discount-store inventory of appliances
was a safe haven. I know it’s a hard
choice between saving money, and saving sanity.
But things happen.
This morning I was rudely attacked
from the blind side by a blood-curdling scream
that interrupted my canoe ride through a softly
tinted forest on a serene stream. My nighttime
dream world had been shattered like a cheap
mirror.
My first reaction was self-defense.
I grabbed the pillows and crushed them to
the sides of my head, for self-protection,
to muffle the eventual mushing of my brain
by those ultra-violent sound waves. It took
a few seconds to clear the fog and readjust
my wits so I could analyze how I’d been
thrown from my serene stream into the front
row of an acid rock concert in hell.
My second reaction, an automatic
motor function, was to open my eyes, blink,
then adjust to the daylight and investigate
to see if the room was spinning around me
or me around it. My third reaction was descriptive,
‘Dagnabit!’ If you haven’t
figured it out, my first enemy of the day
was a whirly little electronic black-blazer-butler
Made-In-China hammer located somewhere inside
my newly purchased inexpensive snooze-alarm-radio
clock. My fourth reaction was to moan, ‘why
is it screeching, and how do I turn it off.’
I hadn’t turned the alarm on in the first
place the night before. I can sleep in these
days. That’s what I’ve worked for.
I must have placed one of the ten or dozen
knobs and switches in the wrong position.
I don’t punch a clock anymore, but this
time I did.
To fix this little box of horrors
before the next morning, I set each switch
in the desired position, just like the multi-language
instructional pamphlet suggested, secured
them into position with a lump of Scotch Tape,
and said a little prayer to Thomas Edison,
who I’m sure, is the God of electronics.
The coffee pot is a mostly harmless,
but a sometimes sneaky, enemy. I ran water
into the coffee pot, placed a new clean white
filter into the little basket with the magical
hole at the bottom, measured in the proper
ratio of coffee grounds per cup of water,
poured in the exact amount of water, anticipating
a little extra boost to help me forget the
morning’s dashed dreams, closed it all
up, and pushed the brew button.
I could hear the babbling and
singing of the coffee maker. About once a
week, or so, it’s an accepted disaster,
one of the sides of the nice new white paper
filter will collapse and allow pure, unsaturated,
gritty bits of ground coffee to pass through
the magic hole and into the pot. And So! The
first cup I pour in that morning looks like
a mud puddle in a freshly turned garden plot
with dirt floating around the edges like baby
bugs.
Again, I have three choices of
defense to act out here: First, I could yell
Dagnabit! Which I already know solves nothing;
Second, I know lumps of Scotch Tape won’t
work in this situation, so I can either repeat
the steps above for a new pot; or Third, I
can give ground (no pun intended) to the enemy
and attempt to dab up the grit from the suspicious
liquid with the corner of a paper towel. Next
time, I muttered, I’ll remember to inspect
the filter like my Army Captain used to scrutinize
my footlocker.
In the meantime, the new toaster,
the one with the unpretentious knob that assigns
Light to the left, and Dark to the right,
and neither means anything anyhow, smoked
like a three-alarm fire in the corner of the
kitchen cabinet, contentedly and warmly creating
black tiles of bread. Enough said! I won’t
get into the color of the butter as I took
up the challenge and tried to spread it with
non-crumbling agility across the flat sides
of the tiles. This enemy is easy to defeat,
but may take a whole loaf of bread. Starting
from the left I toasted slices of bread until
the exact color mix of $700-dollar-an-ounce
gold and charcoal was attained. Then, with
a dab of enamel paint (nail polish will do)
I marked the spot for perfect toast …
just in case someone turns the knob. Toast
quality is personal choice and not an exact
science.
The bowl of oatmeal gruel in the
microwave had just bubbled and exploded. This
enemy is a subtle sniper. The muted hum of
the electromagnetic waves rattled my breakfast
into an edible temperature zone and lulled
me into a sense of false security. The muted
crack of an explosion rocked the morning air
like a sniper’s gunshot. I’d overlooked
the warning sign: Cover All Food. The inside
of the zap contraption looked like my enemy
had layered stucco on the walls with a paint
gun filled with my gray matter. I’ve
forgotten to put a cover over the bowl. Never
do that. Just a paper plate over the top is
easy, and disposable.
My enemy started to resemble me.
Warning here, Juicers are armed
land mines if the lid is taken off too soon,
unless you want to wear a shirt with an orange
spatter pattern. I think this remedy is obvious.
These lessons are disturbing for
someone like me who is trying to be a non-morning
person and sleep in, relax, read, etc. My
enemies are lurking in every doodad convenience
gadget I buy at the discount store. It’s
part of the deal and clearly printed within
the barcode I can’t read, also on the
label I can’t remove from my appliance
without a blowtorch or strong acid. I’ve
found, just because these appliances are cheap
and have been designed with all the friendly
colors and curves, it doesn’t make them
friendly, or trustworthy.
Well then, if you can’t beat
them, join them. I’ve learned to fix
and work around all these appliance attacks,
and pass the information along to friends.
It has built for me the reputation as the
Appliance Guy: There are many enemy appliances
lurking out there, this is just a sampling.
I don’t make much money, but free coffee
and lunch in exchange for that small appliance
repair or hint can be an entertaining hobby,
and if you get good at it, you can make lots
of friends.
Yard
Sales Inch by Inch
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Finally, the apples of our eye
have moved on to clutter up their own homes,
and we may now think about moving to smaller
and cleaner abodes, or southern and warmer
climates. It’s the natural order of life.
And this without a doubt means a yard sale,
to clear out the clutter, must be considered.
As enterprising senior citizens with the genes
of a pack rat, we must scatter treasures atop
folding tables and across lawns to grudgingly
part with precious icons from our materialistic
histories. But first, we should examine this
commercial experience so we can understand
it, and possibly make it a constructive and
profitable event. We need a plan that will
be meticulously crafted and followed, and
probably just as meticulously abandoned. There
are several areas to be scrutinized before
setting up this scavenger boutique, and a
little of my hesitant advice may help.
Advertising Fun: Hanging the letter-size
posters everywhere is a requirement before
any yard sale. What to say? Junk Sale sounds
too trashy. Closet Clutter Sale reeks of desperation.
Good Stuff For Sale sounds too iffy. Pre-used
Trash Sale is too honest, and too negative,
and definitely not very inviting, and Pre-loved
Trash Sale…sounds too cute. Keep it simple
stupid and just call it a Yard Sale. A map
and an address must be included on the poster.
Bright-red arrows painted on cardboard and
tacked on telephone poles at the nearest busy
street are a big help. Just make sure the
wind can’t blow them upside down. Also,
an A-frame sign on the curb in front of the
house can stop any potential customer. A chain
across the road isn’t necessary. Get
the apple of your eye to help with this if
you must.
Money: Pennies on the dollar is
a fair swap for your time and material while
planning for your less-than-cluttered future,
and is a straightforward and obvious motivation
for a Yard Sale. And what to charge for items?
It’s a give-and-take situation and the
master business plan of all Yard Sales is
to barter.
How much change should be on hand?
How about accepting checks? Take them on trust
or not? Since it is all junk anyway, if the
check doesn’t clear there still is a
positive transaction because the customer
has carted away another unwanted, unused item
that took up space in the garage or attic.
Physical Layout of the Sale: How
do you post the prices on the items: Big,
small, or none at all? Everything listed as
OBO (or best offer)? Or should there be a
secret price list that only you know about
and can reference? How many display tables
do you have? Need? Should you put mats down
on your beautifully manicured lawn so it won’t
look like a cow pasture the next day? Should
you open the garage door and put stuff in
there? All these are legitimate multiple-choice
questions with so many answers they can’t
be listed here.
The Inventory: Rule One –
Everything goes since you are moving out of
town. Rule Two – Everything worthless
goes.
Some have suggested that all the
items should be cleaned and polished: Another
option is to leave all that clean-up labor
to the buyer. That’s part of their fun.
Besides, when I buy things, I always want
to clean off all their germs and replace them
with mine. It gives the item more of a personal
touch.
The Customers: Some early arrivers
are looking for that unnoticed antique article
of artwork they can snap up for a few pennies
and a belittling snicker. Remember that a
sale is a sale and anyhow, you never would
have known the value of that old needlepoint
anyhow.
The bargain hunters, the wheeler-dealers,
the price whittlers, the I-want-something-for-nothing
shoppers will make your day. They bring the
real spirit of a Greek Market. The best solution
is to participate in the game and negotiate
to make the sale a win-win result. It just
feels good to bicker with a person one-on-one
instead of handing a bar-coded plastic artifact
to the clerk at the local discount store.
The real shoppers are the young
couples setting up a new household, and the
teenagers who have finally been booted from
their homes by their parents: Like you possibly
just did. These are the real customers. They
have a limited vocabulary and a limited bankroll,
but also have an empty house or apartment
to furnish, thus about half of everything
you display is needed.
Pre-Pre-Planning: If you’ve
really thought ahead to the unmentionable,
that is, the reality that some items might
not be on the Yard Sale shoppers’ list,
you have already called an organized charity
to pick up the remaining items, and then found
out, My God, even the most desperate charitable
organizations refuse to pick up some of the
items! And then you also found out, of all
things, that these organizations specialize,
or have a list of items they do and do not
take. You must call two or three of them.
It’s Over: After the Yard
Sale is over, there are going to be plenty
of items left over that even the most addicted
Yard Sale shopper couldn’t purchase.
The reality is, the dust gathering process
has restarted with a vigorous flamboyance
enhanced by the parting potential customers
spinning their tires in the dirt driveway.
And a further reality is revealed, as the
sun sets, that all this time, unknown to you,
all your precious icons of personal materialistic
history are just dust magnets attracting all
the particles from the cosmos. You probably
will have to move them to the dust magnet
headquarters, which is called the dump.
Home
Page
The
5th of July
By:
Patrick M. Kennedy
Yes, the 4th is Wham Bam Bang
and Sizzle Independence Day and it is
packed to the horizon with picnics, parades
and band concerts all over the place;
with decorations of red, white, and blue
stuck to everything. But the 5th is the
first day of the next 364 where the practice
of freedom is really celebrated. A day
to mull over what went before, and what
will be from now on; sort of like a day
playing country-store checkers after a
day of an international chess competition.
The fire crackers have cracked and the
rocket red glare is no longer in the air
where the odor of burnt sulfur hangs around
like an irritable family member. The ground
is carpeted with paper confetti scattered
by the fireworks and parades. But remember,
the 5th is also the birthday of P. T.
Barnum, the self-proclaimed prince of
humbug; the day the Salvation Army was
formed; the Secret Service was started
on this day; and in 1946 the first bikini
was worn in public. I don’t know
if any of these events have a connection,
but if so, let’s celebrate again!
And some of us do.
This day-after day has always
had a special meaning to those in the
slower lane. The 4th of July conveniently
this year falls on a Monday and provides
another glorious three-day weekend. But
those of us in a not-working-every-day
phase of life say, “Who cares?”
Mondays disappeared from the calendar
a long time ago. We no longer have to
suffer through Blue Mondays because it
was the first visible benefit after the
last day of work. A favorite question
on Monday morning in the elevator use
to be, ‘is it Friday yet?’ And
the normal response was, ‘the third
best day of the week, after Saturday and
Sunday.’ Many of us in the past took
the 5th off of work solely to gently recuperate
from the 4th.
The 5th inescapably suffers
as it is the day after the giant rotating
backyard BBQs, this year your house and
next year someone else’s, with all
the trimmings, all the friends and neighbors,
and all the merriment mess. The day after
everyone has contributed their favorite
casserole, salad, snack and dip, or a
suspicious glob of something in the middle
of a platter surrounded by a concoction
even more puzzling. Some bring their favorite
meat or fish to smoke and broil in the
open air barbeques, and everyone tries
to top everyone else in the taste department;
which makes for a wonderful feast. Many
even drag in their own portable barbeques
and lawn chairs so there’ll never
be a shortage of hot-coal surfaces or
cool-comfortable seats under the trees.
Ice chests brimmed with cooled beverages
and tasty snacks are lugged in
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