Vince Sweeney's Blog

I've Tried...I Can't...I Give Up

2009-11-10T12:00:00.000-08:00

Anything homemade beats anything out of a jar, or a box, or a can, or a package of any kind.

That's an immutable, a given, a fact of life as we've been told over and over again by cooks, chefs, gourmets, gourmands, and moms and grandmas since our ancestors found fire.

Before fire, everything tasted like dirt and twigs.

After fire, maybe everything tasted like chicken.

"How's that gator, Dave?"

"It tastes like chicken, Ed."

"Why we eatin' gator, Dave?"

Is your gator lacking that certain something you've come to expect in a reptile? If so, what won't help is my not-at-all-famous and not-very-good homemade barbecue sauce. And, yes, gator tastes like chicken.

God Lord, I have tried and tried; then tried again and again. I can't do it. It's beyond my reach. I simply cannot make barbecue sauce that's any better than what comes in a bottle or jar.

Sometimes, it's not nearly as good as what comes in that jar or bottle. Sometimes, that cheap house-brand sludge that's mostly molasses tastes better than the stuff I slow cook right there with loving affection in my home.

You go with what you got, right? And what I got is that I am pretty darned good in the kitchen. No false display of modesty for me, it's true, it's an acquired skill. I worked at it, I learned basics over the years. I can cook better than most, although many cook better than me.

I heard it once said that, if you can read, you can cook. True? Nearly but not entirely. Reading, patience, caring, and attentiveness are also necessary to cook. You got all that, you got it made.

Since the '70s, I have studied, I have read. I have watched, I have listened. I have learned. Among the secrets is balance. Balancing flavors, complimenting flavors, knowing what works together, what does not. You must be smart and humble enough not to force together those that do not work. You build a dish. You build it layer by layer, layers of flavor. I know this, accept this, practice this.

To be clear, there is no formal training involved, and I surely could never run/manage a kitchen or a restaurant. But there is not a dish made in any restaurant, fine or otherwise, that I cannot make as well or better at home...then I hit that barbecue sauce wall.

Not all that long ago I gathered up the ingredients, while conjuring up the balance of flavors that would make for a genuinely good barbecue sauce. Layer by layer, I built the sauce element by element. Gently tinkering with apricot preserves which would play off the sharp edge of the crushed tomatoes, wedding the balance with sweet onion and next the tomato paste.

Then, just enough fresh garlic so that the palate would notice should it be missing. Fresh ground pepper, kosher salt, trace amounts of cumin and Worcestershire, a dash of turmeric to linger and nip at the tongue, and all then readied for a slow simmering. A few splats of a Louisiana hot sauce, a pinch, no make it two, of cayenne, the symphony was about to begin.

Wielding the baton to make beautiful the melody of barbecue sauce is that standard of standards when it comes to condiments. We're talking good old fashioned tomato ketchup, or catsup should you prefer. Good, finest quality, American ketchup. Heinz, what else? Many barbecue sauce makers don't want you to know the dirty little secret, but it's the ketchup that can put the magic in that gently bubbling dark red velvet.

Deep crimson, dark and smooth. Appealing to the eye, a very important ingredient itself, for the Chinese say you eat first with the eye.

Hours later...

"I wasn't crazy about the barbecue sauce." That's my wife. She's quick to praise my cooking, slow to criticize.

"Yeah, me neither." That's me. She was right. No need to feel at all deflated.

End of conversation on the barbecue sauce. End of me making barbecue sauce.

The next night it was Gruyere stuffed pork medallions with a balsamic port reduction sauce, sitting alongside a rutabaga carrot soufflé with a saute of shittake mushrooms? Tremendous, worthy of compliment, maybe could even win me a prize of some sort.

Barbecue sauce? Never made one worth a damn, but I have made my last, and that's a promise. Oh, my spaghetti sauce needs work, too.

Autumn's Finale...

2009-10-31T09:25:00.000-07:00

I suppose last weekend was it. We drove. We looked. We searched. We made due with what was to be found.

The foliage just never got here this year, as has been the case for quite some time, which I did grumble about before.

Finding apples and pumpkins was a plus, it helped to fill in the gaps left by the lack of that precise mix of water, temperature, warmth and chilliness, that can force the stunning show it sometimes does.

For good measure, and with really no thought given to the approach of Halloween, we stopped and walked a small graveyard, lingering in imagination at the lives long ago begun and ended by some of the original settlers in this particular piece of Luzerne County, very near the Wyoming County line. Some of the dead here have been such since before the Civil War.

The surname upon most markers is Dymond, a familiar name to many of us. Dymond's strawberries, blueberries, and hayrides bring an annual trip to the country for a lot of folks in the Wyoming Valley. Right down the road from Dymond's farm is Brace's Orchards. Brace is likewise a name to be found on some markers in this small family cemetery. Those are baskets of Brace's apples up there. Spectacular.

This place, before I forget, is Dymond Hollow. If you're ever of a mind to make the trip, it's not far from Fitch's Corners, on Creamery Road. You'll know you're there when you spot the Dymond Hollow United Methodist Church, a pretty little place with a very active congregation, I'm told.

Personally, I'd like to offer thanks to the deity that places like these still exist and that folks still live nearby and gather for chicken and biscuit suppers in small country churches.

I had to have said this before, but America isn't New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. America is everything else in-between.

I like living in-between.

The Cliches of Autumn...

2009-10-24T09:02:00.000-07:00

It's really hard to avoid the photographic cliche when the days again grow short.

Earth-tones, water, sky, late afternoon light, they all say the same thing - it's Fall.

Looking for newness in Fall subject matter takes work, work I'm willing to do, and willing to travel to find. The net result, though, seems pretty much the same.

You drive to where the apples are, search out a blanket of pumpkins, find that looking glass lake. It's pretty much the same.

Getting the right mix of clouds and deep blue skies is a big boost and the only thing you can do to achieve that effect is be patient. You wait, you watch, you'll get what you want. Or you can Photoshop. Nothing here has been "shopped."

Photographic or otherwise, the cliche is a cliche, I think, because there is some truth to it.

Not all that long ago I was listening to "The Girl from Ipanema," the original hit version done by Stan Getz with vocals by Astrud Gilberto.

If ever a song became cliche, that was it. Grammy Award or not, cliche it is, still to this day, the song is cliche.

It became such because so many people loved the song which, in turn, forced countless entertainers to cover the song. Good, bad, somewhere in the middle, hundreds, thousands, did "...Ipanema" at one time or another, making it cliche. You don't play or listen to a song over, and over, and over again because you hate it. If you do, try adjusting the aluminum foil hat a hair to the left and back.

Challenging "...Ipanema" might be McCartney's "Yesterday." It's been reported that "Yesterday" has been commercially recorded over 3,000 times. Cliche? Sure. Great? Absolutely.

My point? Cliche doesn't mean bad. Quite the opposite, really, cliche more means well-liked, maybe even loved. You might be tired of hearing something, looking at something, or listening to it, but that's because it was once popular enough to be elevated to the level of cliche.

Know this, there is nothing in the world of the cliche that didn't earn its position. It takes years of repetition for the patina of cliche to slowly accumulate on any given object, phrase, tune, or even a way of life.

People can be cliche. I was a TV weatherman for over twenty years. Does it get any more cliche than that?

Sad to say, cliche or otherwise, this year's foliage was simply unspectacular. By the looks of it, roughly a week before November, we'll get no breathtaking show this year again. By my reckoning, it might be as many as ten years since Autumn's wow-factor turned heads. Nice, to be sure, but not up there at knockout level.

It's the last weekend in October. From here at home, the day is slowly turning from drippy and overcast to low clouds breaking for some sun. There are way more leaves on the ground than in the trees. Pieced together, it's a somewhat forlorn sight.

The location of each photo, top to bottom, is:

Brace's Orchards, Franklin Township.
Darling Farms, Dallas Township.
Frances Slocum State Park, Kingston Township.
Ford's Pond, RD Clarks Summit.
Brace's Cider Mill, Franklin Township.

It's 2009's last weekend to capture even more Cliches of Autumn. I'll give it a good try.

A Path Once Wandered...

2009-10-21T09:52:00.000-07:00

The Sunday drive is as much a part of my tradition as the dread of Christmas shopping, which of course, is really not much more than weeks away for many. For this laggard, you must be kidding, there's a lifetime to be lived between now and any shopping.

I carry the platinum Federated Laggards of America Membership Card.

So it was that this Sunday past I tossed camera gear in the truck, tossed myself in along with it, then headed for...well, I really didn't know where.

The weekend previous it was south to Hickory Run in Carbon County, so this week I went north into Wyoming County. There was a destination in mind, but my guts were nagging me toward somewhere else.

Going with my guts, I let the journey take me.

In a broad sense, that somewhere else is a location known by many as Sugar Hollow. Others call it The Stretch, or you'll hear the the term the Barn Pool used for this area. Barn Pool no longer applies, since nature (weren't we just talking about nature?) did some reclamation work in recent years and erased the Barn Pool.

Once the road goes from hard to soft, you're there, at least by my own accepted coordinates. The rutted swath you see is not for those still among us with rear wheel drive. It's either front or four-wheel drive, with the only alternative being, get out and walk.

I'd come home. More accurately, I'd returned to my "home water." Most everyone who's ever fly fished has a stream they consider home, their home water. For me, it's here in Sugar Hollow.

For far too many years, I'd been away, busy with things other than those which make me content, happy, at peace. This is a place that once chased errant thoughts away, slowed and calmed a busy and racing mind. A place that offered tangible meditation. Roll your eyes at me saying so, if you will, but this place holds a Zen like quality for me. That may be the first time I ever used the word Zen in any situation. It'll likely be the last.

There may or may not be great enlightenment here, but there is an undeniable peace and tranquility. Each path you see is a means to an end, both lead somewhere, and that somewhere is a little piece of Bowmans Creek that I love, as do so many others.

Fly fishing, be assured, is not a better way to fish, merely a different way to fish. Fly fishing is also a solitary pursuit, in itself rewarding.

To catch a fish is seldom the point. If for you it always is, you've missed said point. Fly fishing, therefore, may not be fishing at all, it could be something else. I see that as a very real possibility.

It's now almost twenty-five years since first discovering a personal immutable: Fly fishing empties my mind of all else. Once I step into a stream, my consciousness becomes as clean and clear as the stream itself, and remains so for as along as I wade its waters.

The gentleman to the left arrived on Bowmans Creek just about the same time as me that day, only he'd come to fish. I'd come alone to reminisce. He was fully outfitted in stream gear, all functional, while my gear was a camera and a lot of great memories.

We had a good chat. On one page we both solidly landed; working a stream is good for the soul, it has magical soothing not to be found elsewhere. Stream etiquette has always been important in fly fishing, so with his happy consent, I stood, watched, and photographed.

Some say there is nothing so good for the inside of a man as the outside of a horse. Having spent but a scant couple hours of my entire life on the back of a horse, there's no challenging that claim.

Instead, I'd offer that, for many, nothing is so good for the mind as the ever moving and never changing waters of a trout stream.

Waving the wand we call a fly rod is little more than giving your hands something rhythmic to do while the sounds of chilly rippling mountain water wash away useless thoughts and distractions.

That day, while I watched, my new acquaintance caught and released two beautiful brown trout. When not looking at him, or following his fly upon the water, I looked skyward.

Within no more than fifteen minutes, an osprey and a great blue heron passed closely enough that we might have looked each other in the eye. And while I can't raise my right hand to it, I'm near positive of glimpsing the brief flash of a bald eagle riding a thermal into view no more than fifty feet away.

Last Sunday was a fine day.

Hickory Run...

2009-10-18T07:37:00.000-07:00

Overlooked is one word to describe Hickory Run State Park. Another word might be under-appreciated. In all honesty, I wish that more of Pennsylvania would get overlooked, ignored, and generally left alone.

This is one gorgeous state. Its natural beauty may very well be unparalleled. Each time a little bit of it gets gobbled up in the name of "progress" my stomach turns, my heart breaks. Hyperbole? Sadly, no, no, not at all.

Even what I've captured here has been tinkered with by man. Interfering with the natural order of things is an All-American past time. Baseball? Nah. The All-American pastime is not leaving well enough alone. In this particular case it was building dams. Yes, I would imagine you'll find some charm in this photo, charm coming from the fact that both of these dams are built of roughly hand-hewn and presumably native stone.

The charm wasn't lost on me. I stopped, set up my camera on tripod, and took dozens of long exposure shots of this scene and others within the park. There is considerable charm in the pretty pools and cascading waters created by those rocks placed one upon another.

Waterfalls need not be of our making, we've got plenty right here in NE PA left behind from the glacial scraping of the last Ice Age. Have you ever visited Rickett's Glen? Breathtaking.

Each time we build something for our pleasure or convenience, we interfere with how nature developed over millions of years. That incomprehensible time-line should alone be a pretty clear indicator that nature, however you define it, is a force not to be trifled with, not to be teased over and over again until there's a breaking point.

Nature will never break. We will. The planet may suffer countless indignities but will, in the end, prevail.

No matter the thousands of lessons hard learned down through the centuries, humans continue to believe we are masters and mistresses of all we survey.

Some say, "We plan, God laughs."

We plan, nature laughs. It's really one and the same.

Scooping Out The Litterbox...

2009-10-10T07:14:00.000-07:00

Before gagging, yewwwwwwing, and getting all dyspeptic on me, that's a cake over there. You want the real thing, I can hook you up, but that's a cake. There are dozens of recipes out there for Litter Box Cake, it's apparently big around Halloween. Boo. I'm a little queasy myself.

Got that annual flu shot a few weeks ago. Painless enough. Last week, early on in the morning, the chills woke me, followed by an ache from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. A flash of fever followed. Reaction to the flu shot? I really don't know. Some "experts" say any reaction you might experience would not be that reaction.

The Swine Flu. Didn't we go through this thirty years ago? Seems I remember lining up at a firehouse in Taylor to take that thump from a pneumatic inoculation gun so I didn't get Swine Flu. And, I didn't get it. Who did? Some joked it was no big whoop. I think that mass inoculations, free at that, prevented an outbreak that was feared by many as the coming of a great plague, literally.

We have something for everyone. Why do businesses insist on telling me that there's nothing they don't have? No one has everything. The closest I've ever come to seeing a place that had something for everyone was Sugerman's. Even their bulging inventory didn't halt them from skidding into the big book of history.

Marcellus Shale is one hell of a seductress. If some gas company came around and started writing me astounding checks to poke holes in my property, it would be really tough to say no. Many will get wealthy beyond imagining, going from near poverty level to millionaires overnight, really overnight. We need to slam the brakes on this thing until legislation is in place to strictly regulate the process. Last week a string of Halliburton drilling rigs blew past me on I-81 north. Does anyone believe these corporate monsters will leave us better than they found us? Please, someone, anyone, do what needs to be done; place a moratorium on all drilling until we can feel safe in knowing that we aren't getting drilled along with the Marcellus Shale.

Jay Leno would do himself a favor in knowing when it's time to leave. It sure can't be the money or the benefits, so it has to be either an enormous ego in need of feeding or an equally insatiable appetite to keep working and working and working. I've mentioned elsewhere that I really loved Leno as a stand-up, then really disliked him as a late night host. Both he and NBC are trying too hard, and it shows. NBC has brought us some of the best, while bringing us some of the worst. Would someone please tell Amy Pohler that she's not funny? Her pal Tina Fey can be very funny. I don't think "funny by association" works.

SNL's Turnaround on President Obama. Their flip from pro to anti was more about pumping life back into that sad shell of a show than biting commentary on the president. The president is not above criticism. SNL is no longer funny, and far worse yet, its relevance is trace at best. My qualifications to critique the show may be a little thin. I don't watch it much these days, it's that bad.

President Obama's Nobel Prize. Shortly after news came from Stockholm that our president had been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize, his detractors began dissing not only him, but the Nobel Prize itself, some going so far to say, "...a Nobel Prize isn't what it used to be." You do realize of course, that most making all the noise have no "prizes" of their own, they haven't even a little teeny tiny plastic loving cup around the house marking even the smallest of achievements. Again, the president isn't above criticism. However, bitterness and resentment over the accomplishment of others is pretty damned small-minded.

The Letterman Affair. Affair, fling, dalliance, casual sex, whatever it was, it sure sounds like little more than a physical tangle between two consenting adults. Now, of course, the "talkers" are all out there trying to make a ton more of this thing than it deserves. Letterman cheated on his wife. To state the ridiculously obvious, that is unacceptable, wrong, despicable. Now all the vultures and parasites are circling and slithering in hopes that this situation "has legs," meaning that there is enough bubbling beneath the surface here to keep it going for months, years. My prediction? No legs. Vultures and parasites go elsewhere. Most Americans are very fond of David Letterman, that's an opinion that will not change.

I love newspapers and read at least three a day. That, I guess, is the good news. The even better news is that I actually hold all three in my hands and read them...but only Monday - Friday. Weekends, I read two of the three on-line. On-line is where I have a problem, and not with any news stories themselves, but rather with the ability offered by these papers to leave comments regarding any particular story. Read the story, then read the comments. The line gets very blurry as to where fact ends and opinion begins.

A chance of showers doesn't mean "Run for your lives!" Weather people really need to work on that. It would be the responsible thing to do. I spent twenty years yammering about the weather, and daily, hourly, fought to bring correct and precise information to the public in whose service I was. A shower is just that, a shower. It's not an all day soaking rain. I've understood the implications from both sides of the camera. While I'm making a speech here, rain is not evil. Rain is a bringer of life.

A Brief Trip on The Misinformation Superhighway. This past week we had ourselves a situation. Seems a dog got itself stranded on Scovell Island in the Susquehanna River. Scovell is one huge land mass in the shadow of Campbell's Ledge, an environment unto itself no more than a stone's throw from a busy neighborhood. By the time the dog was back with its owner, the stories circulating ranged from the silly to the absurd. Fingers of blame predictably started to look for a target at which to point, and there was no such thing. The dog got away from someone who was dog-sitting. The dog ran. The dog is skittish, a little nervous. Some dogs are, some dogs aren't. When a passer-by spotted the dog and tried be a Good Samaritan and grab it, the dog jumped in the river and swam over to the island. Most dogs swim quite well. There was no neglect, abandonment, or animal cruelty involved. I know. We had a Humane Police Officer on scene. There is far more to be gained in animal welfare with a level head, rather than with raw emotion.

We didn't get the Olympics. What shall we make of Chicago's failed bid to bring the games here? I can tell you what I make of it; America isn't the only country in the world. We may be the biggest and the best (at least we think so) but we are neither the center of the universe nor the capital of the planet. America, and Americans, can't have everything they want. When we don't get what we want, we whimper and, just as with the doggie-deal, we start looking for targets of blame.

I Like Fall...

2009-10-08T18:26:00.001-07:00

Harveys Lake. Last Sunday.

Late afternoon.

A grab shot from the small stone dam near the "Lakeside Skillet."

Sometimes you get lucky.

It won't win any awards, but not bad.

The Free Lunch...

2009-09-26T09:52:00.000-07:00

It was a long time ago. JFK was in the White House. I was in fifth grade, maybe sixth.

Uncle Jack, my dad's younger brother, one of two, would often ask me to help him out with certain chores and projects, typically weekend things at the family cottage out on Lake Ariel. The cottage was just that, a cottage, meaning it wasn't built for year round use.

Windows had to be shuttered with plywood panels, plumbing had to be drained to avoid freezing and bursting. The lone toilet would get one last flush, then be filled with a gallon of anti-freeze. The boat and canoe had to be dragged from the water and stored beneath the cottage's porch, itself then boarded shut.

It was a day's work. It was fun. It was also an education.

Jack wasn't preachy. Quite the contrary. He was, however, a great storyteller, like his father.

Jack had his own kids, then two sons, but at that point they weren't really old enough to be climbing ladders and such, or doing any genuine heavy lifting. Besides, Jack was my godfather and I tend to think he felt some obligation to spend a little time with me on occasion. It was fine by me.

Jack was a cool guy.

Not that my father wasn't cool. He was my father, and I loved him dearly, but father's can't play the cool role and function effectively as the male lead in the family drama, or comedy, or farce, as can be the case.

Jack was also teacher. During those autumn cottage close-downs, I learned things, two of which never left me, and when I really look at those two ideas, they were both huge factors in the path my life has wandered.

We can all them the Two Rules of Uncle Jack:

1) - Never stay in a job you don't like. No matter how much you think you might want any particular job, if you get it and find you really don't like it, move on. Jack had done this countless times and it served him very well; he made a good living and amply provided for his family, and he loved going to work each day. He died owning several of his own businesses, all small, but all concerns he thoroughly loved operating.

2) - There's no such thing as a free lunch. The origins of the "Free Lunch" can be found in politics. Back in the "olden days," the "Free Lunch" was typically provided at a saloon, wherein those sliding that plate of food before you were, in truth, persuading you to vote for their candidate. Free lunch + free beer = your vote. Jack cautioned to always remember that there is no such thing as a free lunch.

And there isn't.

Cynical? I suppose. Negative? Perhaps. True? Very much so.

Little in life is without a price tag, regardless of what guise that price tag may take, or even when it might appear. It's really no more than physics insisting that for every action there is a reaction.

I read today of a gathering tempest in a teapot over a bagel. A bagel whose retail value is placed at a $1.30. I guess you could say it's a gathering tempest in a coffee cup, since it revolves around a doughnut shop, free coffee, and a police officer.

A lousy cup of free coffee and a lightly buttered bagel could lead, and let's be honest here, to who knows where. Given the climate within this county's politics and government at present, Uncle Jack's admonition on the free lunch seems to have the potential to cast a very long shadow.

The free lunch will cost you somewhere somehow.

The coffee may have been free, the bagel's true cost has yet to be determined.

The Hot Dog and Us...

2009-09-12T06:28:00.000-07:00

"a hot dog makes her lose control..."
Patty Duke Show Theme 1963-66

News that Scrantonians eat lots of hot dogs wasn't exactly a shocker to me. News that Terre Hautians probably love hot dogs isn't much of a headline either.

Americans love hot dogs.

While most all of the world's cultures have some sort of ground meat and spice stuffed into casings or otherwise shaped and formed, the hot dog is pretty much ours. You can call it the German-sounding frankfurter until you're chili sauce red in the face, but the hot dog as we know and love it is as American as corporate greed. Without bun, it's simply a type of sausage.

Once on or in a bun, it's a hot dog. I'd guess that what we now know as a hot dog became such because you could stuff it into some sort of bread, then cover all its inadequacies with mustard, onions, relishes, and even ketchup. Many consider ketchup on a hot dog a misstep demanding some sort of bloodletting punishment. Not me. I love ketchup on a hot dog. Ketchup up one side, mustard down the other.

I'm American. I love a hot dog.

Before we work on that dog, grill, fry, or boil it, then dress it, let's explain what happened right before Labor Day: Ball Park brand franks released its Top Ten Hot Dog Eating-est cities in the country and Scranton came up #8, a slot it was forced to share with Harrisburg. What's that all about?

NYC was #1, LA #2, and you can fill in the blanks by clicking on Top Ten above.

Here's a big problem; we deep-fry our hot dogs. Yep, Ball Park says we do. Again, what is that all about?

We don't deep-fry, of course. Now, now, wait, hold it a second. A deep-fried hot dog might be right fine, but it's a stranger to us. Flat-top fried is likely the method we all know best, because those Coney Island and Abe's dogs are done on the griddle. In the world of short order cookery, insiders call it a flat-top.

We can now go back to the best hot dog.

I've long had this theory, one with which I am not alone. Other hot dog lovers agree that, while some hot dogs may be better than others in terms of what's inside, and you really never do want to know what's inside, the proper combination of ingredients makes most any hot dog taste good.

Should a decent bun and basic condiments be the delivery system for that dog, heck, cheaper is better. That's the theory.

Kidding? Not a chance, buy the cheapest hot dogs you can find. I have a pack or two of cheap dogs in the fridge right now. Both cost roughly a buck per pack - one dollar American - a single chlorophyll George. Eight in a pack, we're talking a little beyond a dime apiece, a bargain at twice the price.

Sitting alongside those cheap doggies is a pack of rather expensive German-style franks complete with natural casing. When going bun-less, and we often do, those pricey franks are delightful. Then again, no bun, no hot dog, right? It's having a hot dog that really isn't a hot dog. Now the situation is getting complicated, and the hot dog is the very definition of simplicity, which is where we shall keep it.

While being thrifty about it, buy buns on sale, which they usually are, they kind of add to the cheap charm of the hot dog. It's a ton of taste for so very little.

I bet you now want a hot dog, right? Yeah, me too. Just don't rat me out to your doctor.

Go cheap.

Merciful Mother of Us All, It's Labor Day Already...

2009-09-06T18:51:00.000-07:00

Labor Day. Summer is over. Many schools are back in session. Halloween's traces are beginning to show.

Thanksgiving Dinner times and places are being discussed.

Could the dread over being behind in making Christmas cookies be just around the corner, can placing those precious Christmas kielbasi orders be far behind?

While we're at it, how about a Lackawanna County kielbasi maker winning the Plymouth Keilbasa Festival again? Adjudged "best" one more time was Bosak's of Olyphant. Luzerne Countians, mostly Wyoming Valley-ites really, are pretty smug about having the best when it comes to ethnic dishes, and they are largely correct, yet a northerner takes home the prize repeatedly. Born and raised in Lackawanna County, now making my home in Luzerne County, I am not about to take a side here, except to say that I spell it kielbasi and pronounce it the same way.

La Festa Italiana also rings a bell this weekend, telling us all that a season has ended. Huge crowds on Courthouse Square, the aromas of countless great Italian dishes in the air, so many aromas that I could likely gain a few pounds just by breathing heavily at the corner of Linden and Adams for a half hour. Once again the ever-popular and never-stopping Poets will be a key draw. These guys are good. These guys have been around since I was in high school. Just how old are they?

The telethon of all telethons is this weekend, another signal that summer came, was, and went. The Jerry Lewis telethon really is the telethon of record in the USA. Sure, there are others, all worthy, but Lewis and MDA essentially created, defined, and continues to define, what a telethon is.

The dogs got a bath today. Out on the deck, in the still warm sun, they got a rub, scrub, a rinse, then dried with a nice fluffy towel. Carol did the work. I watched. There, that was easy.

I had a chat with a local fruit grower just a few days ago. Summer fruits are still abundant, he tells me, but the apples are starting to come on strong. Apple fans, this could be a year to remember. Apples love water. This summer's rain will bring big and very juicy apples. Apples, pumpkins, both signs of the turning seasons. Dried cornstalks are another. For whatever reason, you need to stand a few by the front door, that way, I guess, everyone will know that you know that these are autumnal days.

Finally, Steamtown's Rail Fest was held again this Labor Day Weekend. Swinging by for a half hour or so, the big shocker was the crowd. The place was jammed. Good to see, it's very good to see. Again in town for Rail Fest was Amtrak. An Amtrak train-set in Scranton sends my imagination spinning some, if only for a few seconds. We should have Amtrak service here, rail options to NYC, Buffalo, Syracuse. This time around, a scrap of news that might prove apocryphal - some day. Amtrak's president and CEO, Joseph Boardman, spoke to a small crowd while standing before his employer's locomotive and handful of passenger equipment. Mr. Boardman made the claim that Scranton deserves Amtrak "connectivity" and that Amtrak is studying that possibility and is ready to make it happen, that all it takes is money. Come to think of it, that's really not much in the way of news, now is it?

Back to The Litter Box...

2009-09-04T14:38:00.000-07:00

J. Garcia neck wear: Many have seen J. Garcia ties. J. Garcia was Jerry Garcia of The Grateful Dead, which he is, at least the dead part. While never a practicing Deadhead, I was acutely aware of their enormous success since they first emerged. Each time I look at a J. Garcia tie, I wonder just how it is that one of his legacies is a line of neck ties. Garcia is effectively the very antithesis of the neck tie, of suit and tie, of being "dressed." It truly is absurd. Garcia painted some and was pretty good at it. That said, J. Garcia ties are really decent. I own two. I've never owned a Grateful Dead LP, eight-track, cassette, CD, or MP3. I have never deliberately listened to anything Grateful Dead.

Were the flashers really necessary?: Like millions of other Americans, I watched quite a bit of Ted Kennedy's funeral, both in Boston and in Washington. As the funeral procession made its way through the streets of DC and on over to Arlington, I was struck by the odd fact that all vehicles in the procession had their flashers on. Was that really necessary? Did security types think Senator Kennedy's cortege might be mistaken for something else, that no one would notice it was his funeral?

Butterflies are indeed a no-show: Over the last couple years I've lamented the scarcity of butterflies in my backyard. Now, finally, there is some research to indicate that there is indeed a problem. Cause? As of now, unknown, although a wet summer may be to blame.

Michael Vick: We fielded a lot of "What does the SPCA think?" type questions regarding Vick's return to the NFL and the Philadelphia Eagles. Not being an attorney, the intricacies of NFL by-laws and codified rules and regulations governing "membership" are both unfamiliar and uninteresting to me, but my guess is that Vick could have successfully sued the NFL for reinstatement. It may have taken years and cost millions, and it might have failed, but it was an option. Reinstatement by the NFL didn't mean the Eagles, or any other NFL franchise, had to sign him. Shame on them both. What Vick did was unspeakable. You want tougher animal cruelty laws? Your state senator and your state representative are the people to contact. Tell them how you feel. You should know how we feel.

Research about Facebook: OK, just a dumb question that will likely never be answered - how long does it take the average individual to tire of Facebook and stop posting there multiple times each day? How much time passes before most realize that there really is no substantive benefit to social networking on the internet, that the more you conduct your social life on-line, the less you conduct it in person? If you don't have one-on-one personal contact with others, it's not really a social life. Proud to say, Twitter amused me all of about nine seconds.

Les Paul and Woodstock: Did anyone else catch the irony of Les Paul's death occurring as this country, maybe the world, prepared to celebrate Woodstock's 40th? No Les Paul, no Woodstock. No Les Paul, no electric guitar as it we've known it since the earliest days of that damned rock&roll nonsense. The Beatles, nah, they didn't change music, Les Paul did. Without Les Paul, it's entirely possible that George Martin, Beatles producer, would never have been able to create the sound that even kids in grade school still love today. And, of course, no Les Paul, no eight-tracks. Snicker all you like, but the clunky old eight-track and Les Paul were the very beginnings of sound-on-sound, of multi-track recording. It's likely most legitimate musicians today, especially rockers, all know the importance of Les Paul.

Crop Circles: They're still out there, new ones. Guys with boards on ropes made them all with their feet. That's the scientific dismissal of the phenomena. We just discovered a planet that spins in the opposite direction of all others. Probably guys with boards, too. We are clueless as to who and what we are.

Out of the litter box...

L'Osservatore Scrantonio...

2009-08-30T17:35:00.000-07:00

Pardon my mangling the Italian language and kindly overlook the liberty taken with the localization of the name of the Vatican's official newspaper.

L'Osservatore Romano is the Holy See's weekly newspaper, available in myriad tongues.

I've never read it. I should. It's always good to get all sides of any given story, and you if you can't count on L'Osservatore for solely one side, heck, who can you count on?

Recent developments, emerging developments, in the Diocese of Scranton are such that observing them at present is left to the individual, since "officially" no one seems to know what's really and truly unfolding here. Whatever it is, suffice to say it's unprecedented.

Unprecedented is the resignation of a bishop not under any Curial injunction to do so, meaning the man is not yet of resignation age. By the Church's yardstick, he has years to go, miles to travel, much to accomplish before Rome demands he submit his resignation. Apparently, he has done just that.

Unprecedented is a bishop moving from the traditional home of diocesan ordinaries, which would be next door to St. Peter's Cathedral on Wyoming Avenue in Scranton. He has moved to the former Pius X Seminary in Dalton. Though no longer a seminary, the buildings and property have not been abandoned by the diocese and offered for sale.

Unprecedented is a bishop strolling around downtown Scranton without benefit of a Roman collar and smiling with warmth and sincerity at passersby. We've seen the photos.

Published reports claim Joseph Martino has suffered "a near nervous breakdown." As to that, I have neither substantiation nor opinion.

What I do have are observations of my own, my L'Osservatore Scrantonio.

It's established that Bishop Martino is about to become the former Bishop of Scranton. Precisely why, I feel safe in saying, we will never know. There are three possibilities in my view;

1) He collapsed beneath the stress and weight of doing what he felt the need to do here. Subsequent to following orders, he became the target of severe criticism and contempt across the width and breadth of the diocese. All of this took an awful toll. Toll taken, he resigned.

2) Those who sent him here to do what needed to be done realized that the emotional damage and the emptying pews far outweigh the pecuniary benefits of shuttering churches and abandoning neighborhoods that are in need of the stabilizing effect of an open church. It's the flaw of "Knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing..." Damage done, perhaps far overdone, he was asked to go with as little fuss as possible.

3) What is now playing out has been the plan all along, meaning this man was sent here to do seriously unpopular work which, once finished, he could leave behind and go elsewhere. Drama done, curtain down, no bows, houselights up, go home.

It could be any of the above, it could be a combination, it could be all three.

Monday's news conference will shed scant light on the situation, it's a strictly controlled affair not open to the public. Shocking? Hardly.

I'd love to be there. I'd love to ask a question, just one question:

"Bishop Martino, sir, considering your shutting down dozens upon dozens of churches due to the weighty burden of expense, just why is a 'closed' seminary still in use by the diocese? How can the diocese justify the upkeep, including grounds maintenance, of this expansive piece of property in a very pricey neighborhood?"

Is there an answer to the question. Sure.

Will it ever be revealed? Of course not.

The Mighty Potato Chip...

2009-08-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

Each time I crunch down on a potato chip, I think of mother.

Mother and her beloved potato chips. No, no, Mom never made potato chips, she just adored them.

(Mom and my gram, mom's mom, did make outrageous fish and chips, however, and that's a story for telling another time.)

Divinely simple, the potato chip is an American invention. History seems sure of itself in saying that one George Crum, then chef at a high-end resort in New York, Saratoga Springs in fact, invented the potato chip in 1853. Crum grew irritated with a paying dinner guest who griped about his french fries being too thick. Chefs can be a testy lot, so Crum decided to make a fry so thin that his unhappy diner would surely walk out in a snit. No snit. No walking out. It was love at first crispy bite.

Do I speak for all when I say we understand why?

Potato, oil, salt. In the basic form, that is it. Sure, we Americans can never leave well enough alone, so over the century plus since Crum's insolence changed the snack world, maybe even created the snack world, we've tinkered and toyed with that which might be close to perfection.

That whole "I was born on a diet..." thing is always over there in the shadows, so I need to make the disclaimer that, should I eat seventeen potato chips a week, that's pushing the limit. Since so few are consumed, each bite assumes greater and greater importance. Savor, I do believe, would be the best word. Linger is another good word. The potato chip is to be lingered over while being savored. Such is the potato chip's appeal, nay, its near euphoric delight, that it must be slowly and deliberately enjoyed.

Or, if you're skinny, you can plow them down by the handfuls several times a day.

Mom spoke often of her love for the potato chip, going so far as to declare that should things deteriorate to where there might be one food left on the planet, her fondest wish was that it be the potato chip. That about covers it, don't you think? She never mentioned brand or style.

You could make mine Herr's Sour Cream and Onion Ripples.

Mr. Spellman's Roses...

2009-08-20T04:58:00.000-07:00

Things began with a hot and steamy Monday off from work. It's August.

In an August not long after the end of WWII, you see my grandfather Sweeney holding my sister in our backyard. It was August of 1952 in fact, and there's a rose in bloom to his right. Remember that rose.

My occasional days off are pretty much spent being a housebound layabout. I nap a bit, catch up on email, take another nap, get the dogs out to pee, catch another nap. It has a pleasing drowsy rhythm to it.

This past Monday, though, I had a nagging urge to drive to Scranton, to poke around some neighborhoods unpoked by me in one whole heck of a lot of time.

After lunch with my wife in Tunkhannock, Scranton it was.

I was particularly interested in the Pine Brook section of the city, and for a couple of reasons; it's where I'm from, and it's a neighborhood about to be changed forever by the arrival of TCMC a few blocks away.

This is the house in which I was "born."

When the folks brought me home from Mercy Hospital, also but a few blocks away, home was right here in Pine Brook. A double, we lived on the left side at 1008 Monsey Avenue. On the other side at 1006 lived Mr. Spellman, William Spellman.

The photo is fresh, taken just Monday from my truck as I sat across the street. Mr. Spellman, an elderly gentleman, was our landlord and just a really nice man. To the left of the house is an auto parts store, where some guy, maybe an employee, started eyeballing me as I fired off a few frames of the old place. He stared. I stared back. I'm betting he made me for a real estate agent.

I have vivid memories of Mr. Spellman. Some mornings I'd toddle - that's what toddlers do, right? - on over and sit with the kind and gentle Mr. Spellman at his breakfast table. The aroma of fresh brewed or perked coffee reminds me of him to this very second.

My parents were very fond of the Spellmans, staying in touch over the decades until most all of their generations had expired. Mr. Spellman kept a very nice backyard, had himself a green thumb. Even though we moved from his house in 1953, I do remember the backyard and the flowers in bloom. There was also a small vegetable garden up in the left corner of the yard.

Not that you'd be inclined to go in search of it, I'm here to to tell you that there is no 1008 Monsey Avenue today in Scranton. The house is there, the 1000 block of Monsey is long gone, as is the 900 and 1100 of Monsey. While Monsey Avenue surely exists nearby, those three blocks of it were renamed Sanderson Avenue somewhere back in the late 50s. For whatever unknown reason, the city changed the name.

When I memorized my address as just a little kid, it was 1008 Monsey Avenue - and that would Ten-Oh-Eight. The brand new Mr. and Mrs. Vincent T. Sweeney are seen here on their wedding day in the front room of that house on Monsey. My father and mother in the middle, flanked by my uncle and godfather, Jack Sweeney, and my late aunt, Betty Davies. Dad looks like he was working on some Kramer hair long before the world knew what a Kramer was. My mom, Nancy, was the last survivor of that bunch then so young. She was the last to go.

I hadn't even driven past the front of the old house in what has to be at least ten years now. The pleasant surprise is its condition, which isn't half bad at all. My guess is that the property is no longer occupied. Oddly, however, it looks like it hasn't been all that long since someone was performing at least minimal maintenance on the place. Over the 56 intervening years, I have no clue as to its history of residents and/or owners, but it's still there, complete with unbroken windows, in itself remarkable.

Back to Mr. Spellman. There's an alley behind the old house named Spellman Court, which takes its name from his family, so I swung up Ash Street and around and through the alley to get the back view of the once 1008 Monsey Avenue.

Straight ahead, I could see the back doors that I honestly remember as a three year old. In between those doors, there's a set of "Bilco" doors leading to a split basement, one for each side of the double house, or as they've come to be called, double-block houses.

The backyard should be far more overgrown for an abandoned house, which increases the mystery and my curiosity as to just what's going on here. Lacking only a pass or two with a mower, the lawn looks like one that lots of guys spend every weekend babying. It appears to be doing fine all by itself.

I'm sitting there in Spellman Court, staring into a backyard I haven't so much as glanced at in what could be over fifty years. A flood of memories sounds a little corny, so let's just say there was a slow trickle. Right at the head of that trickle were thoughts of Mr. Spellman's roses, which were pretty much smack in the middle of the yard, closer to the house than the alley.

That's when I saw what I really didn't believe I could possibly see.

Right there, still pretty much smack in the middle of that very same yard, roses. White? Cream? Without trespassing, and it was a brief consideration, there was no real way of knowing.

Is it possible? Could the roses I first thought I saw, then racked out my lens and did indeed see, could they be from the same rosebush my grandfather stood near in 1952, the same rosebush I ran around in my shorts in 1953?

Wishful thinking, I suppose. A bit of whimsy as I look back on life in the realization that far more is behind than ahead of me. One thing not capable of being blamed is imagination. Roses, apparently of the same color, are in approximately the same place as were roses nearly 60 years ago.

Consider that there are rosebushes in this country whose documentation verifies them as being 250 years of age. Click and enlarge this small collage. See what you see. See if it might be the same as me.

It was a hazy, hot, and humid day with nothing to do.

I did do something. I saw Mr. Spellman's roses again. I really think I did.

Me and Woodstock...

2009-08-15T08:26:00.000-07:00

If you look real hard at the photo over there on the left, you could find someone who might look like me. It's not. I was nowhere near Woodstock.

Claims that Woodstock defined my generation never sat right with me. Undeniably, such has been said countless times by those who observed the phenomena, either first-hand or through the reversed looking glass of time in film, photos, on vinyl, and by legend, truth, and pure myth. Not to be ignored when discussing Woodstock is the fact that, if everyone who said they were there was there, we'd be looking at several million bodies minimum, rather than the factual half million tops. Still, that is one whole lot of people.

Forty years ago, driving to Bethel, New York, to stand in the mud without food or water wasn't high up there on my short list of things to do for the weekend.

I couldn't really tell you for sure where I was most of that weekend in 1969. But it wasn't in Sullivan County, New York. And it most assuredly was not in Woodstock, because Woodstock wasn't held at Woodstock. Woodstock's in another New York County, Ulster, and is almost forty-five miles from what was officially called The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, and subtitled, An Aquarian Exposition. Let us give proper acknowledgment that the The Fifth Dimension had told us with great excitement and anticipation that "...this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, the Age of Aquarius."

Somehow, and no matter how hard I try, The Fifth Dimension and Woodstock don't make much of a fit. And, do tell, just what became of the Age of Aquarius?

Woodstock's town fathers, mothers, and others, had told concert organizers to get lost, they didn't want the headaches of all those hippies in their backyard for a weekend. So, they took it down the road to Bethel.

Wherever it was, I wasn't there. Yeah, I know, it's been said a million times; if you remember the '60s, you weren't really there. Really, I wasn't there, there at Woodstock.

If you were to push the following statement in front of me in any form capable of being signed and witnessed, I'd never make it to the notary. All I can swear to is that I can't swear to this being true. Forty years has blurred much, the summer of 1969 is fuzzy. Elusive memories or not, here's how I remember me and Woodstock.

Like most all of us in our teens, I had this circle of friends which sat inside a broader circle of acquaintances. I can tell you that about all I recall about Woodstock as it unfolded was that a handful of us talked some about going and actually began to drive in that direction. We didn't get very far.

As I sit here forty years past, I can't help but wonder how it was we all knew about Woodstock. No internet. No MTV, VHI. No blogs. TV coverage, while surely existent, couldn't have been all that huge, the networks weren't big into flower power or the children of the flower or promoting any of their gatherings, at least not until after the event. A good guess would be that news of a pending mega-event spread via that underground which ran through every college campus in the country.

That we all knew it was coming is a certainty. We even knew where. I just don't think any of my pals were keyed up enough to make sure they were there.

We set out upon the journey from Scranton to Woodstock.

Somewhere around Hamlin Corners one among us started whining about how he had to be home that night for his grandmother's birthday party or some such, so around we turned and home we came. Any excuse, clearly, was compelling enough. Cutting grandma's birthday cake demanded respect enough that no one was going to challenge the need to be there. I don't recall any sigh of relief. I'd speculate there was one. We might have stopped in the Hamlin Diner for a bite, then popped a Canned Heat tape into the eight-track for the fifteen minute drive home.

For us, the drive to Max Yasgur's farm would have been maybe ninety minutes on a normal day if, say, you were going to Yasgur's to pick up some 'lopes and wax beans. The weekend of "a generation's defining event," driving there from here was likely a five to six hour experience, with a goodly piece of it spent walking or clinging to the roof of a VW bus trying to get closer to the center of the universe, which that weekend was right there in upstate New York, right over the state line.

It's long seemed to me that Woodstock wasn't really Woodstock until it was over, and maybe long over. The sense that something cataclysmic had happened didn't much occur to the mass of sweat-soaked, mud-splashed, and manure-caked, stoned and/or soused young men and women until after they'd gone home, cleaned up, and returned to the banality of their normal lives.

Whatever happened at Woodstock was meaningful, if only because nearly a half million people peaceably gathered in one place without any major problems.

Personally, I know no one who can verify they were there. Unless you were on stage, I suppose no one can really verify being there.

Just today I read a quote from one who swears he was there, in which he says, "I don't remember anything, but 'the vibe' is still with me."

Like, wow, man.

Ghosts of Scranton Not All That Long Past...

2009-08-11T08:11:00.000-07:00

It's really not so much that the place went out of business way too soon. It's not that so much optimism has once again been seemingly flushed down the toilet of failure. And it's not anything connected to a sense of personal loss, since I never set foot in the place. No, it's none of those things.

It's the plywood.

A window once aglow with life and prosperity is now boarded up with a sheet of inexpensive plywood. A sheet? We should call it a shroud of plywood. Shrouds of which Scranton has seen far too many of over the decades.

Don't kid yourself. While Scranton might be hiking along the comeback trail, it's barely learned to put one foot in front of the other in relation to completing any sort of journey. Me? Yeah, I believe in Scranton, although Wilkes-Barre has become the "I Believe..." city. The plywood shroud is not an unknown in Wilkes-Barre, either.

Particularly disturbing is the reappearance of plywood at damned near the exact moment when the rebirth of Scranton, the rebirth of all NE PA, is about to begin in earnest. Yes, I know, we've been re-birthing around here for likely thirty years. This time, though, it's genuine. The mid-wife, if you will, is TCMC, the new med school, the one whose first class made proud headlines over the weekend.

My voice is not alone crying in any wilderness. Heck, I'm not even a sole advocate wandering around by Mayor Doherty's tree house in Nay Aug. What I am is one of a minimum of tens and tens of thousands who know that TCMC's going from idea to reality in the relative blink of an eye is the messianic occurrence long awaited to bring us back. And it will.

Then, no sooner does TCMC's first class arrive than plywood returns.

The plywood shroud has made a comeback in downtown Scranton, where not all that long ago there was probably more plywood than glass. Its reappearance is a dark and grim reminder. More shameful than that, it's demoralizing.

The Scranton Parking Authority owns the building. The Scranton Parking Authority needs to get rid of that plywood immediately. Please, replace it today.

Whaddya Hear?

2009-08-10T13:11:00.000-07:00

"If you close your eyes, you'd swear it really was Ben Franklin."

I got that one from my wife. No, she didn't make the claim, she heard someone else say it after they'd seen and apparently heard a Franklin impersonator - or maybe that's a Ben Franklin Tribute Performer.

"Hi, I'm Benny Franklin, and I am right here through the weekend! Try the mutton, it comes with a free trip to the Gruel Bar. Mention my name, get a farthing off."

Listen, if you've heard Ben Franklin's voice, or have a recording of same, you've got yourself a serious news story.

Then, just when you think that maybe you'd heard most everything, there's this.

"This isn't heat. I'm from down around Philly. We get real heat there."

I swear as I sit here, I not only heard this, I saw the guy who made the comment. I saw him on the teevee.

Let's try and give this some context, set it in the right place, time, situation.

Extreme heat, and conversely, extreme cold, demands news coverage. Regardless of whether or not these wide swings in the atmosphere deserve it or not, someone seemingly demands it. Often enough, and do please keep in mind that I was there and saw much of it firsthand, a lot of it is at very best superfluous.

No sense discussing the merits, the validity, of news coverage of our part of Pennsylvania being hot or cold, because the compulsion to attach some undeserved importance to its overwhelming status is apparent, although please indulge me in saying that this sort of weather is pretty much to be expected in these latitudes this time of the year. Now that that's out of the way...for the moment, how about we have a look at the statement itself.

I could just call it stupid, but there's an arrogance about it that extends to so many other things we hear up here in the sticks, the boondocks, this deprived part of the world we all call home, and by golly, some of us actually like. There, I said it. I like NE PA.

You know, some of us go a bit beyond and truly love it here. So some of us like, oh, me, get a little testy when visitors here love to stick our snouts in the fact that wherever they live, everything is better, bigger, more important, beyond what we have here.

Let's take another run at that statement.

"This isn't heat. I'm from down around Philly. We get real heat there."

So, what do we have here? We have some clod who wants the world to know that whatever exists here is certainly not even close to as good as what he has at home. Here's a revolutionary and earth-shattering thought - if you have better at home, stay home. You think I'm kidding, being a bit facetious? Not a chance.

If it's bigger, better, HOTTER, at home, why the hell do you waste your time driving a couple hours to where things are, well, I guess, to where things are just inadequate.

I'm pretty sure we could live without you.

While I'm good and snarly here, let me say that all of this reminds me of someone I years and years ago knew. More accurately, let's say I found myself in her company more often than I would have cared to.

She had this intolerable habit of inferring to all she met that she was from New York City. She was not. She was from New Jersey. Try and hope and stretch all you want, sister, New York City, pick any borough, and New Jersey are not the same place.

She would forever pepper her pointless ramblings about growing up with the term "...the city," with the clear implication being that it was, of course, New York City, and that it was home to herself. Herself was a Jersey Girl, complete with Jersey accent.

A couple times here and there and this nonsense was no big deal, it rolled off of me. She was relentless, and it got worse and worse and worse. I think she'd managed to convince herself that she was indeed from not only New York City, but that she was from Manhattan. If she went unchecked, she might have gone ahead and picked some plausible address on the Upper West Side and had some fake ID made to further this charade.

I could stand it no more. I became an army of one. I saw it as my duty to stop the lying.

Simply but unceasingly, whenever she began the blather about "the city" this, and "the city" that, I'd say, "She's from New Jersey." She'd stop, glare at me, I'd smile. She'd work her way back to where she thought she could hint at being from New York again, and I would again softly say, "She's from New Jersey." Surely she hated being exposed for the fraud she was hoping to be. Surely she wasn't fond of me. Surely my level of caring was minimal.

"You just can't get good kielbasi around here." Did I ever tell you about the guy who said that to me? I think I did. So stunning is the comment that any response seems empty and pointless.

It's Monday. I might be grouchy. I'll stop.

The Litter Box...

2009-08-07T12:22:00.000-07:00

Every blogger, and real writers like nationally syndicated columnists, seem to have catch-all pieces they occasionally issue, pieces to get rid of a lot random thoughts, none of which on their own constitute a decent monograph, but collectively do fill some sort of void.

I've got plenty of random isolated thoughts. All I've needed for some time now is a name under which to place them.

I kind of like Floor Sweepings. All the other names, such as Bits and Pieces, This and That, Odds and Ends, and even Scrapple, are already taken.

Then, upon a second and third think, another name came along. Given my line of work, The Litter Box seemed like a nice fit. So, The Litter Box it will be.

Frozen pizza: Everyone likes pizza. I've been trying frozen pizzas recently, and for a couple reasons. One is that most supermarkets have vast choices when it comes to frozen pizza. It must be good, right? I also get too lazy to make my own, and my own is really good. So far, yuck on the frozen. Even a couple that promised me delivered pizza taste don't cut it. Typically, the crust sucks. I've been trying to reverse engineer their dough, at least in my head, and figure out how they can get it to taste as bad as it does. Haven't figured it out yet.

No Food or Drink Allowed: This sign sits in a retailer that has several soda machines within ten feet of the sign. By a soda, then get the hell out, that's pretty much what this business says to me. I did get out. I won't go back. I didn't buy a soda, or anything else for that matter.

No Personal Checks - No Exceptions: Great, your choice. Now, here's my choice, no business from me. I recently shopped where the clerk behind the counter nearly jumped out of their skin when we pulled out the checkbook. We left. We won't be back. All the big box stores take checks, you little Mom&Pop operators need to take them, too. You get burned on a check, sorry, but that really is the price of doing business in the here and now.

Commonwealth Medical College: The new med school under construction in Scranton will have an unimaginable impact on life in NE PA, most especially in Scranton. It's the first new med school in the country in over twenty years, and the first in Pennsylvania in over forty. I really don't believe any of us can grasp the enormity of its importance to future life here over the coming decades.

Summers Under The Tent: Carol and I often reminisce about Scranton Public Theater's time under the tent during June, July, August, and oftentimes, some of September. We both miss hot nights in the valley when a cool-down was a short drive away atop Montage Mountain. Where a play, always extraordinarily well-done, and cold drinks awaited and friendly faces welcomed your presence. They were good times. I imagine many miss them. SPT's alive and well, with the days beneath the tent gone.

Senator Al Franken: The snickering over Franken's winning of a senate seat wasn't as loud or as widespread as I'd expected. There was, though, a good deal of tittering prior to his formally being declared the winner, most of it because he's only a comedian. Standard practice in America seems to be that what you need be in order to catch any respect as candidate or winner is to be a successful businessman. Look at the economy. Look at the last two years. Look elsewhere for elected representatives. "Successful businessmen" have taken us to where we are today.

Hummingbirds and butterflies: I'm still a little concerned about the lack of both around the property this year. The same lack as last year, and the year before. We do see some hummers and we have hung a new finch feeder which has been pulling in the goldfinches, house finches, a few grosbeaks, and others. The butterflies are still largely a no show. Some blame Katrina, figuring that breeding habitat along the Gulf Coast was so decimated that the number of butterflies morphing there and coming north has been likewise decimated.

Traffic on "The Mountain": Is it just me? Could it be that I'm the only one who finds traffic on Montage Mountain (or is it now Sno Mountain?) enormously un-newsworthy? Seems that no matter what the act, no matter how big the act is, no matter that tens of thousands of people assemble on that mountain, all we hear about is traffic coming and going. Who the hell cares? The only people caught in the traffic are those who know all about the traffic and got into that traffic because they want to go see a performance. Good God, get off the traffic problems. Same goes for any NASCAR race at Pocono. Traffic is not news.

Montage Mountain: Who came up with that name? Why? What does a montage have to do with a gorgeous chunk of the Moosic Mountain range? Never cared for the name, never thought it had any relevance. Nobody asked me.

Bugs on Bridges: I have to concede that the mayflies hatching off of the Susquehanna don't demand headline news as they once did. Good. Here's the deal, plain, simple, and scientifically verifiable; mayflies in the river are an enormous indicator that the river is coming back. In fact, they just might indicate that it is back. The mayfly is the "canary in the coal mine" when it comes to water, especially moving water. Mayflies, and there are thousands of species, do not live in polluted water. In short, the Susquehanna is in far better shape than most believe. It's all about image. The river needs more advocates. Count me in.

For now, I'm out of The Litter Box.

Those Sunday Blues...

2009-07-26T11:24:00.000-07:00

The more people I talk to on Sundays, the more it's apparent that one heck of a lot of us share an almost weekly malady.

That would be The Sunday Blues.

The Sunday Blues is what I've long called them, although it's pretty clear others have different names, and more than a few likely don't call them/it anything at all. Named or not, it's still there, they're still there.

My experience with this oddity goes all the way back to high school, when I can honestly recall finding myself down in the dumps, down in the mouth, and just plain down, somewhere around mid-afternoon on each Sunday. It doesn't just sort of creep up on you either, nope. All of a sudden, it's just there.

You're reading the paper, watching TV, staring into the backyard, looking at the dog or cat and wondering what if anything goes through their minds, when zotto!. Like a bolt from that cloud over there, they're here, The Sunday Blues are again poking at you. From staring a the cat, you've now gone to staring at the wall, any wall will do. If there's not one nearby, you need to go and find one. Wall-staring can be an effective method of focusing. Wall-staring is crucial here.

Physical manifestations of this mental state may differ, while some may find no outward sign of the inner annoyance whatsoever. With me, and this has always been the case, it starts as a small knot in the gut, that place many of us refer to as the pit of the stomach, which really isn't your stomach at all, since your stomach is much higher up. Location aside, that knot may or may not grow as the hours pass.

Your demeanor may crumble, too, as those hours pass. You can go from feeling rather carefree and in love with life, to "What in hell have I done with my life, is it too late to fix things?"

Just what are we dealing with here?

Simply, it's all about going back to work on Monday morning. There is indeed one strong correlation between your attitude towards your present job and the intensity of The Sunday Blues, though even those who have a genuine love for their job seem to fall victim each week.

There's also the phenomena of residual effect. For example: If you hate your job, then get lucky and find a job you love, The Sunday Blues still come calling, or at least they do so for an extended period of time. Oh, sure, they may not be as strong, as pervasive, and sure, maybe you can chase them away with logic, reason, and a hearty, "Hey, I don't work in that nightmarish job anymore!" but they still come. The beginnings of The Sunday Blues, once within you, seem to stay, they never really completely go away.

You can be in the middle of two-week vacation, somewhere on the other side of the planet. You have a whole week ahead of you and your job, any job, is half a world away. Doesn't matter even a little. Come Sunday, here come The Sunday Blues.

Just like The Summertime Blues, there ain't no cure for The Sunday Blues either. Although I will confess that a good beer or two can take the edge off of things.

What's in the fridge right now? Well, let's take a look:

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale - Simply one great beer. If you've never had it, don't let the sediment on the bottle bottom worry you. It's supposed to be there.

Red Hook Long Hammer IPA - A little more bitter than the above and a bit more body, too. Nice though.

Murphy's Stout - Not Guinness but likely indistinguishable. If buying in four-packs, it can cost 40% less than Guinness.

Miller Lite - It it was it is. It's light and OK for a light.

Leffe Blonde Belgian Ale - This may be one of only two beers I've ever encountered that I personally find close to undrinkable. Unless I got some of a bum batch, the heavy and overwhelming clove - yes, clove - taste of this abbey brewed ale is one which I find hard to imagine anyone liking. Cloves don't belong in beer. Even clove gum or mouthwash isn't as "clovey" as this ale.

Manny...

2009-07-24T17:36:00.000-07:00

It might be cozy, folksy, to say we lost another one, but we all get lost over time. It's all about time, its passage, and inevitability.

Manny Gordon has died.

By now, all who knew the name must be aware that he's gone. At the same time, those who didn't know the name now have some sense of what a neat guy he was, what a genuine treasure he was. Although he lived until ninety-seven years of age, his passing takes a gentle poke at us all with that subtle touch of sadness over a friend we'll not see again.

There was a time for me when a Manny sighting was a near daily thing. It's been some time since.

Remembering when Manny was fast becoming a household name and face isn't all that tough for me. That's probably because I was working in the business that made the man famous when it happened.

Manny was a media darling.

Undeniably, irrefutably, no questions, no hesitation in saying so, Manny Gordon was one big old media darling. Manny's face could light up a television screen.

If in your car, his signature "...enjoy, ENJOY," which really came out as, "...an-JOY, ANNNN-joy," jumped right out of your radio and into your lap.

It was as genuine as the Declaration of Independence, as real as the earth beneath your feet, because Manny Gordon was the real deal. He lived the dream, he loved the dream. He was a delightful man, one whose company in which I found myself many times over the years. It was my pleasure each and every time. Bumping into Manny made your day, if your day needed making, and whose doesn't at times?

As with too many others who've died recently, what in the name of all that is good and holy can I say about Manny that hasn't already been said, will be said, then likely said again?

Well, here you go.

Surely what I'll say will fly smack into the eye of prevailing thought. A few toes might feel stepped upon, while a few others might feel the relief of small recognition long overdue.

See, while most attribute Manny's great "celebrity" to WNEP, I'm here to tell you that it was someone and something else that made Manny a star, or at the very least first spotted the star that WNEP fueled until it exploded and screamed across the sky of one full corner of Pennsylvania for likely thirty years.

Manny, and I honestly believe this, owed his incredible and surely deserved notoriety to that guy over there. That's a young - very young - Harry West. Harry looks like a junior at his hometown alma mater, Reading High.

The pipe is a prop. Harry never smoked, mostly because of his father's heavy smoking, a story for neither here nor now. The pipe almost looks Photo-Shopped, except for there being no Photo Shop at the time, no computers then, no such thing as digital photography, it wasn't even a wild dream at the time. The wheel, however, had been in regular use for some time.

Before Manny was "household" in Lock Haven, Athens, Minersville, before he'd found a place in the hearts of those in Bloomsburg, Centre Hall, Bastress, and Girardville, one Manny Gordon, District Forester, was already pretty darned well-known throughout that make-believe place where so many of us once lived, a place called WARMland.

The facts are these; Harry West and WARM had for years been involved in a beauty pageant of sorts, the winner of which became Miss Flaming Foliage, subsequent to which some lovely young local woman, along with her runners-up, would find her picture in the "brown section" of the old Scrantonian and become herself a minor local celebrity. That's where Manny first came to the attention of the media, print then broadcast, the connection between Fall's foliage and Pennsylvania District Forester being obvious. (My wife is a former Miss Flaming Foliage, affording me personal and inside knowledge of this once celebrated event.)

While "...an-JOY, ANNNN-joy" didn't exactly fire up the printed page, it was an immediate hit when heard delivered by the man himself, Manny Gordon. And it was Harry West who heard it, shared it, and launched what became a long, long run of being loved, idolized, and respected (the most important benefit of all), by several generations of people who do or did call northeastern and north central Pennsylvania home.

Once heard, our natural nosiness was to see the man behind these two words that had captivated the imagination of WARM's audience which, as we all full well know, was beyond sizable at the time. WNEP was right there, astute enough to know that we wanted see this guy. WARM and Harry let us hear Manny, WNEP showed us Manny.

And so it is that I say credit where credit is due, even if it is long overdue. Thanks, Harry. Thank you for so many things, one of which would be letting us all in on what a gem Manny Gordon was. Thanks.

WNEP gets abundant credit for ownership of the wonderful phenomena that was Manny Gordon, full credit for bringing us into the tent so we could see and fully experience Manny, but it was Harry and WARM that brought Manny to the dance, and what a long and memorable dance it was.

There shall be no other like it.

A Black and White of My Own...

2009-07-21T08:59:00.000-07:00

I mentioned an old TV set in the previous post, one that was my very own by the time I was roughly thirteen, maybe more like twelve and a half.

It was the early 60s. Most kids didn't have their own televisions then. While you might have had some sort of record player to annoy your parents with by that age, a TV would literally be a luxury, since most families had one set and one set only.

And that one set sure as heck wasn't going in the bedroom of a kid, my firstborn status notwithstanding. How'd I land my own set? You'll see how simple it was a little further down.

So, I had me a set. (Did we ever get an answer to why it's called a "set?")

The closest image I could find to match that set of mine is the one you see here. As I recall, it was a Crosley, not exactly a widely beloved brand, not one you'd find in most homes in Anytown, USA. We also had a Crosley refrigerator, meaning that my folks found at least one Crosley dealer in NE PA. There's this vague memory of that dealer being in Taylor along Main Street. Or was that the back of a truck in an alley in Duryea? Nah, not my parents, never.

Looking at the set above, you can see that the tube itself was surrounded by a rectangular glass frame placed within the cabinetry, which was then a very important component of the American TV set. In fact, I grew up across the street from a mill which made, among other things, television cabinets. Today, the television cabinet has gone the way of the space-hogging console hi-fi, the eight-track, the casette, VHS and/or Beta, and analog anything.

Now, about that rectangular frame. It was illuminated, it lit up, surrounding that fuzzy b&w image with soft white light. It was, you'd have to imagine, no more than a gimmick to sell more Crosleys. Between the lighted frame, the wonderful image one got from rabbit ears, and the shortcomings of the Crosley itself, I wasn't exactly getting that quality viewing experience.

And so it was that the lack of a respectable image resulted in being handed my very own TV. It was a clunker, a junker, my parents didn't want it. It was Goodwill, Salvation Army, or me. Charity begins at home.

Snugged into bed earlier than usual, I'd lay there and watch the fuzzy images bounce around on that big cathode-ray tube and think myself pretty hot stuff.

What did I watch? Shows like...

Dennis The Menace - The story of a pain in the ass kid who wore some sort of bib overalls that no kid I ever knew saw. Robert Hall didn't carry them. With a slingshot forever dangling from his backside pocket, this punk looked ready to bedevil someone on a second's notice. Dennis spends his time driving his retired neighbor nuts day and night. The neighbor, George Wilson, never figures out he can simply tell Dennis to beat it. Defiant trespass? Some charge certainly would have applied. Dennis also spent time making sure that signature cowlick of his was sticking up and out for best effect.

Bonanza - The Cartwright men have managed to gain control of what appears to be several million acres of land across Nevada somewhere near Lake Tahoe, shortly before the days when Sinatra and Sammy played there. The three brothers are the sons of three different mothers, making Papa Ben Cartwright thrice-widowed. It also makes the boys half-brothers, a theme I never seem to recall them exploring. Drama, comedy, and romance ensue as the men righteously make sure no strangers, especially bad guys, touch their land or any of their other belongings. The Cartwrights were also pretty good at sticking their noses into the business of others, because of course, they were always right about everything.

The Danny Thomas Show - Subtitled Make Room for Daddy, this show starred the very likable Danny Thomas as the TV Daddy who always called his TV wife "Irish." She was played by Marjorie Lord (mother of Ann Archer, for trivia buffs). Daddy Danny and Mommy Irish spent all their time suffering three kids and their dumb kid problems, magnified entirely out of any logical belief for the TV audience. Son Rusty, whose smart mouth was tough even for me to take, and I was kid roughly the same age with a smart mouth, needed some sort of stern guidance, which never seemed to come his way despite his really asking for it each week. Daddy Danny was an entertainer and went off to work in some generic night club during each episode before and after which he dealt with his charming family and their weekly crisis. Lots of my friends' fathers worked in night clubs, as did most other Americans. The irrelevance of TV in the 60s was stunning.

Hazel - A show centered around a bumbling but bighearted live-in maid, something all of us in my blue collar neighborhood could so relate to with each and every passing episode. Employed by a couple of rich snobs, the Baxters (even the name was snobby), Hazel dresses just like a servant and cleans up, picks up, and puts up with these boors, although Mr. Baxter - Hazel always called him Mr. B. - was a kinder gentler, less country club sort than the rather contemptuous Mrs. Baxter, who has her nose shoved up in the air most of the time, to better look down on the help, one might presume. (Yet more trivia; Mrs. Baxter was played by Whitney Blake, mother of Meredith Baxter Birney.)

Wagon Train - Most memorable was Ward Bond playing wagon-master/confessor/wiseman/hero/lovable big lug bachelor to what might have been hundreds of travelers who spend eight years trying to get from Saint Louis to somewhere in California. When the show's run was done in 1965, I guess that they just settled wherever they happened to be at the time and were happy with that.

Sing Along With Mitch - An entire hour each week of a theretofore largely unknown musician with a goatee who never stopped smiling. It was a community sing-a-long, only it was on television, and in your living room, and occasionally in my bedroom, until I could get up and change the channel to something, anything, else. Miller conducted The Gang (yes, they were Mitch Miller and The Gang) with a rather odd style while the likewise ever-smiling male and female chorale members, always scrubbed fresh and looking like they had never so much as considered passing gas, sang some of those old sentimental favorites. Favorites if you'd been born prior to mass production of Ford's Model A. Oh, and there was a bouncing ball, that way all at home could, well, follow the bouncing ball and just Sing Along With Mitch. The words corny and smarmy come right to mind.

My Three Sons - Another father with three boys and no mother in sight. They must have fallen off the turnip truck. Maybe mom ran off with Bub, then Bub changed his mind and came back under the weight of sheer guilt. The whole story of him being their grandfather was a cover. Papa and no mama was a familiar theme in 60s TV, what with The Andy Griffith Show, The Rifleman, Bonanza, The Courtship of Eddie's Father, and to some extent, Family Affair. What precisely was network television trying to tell us? Steve Douglas had a big job in the aerospace industry, making enough money to keep a nice house for the boys and their housekeeper and surrogate mother, who was initially their gramps, then their uncle came home from the merchant marine and helped the fellas grow the hell up. I don't remember a lot of zany or madcap mayhem with this show, it was just a good show, especially the early black&white episodes.

Such was television and the sets on which we watched television in those good old days. Good memories. In many cases, bad TV. But I had my Crosley.

America's Anchor of Record...

2009-07-18T18:28:00.000-07:00

It's been said of certain individuals that, if they didn't exist, we'd have to invent them.

To me, that's about the highest praise there is. It means they were or are THAT important to our way of life.

If Walter Cronkite doesn't fit the "...we'd have to invent them" paradigm, no one ever has. The man was the model which countless have followed. For those who didn't walk the trail of the Cronkite paradigm, they simply do not make the grade, nor will they ever. Too many likely do not know much more than the name Cronkite and precious little else about the man most of America welcomed into their homes nightly for generations.

I was a dorky kid.

I was also as nosy and newsy as I am today. Do you think it's why my life went where it went?

Ours was a CBS house, therefore ours was first a Douglas Edwards house then a Walter Cronkite house. If it wasn't Cronkite, it wasn't news, it didn't matter all that much, it wasn't THAT important to our way of life. If it wasn't Cronkite, we never saw it.

Growing up, the neighbors we were closest with were a Huntley/Brinkley family. Why? I have no idea whatsoever. What I do know is that on those few times when I happened to be in their house during evening news, Huntley and Brinkley looked so foreign to me that I was fascinated by who these "other guys" were. Over at my house, I tend to doubt Chet or David ever so much as flashed across our Philco screen for a second. Let's put it this way, I was deprived.

Frankly, and this is a minor whine left over from childhood, I felt a bit left out. Once I was old enough to watch what I wanted to watch and my very own television(an old B&W clunker with rabbit ears), and one was mine at about twelve or thirteen, I defaulted without much thought to Walter Cronkite.

I never got to see and hear their signature and, let's face it, rather famous "Good night, Chet - "Good night, David." It's my understanding that the order of the exchange did alternate from night to night, but I honestly don't remember.

The very first time I heard or read the word avuncular was as applied to Cronkite. I ran for a dictionary and learned what it meant, and of course, have never forgotten what it means. We always had dictionaries nearby growing up, mom and dad always encouraged to grab one when we came across a new word. It works. If you look it up, you'll never forget it.

Other people of greatness have died within the last month. I wrote nothing, for the very simple reason that, what could I possibly add that others haven't already.

It's the same with Walter Cronkite, except the loss, while surely anticipated, is worthy of everyone stopping, thinking, and noting it.

He was literally a giant. And there really was just one Walter Cronkite.

A Day Off...

2009-07-13T17:45:00.001-07:00

Monday, a day off. A rather unremarkable day off. Still, a day off.

Nothing planned. No big things to do. No important places to be. No pressing issues to address. No significant people to impress. No questions to answer.

Phewww, time out.

I did need a breather, both from work and from three nights at the 63rd Back Mountain Library Auction. A great event. However, between commitments there, and commitments at work, I needed some hours to myself to do nothing.

So, what did I do? Nothing, really. For whatever numbingly boring reason, I felt like looking at the day in writing.

10:30AM - Out of bed after more than loving a long night's sleep during which I had some tremendous dreams. I love to sleep, always have. The wife and I often refer to this mutually appreciated type of sleeping as "recreational sleeping," meaning that we find sleep to be inherently enjoyable, whether or not you physically and/or mentally need the sleep. I know many others who feel the same. Unless something, anything, has changed in the last ten or so years, science/medicine/physics, whatever, really can't explain sleep. The odd fact is, we don't know what sleep is, or what our body does to make it move between the state of awareness to that of non-awareness. I am not a scientist. I was not a meteorologist. I am a good sleeper.

10:35 - 11:40AM - Sat on my butt and drank coffee, read the papers, checked email and Facebook, caught some of The View, which isn't typically on my daily planner. Carol makes great coffee. We grind our own beans. You really can't beat fresh ground beans, regardless of what beans you use. Frankly, buy cheap, it's the fresh grinding that makes the difference. Grind your own, I say, make it drip method, I say, and you'll have yourself some really good coffee. If you go cheap beans, you may have to up the suggested amount of coffee per cup. Just remember, you have to grind the beans, meaning you'll need a grinder. They're cheap.

11:40AM - 1:15PM - Took a shower, threw on some shorts and a tee, got in the truck, then drove over to the chiropractor. Following deep muscle therapy, my chiro "adjusted" me, which is a monthly routine. I happen to have faith in chiropractic. It works for me. I have no back problems where I once had many. My right hip is nagging me. He did a couple things directed at that hip. It feels better. This likely won't surprise you; there are chiropractors who treat animals, and do so with verifiable success. There are also acupuncturists who treat animals. They, too, have their triumphs.

1:30 - 2:00PM - Home now, I decide to dork around with a piece of camera equipment that's been collecting dust for probably close to ten years. It's a circular polarizer - a CPL - a filter that threads onto the end of a lens. If used and adjusted properly, this thing eliminates glare completely. Why, you can take pictures right through glass windows. Or photograph water and actually see clearly what's beneath the surface, should that spit-shine your loafers. What I love about a CPL is that it punches up blue skies and clouds. Does this matter to you? I doubt it. Like I said, it was a day off to do nothing, this was a big part of my nothing day. Mary Tyler could have made it suddenly all worthwhile. But does she know how to use a CPL?

2:00PM - Had a "light" salami sandwich on "light" bread. I am forever on a diet, born on one I do believe. My victories over weight have been few the last seven or eight years. Not a bad sandwich. It would have been 1000% better on some sort of real bread, especially a nice rye or sourdough. Even two slices of good old fashioned American white bread of the cheapest quality would have improved the experience. Oh, washed it down with a diet soda - better living through chemistry.

2:30PM or so - Decided to flop down on a couch and read a book. Two of our three dogs were on me in a heartbeat. The third dog is not all that fond of a nap between my legs, or next to me, or right on top of me. Two out three ain't bad, right? With two dogs out cold with me on the couch, I managed to fly through about a hundred pages of a book I've been working at on and off for months.

4:30PM or thereabouts - Put said book over my eyes to block out light, thereby facilitating attempt at aforementioned recreational sleeping. Attempt successful. Dozed off nicely, very nicely. Dogs went right with me. They sleep better then we do.

5:00PM - Awoke in time to say so long to the wife, she was off to the auction to help open on its final night. Sunday is normally final night, Saturday they rained out, moving Saturday night's schedule to Monday night. I mumbled myself back to snooze status, finally moving my rump off of the couch around 6:30.

6:30 to 11:15PM - Drank some beer, watched some TV, had something to eat in there, too. The beer was Victory Prima Pils and some Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. What did I watch on the TV? I don't remember. What did we eat? Delmonicos, they were on sale. A Delmonico, a baked sweet potato, and a salad. OK, I had a glass of wine with dinner.

11:15PM - Back to bed. Good night...

And there it is, my day off.

Just In Case You Missed It...

2009-07-06T10:14:00.000-07:00

WILKES-BARRE - A Wilkes-Barre man was arrested Saturday after attempting to steal a pack of ribs from a supermarket by stuffing them down his pants, according to city police.

On A Holiday Weekend Just Past ...

2009-07-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

The 5th of July always waves the green flag for what's left of summer to rip, to fly, to evaporate.

Next stop - Labor Day.

Depressed? There's still some space under that bus.

OK, we all know, and I mean really know, that there's at least another seven weeks of "summer" left, even if you're a grump and a cynic and a whiner, bummer, bum, or wet blanket who allows the 4th mark the midway point.

Did I say, "Next stop - Labor Day?"

How about, "Next Stop - The Twilight Zone."

One of the more enjoyable things the 4th brings these days is SciFi's Twilight Zone Marathon. Perhaps its biggest draw is it being an alternative to all the nothingness on the other several hundred channels available at the tip of my index finger.

Saturday night, though, we took a little time out from Rod Serling to watch The Boston Pops on CBS. Can someone explain this show to me?

Not all that many years back, maybe not even ten, The 4th of July Pops Show was about the best out there, including the "have-to-hear-on-the-4th" 1812 Overture. (A piece which has zero to do with the USA. It's Russian in origin, and Russian in basis and foundation. We've made it our own. Also no, I really don't know why. It has far more to do with the French than us.)

So, what do we have now with the Boston Pops?

We hit CBS at the very opening of the show, just in time to catch Craig Ferguson introducing Neil Diamond singing Sweet Caroline. Right. Sweet Caroline. We glanced at one another and said in near unison, "What the hell does this have to do with the 4th of July?"

And the rest of the show was as equally perplexing. After one, maybe two Sousa marches and a patriotic sing-a-long, the fireworks finale was allowed to air uninterrupted accompanied by...no, not the Boston Pops, but rather by a mix of recorded contemporary music, much of it country.

What was once a terrific 4th of July production has come to be the ultimate in "I don't get it..." And for the show's producers not to use the Boston Pops for the finale has to be a snub unlike any other to Keith Lockhart and the fine orchestra he conducts.

Oh, and there was no 1812 Overture to be had. Just a guess - they perform their signature number BEFORE network coverage begins. Brilliant.

I will say one thing: Craig Ferguson manages to show considerable restraint when he emcees this show, Saturday's was his third. Did you ever get the sense that Ferguson, funny and likable as he is, is about one small step away from coming completely unglued, taking off his clothes, and running off cackling into the night?

A few hours earlier, we caught about five minutes of another 4th of July television show on PBS. A live show on which we were treated to Barry Manilow lip-syncing Copacabana. That was kind of a warm up, a tease, for the ultimate "I don't get it..." Sorry to ask the obvious - neither Copacabana nor lip-syncing have anything to do with the holiday, right?

Are public fireworks displays in decline?

Seems to me that also not that long ago the list of fireworks displays was long, very long. Looked like it was a whole lot shorter this year, maybe because it was scattered across three, even four nights. I can easily recall a time when these things were few, maybe a couple in both the Scranton and Wilkes-Barre area.

Since most neighborhoods in NE PA sound like Antietam come Independence Day, I got to wondering what, if anything, had changed with the legality of fireworks since I was a kid. Surprisingly, I'd say nothing has changed. I have an easy and simple rule of thumb when it comes to fireworks in this state.

Just think of Gleason's "Bang, zoom!" If it explodes or flies - goes bang or it zooms - it's illegal. Pretty simple. Not so simple, compliance with existing law.

If you're curious about a state by state list of laws, here you go.

What is the 4th of July all about?

The 4th of July commemorates the adoption of The Declaration of Independence by the Second Continental Congress, a holiday to be celebrated by and for all Americans. Without going on about specifics, let me just say that I heard some pretty odd things about the origins of Independence Day over the weekend. Despite not being a teacher, or a parent, or a school director, I still think that civics, local history, and Pennsylvania history should be a mandatory course in each grade's curriculum beginning with first grade and running through twelfth. While I'm making a speech, and in keeping with a patriotic theme, what you hear about George Washington not being born in the United States is undeniably correct. What those spreading this nonsense either don't understand, or would rather you not understand, is that when Washington was born in Popes Creek, Virginia Colony, the United States didn't exist.

Finally, what might be my favorite all-time 4th of July story, and a very true one.

Somewhere in my teens, I spent a 4th with a friend and family at a lake in Wyoming County. The focus of the day was to be an enormous and "private" fireworks show launched from the cottage owner's dock right after nightfall. Off-limits for much of the day was about half the dock, the half at the end of which was the lake. That's because the box of fireworks, and it was one honking big box, sat at the edge of the dock not to be disturbed by anyone until showtime when bombs would be bursting in air.

Things went wrong. Before dark, things went very wrong.

A discarded cigarette had landed in the fireworks box. I know, I know, this all sounds like a goof, right? It's not, not at all.

The grown-up men had all been guzzling beer most of the day, meaning that the men in charge of pre-detonation safety were getting a little sloppy. One of them, and it was said unknown to him, tossed a butt from the lawn near the lake. Speculation was that the wind had blown the burning butt into the box.

Here's where things get murky. See, there's this legend, this alternate account of what happened.

In the years following this incident, the story emerged that "the boys" - the youngest was probably 45 - were bouncing cigarette butts off the box and having a few laughs to go along with those few beers. One of the boy's aim was skewed by the brew and his lit butt landed in the box.

Oooooops.

By the time they found the nerve to peer into the box and fish out that butt, the hissing had already begun, some fuse had been lit.

Sobering up in one big hurry, the boys scrambled for cover, yelling to everyone within earshot to run for their lives. We all did.

It took but five minutes or so for the entire box of fireworks to fizz, whiz, bang, pop, thunder and ka-pow, all the while propelling flaming debris at every compass point. No injuries were reported.

The only casualty was that dock.

About a third of the dock had been weakened such by the unscheduled display that it creaked, leaned, and splashed into the lake. What was left behind smoldered, shortly thereafter breaking into visible flames and burning down to water level.

Now, on to Labor Day!