?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Junk Email

Posted on August 1, 2006

I have a new email program — new to me, at least — that filters what it believes is junk. The so-called junk is sent to a file, which I can review later, after I’ve read and responded to my legitimate emails.

The trouble is Junk Email isn’t as smart as it thinks. Recently I received some eagerly awaited technical documents from a patent attorney, but Junk Email thought they were spam. On another occasion, Junk Email decided that emails from some employees who work for the same company I do didn’t pass muster.

So, while I appreciate the idea of separating the wheat from the chaff, I cannot depend one hundred percent on Junk Email making the right decision one hundred percent of the time. Which means that I still need to scan the emails’ senders’ names before hitting the ever powerful “Delete for all time” button. I’m not sure what I’ve accomplished, other than enable my necessary email to go to the head of the line.

It’s true that Junk Email captures such brazen solicitations as are sent by Swiss quality watch knock-offs, real estate agents offering financial nirvana, the best in mortgage rates, and — let us not forget — the cheapest Viagra, Ambien, Valium, and Cialis. I’ve also been offered a tip or two on a promising penny stock and urged to verify my bank account numbers . . . at banks where I don’t even have accounts.

So maybe the real purpose of Junk Email is not to decide what is or isn’t junk; rather it’s to raise a flag, so that the recipient takes special note of these emails and makes sure not to respond in a way that enables some shyster to tap into my credit card information or my bank accounts or even my penchant for jewelry. My only suggestion is that the name of the function be Questionable Email instead of Junk.

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WD-40

Posted on July 31, 2006

Every now and then I get an email from a faithful reader with a suggestion for a blog topic. WD-40 is an example. Ken W. alerted me to the fact that this famous degreaser/oiler/cleanser/sparkler turned fifty this year; and, while I hadn’t heard any hoopla for the occasion in the Big Press, I decided it was worth a mention in my little online publication.

WD-40 began life as an experiment to find a rust preventative solvent and degreaser for missile parts. In other words, the product needed to protect an item from the effects of water. Three technicians in San Diego, California, worked to find an appropriate formula and were successful on the fortieth formulation, which was called Water Displacement 40; hence, the commercial name.

WD-40 had a myriad of undiscovered uses beyond the protection of missile parts; and, as time passed, these uses came to light and led to the product being sold commercially. Currently about 2.5 million gallons of the secret formula are manufactured each year.

What can WD-40 do? Well, in the hope of enlightening readers, here are just a dozen uses for the slimy film that is sprayed from a yellow and blue can.

1. Cleans guitar strings.

2. Removes lipstick stains.

3. Prevents flies from landing on cows.

4. Eliminates noises in rocking chairs, door hinges, and electric fans.

5. Keeps pigeons off balconies.

6. Stops rust from forming on saws and saw blades.

7. Removes the leftover sticky from duct tape.

8. Supposedly attracts fish without expensive lures.

9. Removes tomato stains.

10. Untangles jewelry chains.

11. Prevents water spots on glass shower doors.

12. And, finally, according to the State of New York, WD-40 is used to protect the Statue of Liberty from the elements.

If it’s good enough for the Statue of Liberty, then maybe the rest of us should spray some on ourselves when winter sets in

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Frogs’ Legs

Posted on July 30, 2006

Earl and I just returned from an excursion to Hammond, Indiana, where we had Sunday dinner at Phil Schmidt and Son. I realize it’s a long way from St. Joseph to go for a meal, but we happened to be in the neighborhood for another reason and decided to revisit the restaurant that made a name for itself with its recipe for frogs’ legs.

We stop in at Phil Schmidt’s about once every five years, and the place hasn’t changed at all since our first visit in the early nineties. It’s still in the iffy part of Hammond, although a gigantic casino acts like a stage backdrop these days. It still has a showcase of frog paraphernalia just inside the front door; and the dйcor is still from the fifties, even though our hostess said there had been some repainting and reupholstering.

But the menu was the same. The three most important entrees are frog legs, perch, and chicken; and you can order a combination of any two for dinner. Any two also means a double portion of one item instead of the variety approach.

I have always ordered frog legs in some fashion every time I go there, because that’s what Phil is known for. However, unlike McDonald’s, who used to advertise how many burgers it had sold, Phil Schmidt does not divulge how many frogs have given up their legs for his fifteen minutes of fame. Is it a million frogs, which would equate to four million legs? Or ten million frogs? And where do all those frogs come from in the first place?

This time I tried the sautйed frog legs instead the deep fried. They were lightly floured and heavily sautйed, so I’m not sure I gained anything positive in the calorie count. They were more difficult to eat too because the frog meat wasn’t crispy enough to come of the bone when I bit into it. They were also quite small, which made me wonder if these were baby frogs — aren’t they called tadpoles? I am not a heartless person, so I had to quell my feelings of guilt and think of something cheerier as I chewed. The frogs in the Budweiser commercials came to mind; they certainly have a happier existence than the ones on my plate, even if they must attend Alcoholic Frogs Anonymous meetings.

For the most part, Earl and I enjoyed our Memory Lane meal and are set for another five years before our next visit to Phil Schmidt and Son. In the meantime, maybe someone will organize a nonprofit titled Free Frogs for a Better Planet. Even though I enjoyed my meal, I’d probably join up.

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Hot or Cold?

Posted on July 29, 2006

There are two types of people in our country. And, no, they aren’t the Republicans and the Democrats or the red and blue states or even Northerners and Southerners. All those designations are potentially far too political; besides they don’t really cut to the heart of the matter.

Those who prefer hot weather and those who prefer cold weather are the two types I’m referring to. And while you might not get a straight answer if you asked someone about his or her politics, you definitely get the truth when you ask, “Do you like it hot or cold?”

There are reasons for choosing either side; I personally prefer cold weather and am concerned as I sit in my Michigan home enduring a summer heat wave that global warming is impacting cold weather dramatically. When was the last time the entire continental United States experienced a cold wave as extensive as the recent heat wave where the ONLY state in the lower forty-eight that the daytime temperature didn’t soar above ninety degrees was North Dakota? I don’t believe it’s ever happened before. Even Winnipeg, Ontario, Canada reported a scorching ninety-three degrees just yesterday.

I like cold weather because you can always wear enough clothing to be comfortable, even if you look like a polar bear in the process. You can wear a wooly cap, which helps retain your body’s heat; you can layer from the long underwear out. Of course you can remove your clothing in a heat wave, but there are certain restrictions that accompany shimmying out of everything. The local police don’t take kindly to nudists shopping in the mall, for instance.

But it isn’t only a matter of more or less clothing; I simply feel better in winter because the humidity is lower, the air is crisper, the bugs have disappeared, and so has the pollen. And while I love my flowers and my gardens, I’m always glad to rake the last fallen leaf and call the season quits. I’m also one of those crazy people who actually enjoys shoveling snow.

I doubt anybody truly relishes the extremes of either hot or cold — those one hundred degree days or those with the wind chill in double digits below zero — but I am equally certain that every single person has an answer to the question: Hot or Cold?

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Conestoga Neon

Posted on July 27, 2006

For the past few weeks the families who live on my road probably felt like pioneers when they ventured out in their automobiles. I know I did, and it was because the only road leading to where we live was torn up and removed, leaving only uneven paths of gravel and dirt behind.

Granted, pioneers didn’t drive cars, nor were they the recipients of a shiny black new road to replace the old one. But for those couple weeks when the road was gone, it was a challenge tantamount to crossing the plains years ago. My little Neon struggled at times to keep itself out of ruts, especially when we had a couple torrential rains. By the time I pulled into my garage, it looked as if I’d been in a mud wrestling contest.

When the weather was hot and dry, my car created a cloud of dust, even if I drove at a speed I could probably walk. From the door handles down, a film of earthen-colored dirt covered everything: the bumpers, lights, wheel rims, tires, and my little accessory that helps deer avoid a head-on collision.

I imagine the family Conestoga Wagon started its trip West with clean wheels, clean sides, and clean interiors. And I imagine the terrain those people crossed was more primitive than our temporary dirt road. Nevertheless, I felt a kinship to those people in my Conestoga Neon. The road is back, but my door locks are still sticky, the exterior needs a good wash, and the inside has a souvenir film of dust. I’d admonish anybody who tried to lean against the hood, just as I suppose more than one pioneer mom was heard to say, “Josiah, don’t lean against the wagon; you have to wear those clothes to Kansas.”

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Equipment Classes

Posted on July 26, 2006

I usually shun classes that meet at the same time every week and require a lot of equipment, even when the equipment is provided. It’s too regimented for me. But this afternoon I went to a step class at the local health club at the urging of an acquaintance who attends regularly. She claimed it was a great workout.

I can’t argue with that. If I hadn’t already been working out for the past nine months, I would have collapsed into a heap resembling a pile of limp clothes waiting for the washing machine. But I’m proud to report I managed to make it through the entire class on my feet.

Did I like it? Not really. By my standards, there was a lot of equipment to contend with; there were a variety of moves that the other participants seemed to know already; there was blaring music that sometimes drowned out the instructor’s directions. And there were maybe one hundred crunches as the grand finale to the hour.

I ran to the water fountain a couple times for breathers and then skidded back to my place behind my step, which is a little raised platform that one uses in the various moves. It’s like doing regular aerobics, except that the moves are done partly on the floor and then partly by hopping up and down from the step. I was just getting the hang of it, when the instructor announced that we were to switch from our step to another piece of equipment called a BOSU, which is like half of a large, squishy beach ball that makes the stepping part more difficult. After that we used weights and then came individual mat work and the crunching routine.

Judging from the prevalence of equipment oriented classes, participants must like all that stuff. I went to a yoga class once that looked as if each person had brought along everything from his or her front hall closet. Every one had a folding chair, blocks, blankets, and belts. I watched a swimming for seniors class where you’d have thought they’d all reverted to their youth, what with beach balls and flotation devices and noodles within arm’s reach. (If you don’t know what a noodle is, believe me it isn’t a large piece of pasta even though it looks similar.) And I’ve observed weight lifters who carry an entire bag of gloves and wraps and belts for their routines.

Maybe I’m not as engaged in fitness as others, but I’m attracted most to those activities that don’t require a lot of gear or setting up. Navigating the equipment distracts me from the actual purpose I’m there, which is for a cardio workout. And, if you need to organize your equipment, then you can’t work out on the spur of the moment. What works best for me is a good pair of shoes and an open road (or I’ll grant a treadmill when the weather isn’t cooperative), and I have no trouble getting my BOSU in gear.

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A Wedding in December

Posted on July 24, 2006

I just finished Anita Shreve’s latest novel, A Wedding in December, and have decided that many authors are at their best before they are discovered and required to write a book a year. Shreve’s latest is formulaic, reminiscent of others’ works, and disappointing; and I wonder if she has some sort of big contract to provide book after book to her publisher.

While I fault Shreve, who is an excellent writer, for a lack of literary-ness, I also fault the system. It seems that when an author catches on, the publisher wants more and more. And more and more means less and less time devoted to the full creation of a novel. I understand feeding the reading frenzy; but, at the same time, I do not condone churning out less-than-stellar books solely on the credibility of author’s name. The publisher’s pocketbook will be full for the short term, but it will be thin in the long run. So will the author’s purse strings.

A Wedding in December isn’t a bad book; it’s just underdeveloped. There are too many characters, some of whom are hardly drawn at all. There are too many plots and subplots. There is too much loading at the back end, which means everything happens in the last hundred pages or so. This, in turn, works against the reader investing in the book at the front end, because it makes it more difficult for a reader to plow through the first pages to be rewarded in the last.

I’m sure Shreve will go on to write other novels; and I suspect her publisher will promote her to the nth degree. At the same time, let it be known that I value her work as a budding author when she wrote The Weight of Water, Fortune’s Rock, and — her first novel — Eden Close. There is something about each of these works that does not pander to a publisher.

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The Silverhawks

Posted on July 23, 2006

Last night Earl and I attended a Silverhawks baseball game in South Bend. We’d been there before and found the venue charming. It’s not expensive to see a ballgame, the hot dogs are decent, there is beer everywhere, and the team members play their hearts out.

The Silverhawks are a Class A team, which means they are the lowest rung of the baseball ladder. From there, every player wants to get to Double A, then Triple A, and then the Majors. But this is where they all start. According to Earl, most of the team members are just out of high school. And maybe that’s why they play so hard; they see their lives ahead of them and want to make it to the Big Game if possible. The Big Game then leads to Cooperstown’s Baseball Hall of Fame years down the road.

We enjoy seeing a Silverhawks game as much as we enjoy seeing a major league baseball game. The stakes are different, but no less important; and there’s much less media hype. It’s not about whether the Cubs are losing while playing to sell-out crowds or whether the White Sox can repeat last year’s World Series. Rather, it’s about going out to the old ballfield and relishing a good game, regardless of the teams and their standings. The players might feel a greater pressure, but we do not.


Seeing the Silverhawks is about being able to share baseball with your children because it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg to get into the stadium. It’s about being outside in the summer air while the team you’re rooting for makes a grand slam. It’s about home-grown nostalgia.

Currently the Silverhawks are in second place in their division. Maybe they’ll move up, maybe not. It may matter to the players, but it doesn’t really matter to the attendees. Baseball is baseball; and just enjoying a good game is reward enough.

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The Mascot Hall of Fame

Posted on July 22, 2006

Funny, furry animals wearing insignia clothing of various sport teams and cavorting during half-times or inning stretches or time outs has never appealed to me. But I must be in the minority, because there is even a Mascot Hall of Fame for these — dare I call them? — performers. Last year the first ever inductees included the Phoenix Gorilla, the Famous Chicken, and the Phillie Phanatic.

www.mascothalloffame.com, the official web site for this craziness, offers the following as its mission statement: “To honor great mascot performers, performance, and programs that have inspired tradition and positively affected their communities. Each year mascots and mascot performers will be elected to the Mascot Hall of Fame and inducted in a celebratory event.”

This year’s balloting is already underway with the 2006 Induction Ceremony set for August 15. Among the nominees are Mariner Moose, Clutch the Bear, Slider, and Wool E. Bull. Although I do know of the Famous Chicken, I have never heard of the rest of these characters. If you haven’t either, then visit the website for an education.

My first reaction to such a competition is that someone is making a lot of money on this silliness. My second reaction is that someone is making a lot of money on this silliness. And my third reaction? Well, someone is making . . .

I’ve always thought the players and the game were the main attractions. But, the Mascot Hall of Fame web site argues that these people dressed in animal costumes bring equally as much to the event. If this is so, then I have visions of a day in the future when the mascots will be the main attraction and the players will be the sideshow. In fact, maybe the Chicago Cubs should have a furry mascot now.

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Pride

Posted on July 20, 2006

Three days ago I spoke to Loralee Mendez’s college class, the one she teaches on creative writing. She asked me to come because she had used one of my published essays — the one about meeting my father for the first time when I was forty-eight years old — as part of her course curriculum; and, since I live in the area, she thought her students might be interested in meeting a real live essayist.

I can’t tell you how flattered I was, because when I send my little personal creations into the vast publishing world they often return rejected. So if Loralee Mendez wanted me to talk about writing, and my writing in particular, I was ready.

What greeted me last Monday morning was a heterogeneous group of men and women from various points in life. One was an older man, returning to college for re-training after his job had been outsourced. Another was a professional tattoo artist working on his degree. Another was a firefighter; another a young man who’d entered college at age thirteen. I was impressed with how each of these people defied the standard college student profile.

I talked about how I became a personal essayist, about some of my life’s experiences that colored the written word. I also talked about how to get better at this craft called writing and what it means to be a writer. No doubt, most of these students had other career paths in mind, but it goes without saying that writing well offers better opportunities in all of them. Writing well means being able to make oneself understood; and making oneself understood means getting ahead.

Over the course of the class, Ms. Mendez had had her students write personal essays culled from their own experiences. While I did not have an opportunity to read them, some students verbally shared what they wrote about. The firefighter wrote about incidences that had propelled him into his career. One young woman wrote about her first love dumping her two days before Prom, and how she went to that event alone. Another woman wrote about having a child at age sixteen.

How proud I was of their candor, their grabbing topics that matter to the world at large. Of course, other firefighters have described how they chose their career paths; and other sixteen year old girls have written of giving birth. But these students were the only ones who could tell their story, who could possible write their unique perspective and inspire someone else. They need to write their stories, because nobody else will . . . or even can.

I left the classroom feeling proud, but it wasn’t because of what I had said or done that morning. Rather, it was a pride I had not only in those students whose names I didn’t even know but also in their teacher, Ms. Mendez, for inspiring such creative work.

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