The last governor of Illinois, George Ryan, is in prison after a long trial, and his first unsuccessful appeal. Years ago when he was the Secretary of State his people took bribes from truck drivers who needed their licenses. One of those drivers had a faulty load that fell off the flatbed and hit a van with six kids inside it. They were all incinerated. That's when it was discovered that the truck driver hadn't taken the required test, he'd just bought his driver's license with a bribe.
This is the same governor who later commuted the sentences of all the inmates on death row. Not that he did this out of the goodness of his heart. DNA testing had already exonerated a bunch of them so it sure seemed like it would be the right thing for ANYONE to do. Since The Gov was in the midst of being investigated for his shady past, it also smelled like a blatant PR move to me. With all the national coverage for this magnanimous gesture, The Gov even got himself nominated for a Nobel Prize. That one really had the stank of a publicity stunt. He didn't win the Nobel in case you're wondering.
All of which brings me to our latest governor, Rod Blagojevich. The former gov was a corrupt Republican. So the Rodmeister, a Chicago Democrat, won the office almost by default. This guy isn't corrupt, he's just a joke, running the state like a Latin American dictator. He has no idea how to build a consensus. He just orders everybody to do his bidding and expects to get his way. Not happening. Meanwhile his wife, a real estate agent/broker/whatever, is making nice sums of money from sweetheart deals with big donors who buy their homes, rent their apartments, lease their offices through her.
You know things are in the toilet when your own party doesn't like you. This Gov has had an ongoing feud with his own father in law, Richard Mell, a Chicago alderman. He is at war with state party leaders like Mike Madigan, speaker of house, whose daughter is the attorney general, so that can't be good either. The mayor of Chicago just shakes his head when he talks about the guy. Da Mare gets along better with the opposition than This Gov. Nobody can get along with him.
Nothing is getting done in the general assembly. Everybody is dragging their feet. To punish the legislators for not doing his bidding, This Gov has called the general assembly back for 35 special sessions -- more than all of the previous governors combined. At a cost of over a million dollars in overtime. He also has a plane that flies him to and from the capital at a cost of five grand a day. He has a security detail of seven, some of whom are making six figures in overtime.
He was at a Blackhawks game the other night in Chicago during an important vote in Springfield. That may be the final straw. We don't have a recall vote in Illinois, but getting one seems to be all anybody can talk about.
This latest special session was about This Gov's proposal to save the jobs of the people who drive the buses and run the trains in Chicago. It still didn't pass. And when the folks working overtime to keep the trains and buses moving heard This Gov was at the Blackhawks game, the shit starting hitting the fan.
"Hey, don't get mad at me for being at a Hawks game, I'm the Governor -- I don't get to vote."
The local stations/papers are running polls asking whether the governor should have been at the Blackhawks game the other night, when we need legislation to keep the entire transit system in Chicago from shutting down. Gee, I wonder how people are voting.
Meanwhile, there's always the latest update on the Drew Peterson debacle to deflect some of the attention. And the mayor just hired an FBI guy who is also a bodybuilder to be Chicago's new top cop. For more money than the mayor makes.
Illinois isn't a state; it's a carnival.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Royal Bank of Scotland Spot Makes Me Gag
The Royal Bank of Scotland has an ad campaign that goes after other banks that are all talk, but no action. I have no problem with the concept. I have no problem with using exaggeration to make the point either, since it is often entertaining.
But I do have a problem when the premise of the commercial involves certain bodily functions.
In the one RBS spot which I find nauseating, literally, a group of associates is sitting around a lunch table when one of them begins to choke on his food. He proceeds to make horrid gagging sounds and exhibit all the signs of a person who is about to throw up, not to mention choke to death, while everyone else sits around and discusses what he's going through and how to solve his problem.
Luckily for the choking person, someone from another table rushes over and performs the Heimlich Maneuver to save the guy's life. As if to make sure we know he was choking, the dislodged morsel of food is propelled past two of the all talk/no action diners who recoil from it as it flies by. Nice touch.
Unfortunately for me, I'm one of those people who will start yawning when other people are yawning. Same with gagging. If you should suddenly start gagging, I will find myself doing that, too. And if you show any signs of throwing up, I have to get out of Dodge.
As if to heighten my gag reflex, the RBS folks chose to purchase media for this commercial during mealtimes. So I often have food in my mouth when it comes on. Today for instance.
Naturally, to protect myself from an unfortunate upchuck, when the first onscreen gag erupts, I immediately change the station or I could end up with a major heave-ho.
Today, I discovered to my horror that this particular RBS spot is running simultaneously on several stations. So I couldn't just change the channel and escape. Because every time I hit the remote the choking guy was still gagging in another place.
As a result, I needed extra effort to insure that the spoonful of peach Activia I had just swallowed would not erupt. Finally I just turned the TV off until the danger passed.
But my puke moment was not over. Within minutes of turning the set back on a Pepto Bismal spot came on.
The one where they sing about diarrhea.
But I do have a problem when the premise of the commercial involves certain bodily functions.
In the one RBS spot which I find nauseating, literally, a group of associates is sitting around a lunch table when one of them begins to choke on his food. He proceeds to make horrid gagging sounds and exhibit all the signs of a person who is about to throw up, not to mention choke to death, while everyone else sits around and discusses what he's going through and how to solve his problem.
Luckily for the choking person, someone from another table rushes over and performs the Heimlich Maneuver to save the guy's life. As if to make sure we know he was choking, the dislodged morsel of food is propelled past two of the all talk/no action diners who recoil from it as it flies by. Nice touch.
Unfortunately for me, I'm one of those people who will start yawning when other people are yawning. Same with gagging. If you should suddenly start gagging, I will find myself doing that, too. And if you show any signs of throwing up, I have to get out of Dodge.
As if to heighten my gag reflex, the RBS folks chose to purchase media for this commercial during mealtimes. So I often have food in my mouth when it comes on. Today for instance.
Naturally, to protect myself from an unfortunate upchuck, when the first onscreen gag erupts, I immediately change the station or I could end up with a major heave-ho.
Today, I discovered to my horror that this particular RBS spot is running simultaneously on several stations. So I couldn't just change the channel and escape. Because every time I hit the remote the choking guy was still gagging in another place.
As a result, I needed extra effort to insure that the spoonful of peach Activia I had just swallowed would not erupt. Finally I just turned the TV off until the danger passed.
But my puke moment was not over. Within minutes of turning the set back on a Pepto Bismal spot came on.
The one where they sing about diarrhea.
Friday, November 23, 2007
2600 calories down, 3500 to go
Sweet potato spoon bread
Apple walnut yam casserole
Martha Stewart's to die for chestnut dressing
Spaghetti squash with feta cheese
Three bean salad
Cold broccoli salad
Cranberry orange mold
Mashed potatoes and gravy
Red wine
Huge slab of turkey
French silk pie
Pecan pie
Apple caramel pecan pie
Pumpkin pie
Whipped cream
Frango mints
*burp*
Apple walnut yam casserole
Martha Stewart's to die for chestnut dressing
Spaghetti squash with feta cheese
Three bean salad
Cold broccoli salad
Cranberry orange mold
Mashed potatoes and gravy
Red wine
Huge slab of turkey
French silk pie
Pecan pie
Apple caramel pecan pie
Pumpkin pie
Whipped cream
Frango mints
*burp*
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Yeah, Yeah, I'm Thankful Too
I am going to make an assumption here. I am going to assume that most people who read my self indulgent natterings are familiar with the term SOUS CHEF. If not, perhaps it's time to move on. Literally it means UNDER CHEF. Although with all the culinary hanky panky you hear about in restaurants these days, it could also mean UNDER THE CHEF. But I digress.
During the preparations for Thanksgiving, SOUS CHEF is the nom de spoon given to anyone who can be coerced into helping out in the kitchen -- among my friends and relatives at least. At its best, it is boring. At its worst, it may require first aid. Mostly it's doing the icky part of making all the side dishes. The CHEF [or the person in charge of cooking the turkey] finds the recipes he or she wants to serve as accompaniments to the bird. And takes credit for making them and how good they taste. The SOUS CHEF does everything else, toiling in anonymity.
Yesterday I was one of two designated sous chefs preparing for today's pigfest. I know we're feasting on a turkey, not a pig, but calling it a turkey fest doesn't do caloric justice to what is about to transpire in a few hours.
Meanwhile, back to ME. As an invited guest for the holiday, I was easily seduced into driving 25 miles each way in holiday traffic for the thrill of sitting in a kitchen for hours doing the prepwork for various recipes I did not chose. Occasionally I would ask, "What's this for?" as I labored, but mostly I just sat working in a mindless stupor. That's because prepwork is to cuisine as cleaning toilets is to interior design. Necessary, but rarely celebrated.
I was doing some truly thankless tasks -- repetitively slicing, dicing, and chopping various ingredients usually outsourced to third world countries and returned in cans to be purchased at your local grocery store.
Except that yesterday was all about FRESH ingredients. The CHEF don't do no f**king canned anything or use dried herbs. No. That would be TOO CONVENIENT. Only FRESH. So I chopped and sliced and performed other manipulations on umpteen cloves of garlic, 400 onions, a zillion celery stalks, eleventy-two million morel mushrooms, hundreds of bread cubes, a bushel of apples, a ton of walnuts, and pansful of pancetta [BACON to the rest of us]. Someone else was peeling potatoes, carrots, etc., etc.
At one point, I was handed what looked like the branches of a very very tiny fur tree. Each one of the little fur balls was a thing of thyme. My job was to strip the thyme off each of the teeny weeny branches of the tiny whiny tree. You take your thumb and forefinger and just slide it in the wrong direction and the little tiny thymes just fall off. It took an hour to get a tablespoon of the things. We couldn't just reach up into the herb shelf and use the seven year old jar of thyme?
Apparently not. Did I mention FRESH? The slavedrivers finally let me go home when it got dark. Then I had to stand in line to pick up the pies I ordered. My life is hell.
Today I will finally get to see what's for dinner. Perhaps I'll even point out some of the walnuts and apples and mushroom pieces I was responsible for. That's a surefire way to get invited back again.
Happy Turkey Day.
During the preparations for Thanksgiving, SOUS CHEF is the nom de spoon given to anyone who can be coerced into helping out in the kitchen -- among my friends and relatives at least. At its best, it is boring. At its worst, it may require first aid. Mostly it's doing the icky part of making all the side dishes. The CHEF [or the person in charge of cooking the turkey] finds the recipes he or she wants to serve as accompaniments to the bird. And takes credit for making them and how good they taste. The SOUS CHEF does everything else, toiling in anonymity.
Yesterday I was one of two designated sous chefs preparing for today's pigfest. I know we're feasting on a turkey, not a pig, but calling it a turkey fest doesn't do caloric justice to what is about to transpire in a few hours.
Meanwhile, back to ME. As an invited guest for the holiday, I was easily seduced into driving 25 miles each way in holiday traffic for the thrill of sitting in a kitchen for hours doing the prepwork for various recipes I did not chose. Occasionally I would ask, "What's this for?" as I labored, but mostly I just sat working in a mindless stupor. That's because prepwork is to cuisine as cleaning toilets is to interior design. Necessary, but rarely celebrated.
I was doing some truly thankless tasks -- repetitively slicing, dicing, and chopping various ingredients usually outsourced to third world countries and returned in cans to be purchased at your local grocery store.
Except that yesterday was all about FRESH ingredients. The CHEF don't do no f**king canned anything or use dried herbs. No. That would be TOO CONVENIENT. Only FRESH. So I chopped and sliced and performed other manipulations on umpteen cloves of garlic, 400 onions, a zillion celery stalks, eleventy-two million morel mushrooms, hundreds of bread cubes, a bushel of apples, a ton of walnuts, and pansful of pancetta [BACON to the rest of us]. Someone else was peeling potatoes, carrots, etc., etc.
At one point, I was handed what looked like the branches of a very very tiny fur tree. Each one of the little fur balls was a thing of thyme. My job was to strip the thyme off each of the teeny weeny branches of the tiny whiny tree. You take your thumb and forefinger and just slide it in the wrong direction and the little tiny thymes just fall off. It took an hour to get a tablespoon of the things. We couldn't just reach up into the herb shelf and use the seven year old jar of thyme?
Apparently not. Did I mention FRESH? The slavedrivers finally let me go home when it got dark. Then I had to stand in line to pick up the pies I ordered. My life is hell.
Today I will finally get to see what's for dinner. Perhaps I'll even point out some of the walnuts and apples and mushroom pieces I was responsible for. That's a surefire way to get invited back again.
Happy Turkey Day.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Dove Candies Screws Up Their Packaging
From time to time I like to write blog headlines inflammatory enough to find their way onto CNN or, more likely FOX NEWS, since those folks seem more vulnerable to hype.
But I really think Dove has screwed up the packaging for their foil wrapped chocolate squares. You have two choices -- dark chocolate and milk chocolate. Before I get to the problem, let me start with a little marketing research.
Answer the following questions:
1. What color foil would you use to wrap your dark chocolate squares? Red or blue?
2. What color foil would you use to wrap your milk chocolate squares? Red or blue?
If you answered BLUE foil for dark chocolate squares -- correctamundo!!
If you answered RED foil for milk chocolate squares -- you got them both right!!!
So far everyone I've asked has answered correctly. Now here's the problem:
The Dove people have wrapped the dark chocolate squares in RED foil. And the milk chocolate squares in BLUE foil. This is so stupid.
Already I have taken home the wrong chocolate twice because of their dumb mistake. Why don't they know that RED should be for MILK chocolate? And the BLUE should be for DARK chocolate? Never the other way around.
I don't have to have a reason. Just a gut feeling. But one of the people who agrees with me said, "Blue is darker, so that should be used for the dark chocolate." That's good enough for me.
The only reason I can figure the Dove peeps have created this packaging color screw up is because they're hoping that people like me will get confused and end up buying twice as much chocolate as they planned. Like marketing people would ever be smart enough to pull something like that off.
I would love to accuse them of a conspiracy, except I know that the process would take too many years. Most MBAs don't stick around one place that long. Plus nobody makes decisions without a consensus. You'd have to start things off with an ideation, followed by focus groups, followed by quantitative testing, followed by at least two dozen meetings to discuss the "numbers."
*YAWN*
What probably happened is that the BLUE foil was supposed to be for the dark chocolate and the RED foil was supposed to be for the milk chocolate, except someone gave the wrong instructions to the foil people. Or they gave the wrong foil to the people who wrap the little squares.
Anyway you look at it, the Dove people screwed up. They should just admit their mistake and switch the colors back the way they should be. Or at least let us vote for our preference online -- like we do for everything else these days.
Not going to happen. But I can dream, can't I?
But I really think Dove has screwed up the packaging for their foil wrapped chocolate squares. You have two choices -- dark chocolate and milk chocolate. Before I get to the problem, let me start with a little marketing research.
Answer the following questions:
1. What color foil would you use to wrap your dark chocolate squares? Red or blue?
2. What color foil would you use to wrap your milk chocolate squares? Red or blue?
If you answered BLUE foil for dark chocolate squares -- correctamundo!!
If you answered RED foil for milk chocolate squares -- you got them both right!!!
So far everyone I've asked has answered correctly. Now here's the problem:
The Dove people have wrapped the dark chocolate squares in RED foil. And the milk chocolate squares in BLUE foil. This is so stupid.
Already I have taken home the wrong chocolate twice because of their dumb mistake. Why don't they know that RED should be for MILK chocolate? And the BLUE should be for DARK chocolate? Never the other way around.
I don't have to have a reason. Just a gut feeling. But one of the people who agrees with me said, "Blue is darker, so that should be used for the dark chocolate." That's good enough for me.
The only reason I can figure the Dove peeps have created this packaging color screw up is because they're hoping that people like me will get confused and end up buying twice as much chocolate as they planned. Like marketing people would ever be smart enough to pull something like that off.
I would love to accuse them of a conspiracy, except I know that the process would take too many years. Most MBAs don't stick around one place that long. Plus nobody makes decisions without a consensus. You'd have to start things off with an ideation, followed by focus groups, followed by quantitative testing, followed by at least two dozen meetings to discuss the "numbers."
*YAWN*
What probably happened is that the BLUE foil was supposed to be for the dark chocolate and the RED foil was supposed to be for the milk chocolate, except someone gave the wrong instructions to the foil people. Or they gave the wrong foil to the people who wrap the little squares.
Anyway you look at it, the Dove people screwed up. They should just admit their mistake and switch the colors back the way they should be. Or at least let us vote for our preference online -- like we do for everything else these days.
Not going to happen. But I can dream, can't I?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE
I took this picture in 1978, if I'm not mistaken. It features one of my readers, an old friend and husband of one of my best friends, who hasn't been feeling too well lately. Okay, that's an understatement. He's fighting cancer, but even with all the chemo and discomfort, he is still going to work.
I don't think he's ever seen this photo from the good old days. I thought I'd post it and give him a few giggles. Feel better, Dave.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Baby Shower
Last night I went to a couples baby shower. A shower for both the mother to be and the father to be. Since the mom to be is a lawyer and the dad to be is a doctor, the guests were also doctors and lawyers. And most of them were married to each other.
Something like this may not occur in communities where the dads are driving big rigs and moms are doing twelve hour shifts at a restaurant. But you never know. Moms are driving big rigs these days and lots of dads are taking their barbecue skills into the restaurant biz. I think I'm getting off track a bit.
The party started at 7:00. And when I left at 10:30, it was still going strong. If there weren't so many onesies lying around this could have been any party anywhere with married people. Unmarried people would have been hanging all over each other. These folks have been married long enough so that you couldn't tell who was with whom.
When a party is for married people, the entertainment seems to be geared to the guys. From the time of the party -- nighttime, to the food -- meat and cheese. Along with a lot of crackers and cheese and dips, there were little beef sandwiches and miniature hot dogs wrapped in blankets.
I'm not sure when this couples baby shower thing began, but I wonder why? Have women infringed on male terroritory so long that ours is fair game? I'm sure it's the result of most pregnant women working and not staying at home to prepare for the ritual of the birth. My attorney brother and sis in law have barely missed a billing hour with any of their three kids.
With parity on the work front, fathers of the up and coming babies started including themselves in all things baby, saying things like "We're pregnant." As if they could actually comprehend the experience -- the nine months of mayhem that finally emerges alien-like, slippery, sllimy, and fully-baked from our bodies. Okay, I know sometimes the guys feel like their wives have become the aliens, so a little slack is required here. I guess this younger generation of fathers also figured if they had to get up in the middle of the night and change a poopy diaper, our baby showers were fair game.
I remember a time when baby showers were the sole domain of females. When girls could talk about "IT." Pregnancy. What it did to their sex lives. Their bodies. Their souls. Their relationships with their husbands. A shower was a few hours of catharsis. It was a chance for a new mom to be to let out her anxieties among friends. And leave at least some of her fears with the wrapping paper when she went home.
In the good old days, baby showers were afternoon events, often in the middle of the week. So we had plenty of time to get home to make dinner. Shower cuisine usually meant jello salads and sandwich loaves. With real china coffee cups, dessert plates and cloth napkins. We dressed up, sometimes even brought our own new babies, if we were nursing and they were small.
The presents were cootchy-coo cute and we ooo'd and ahhh'd like girls do, sitting in a tight little circle, elbow to elbow, as close as we could get to one another. Conversation was all about babies.
Last night wives were with their husbands so the babies were with sitters at home. With few exceptions, conversation was about husband and wife stuff, like work, since in every case, hubba bubba and wifey poo are both saving the world.
There were a couple of sotto voce conversations with the mother to be that I was in on. One of her friends said that their mothers all had to watch their weight. I said, "No we didn't. I gained 46 pounds." They just stared at me. Oh good, I thought, what's next? The expectant mom, who is tall and willowy and due at the end of the year, said her mom didn't look pregnant until her seventh month. Wait a minute. Her mom was my matron of honor when she was three months pregnant. She already had a baby bump then.
When one of the friends commented, "They put our moms out cold," referring to the bad old days, I actually kept my mouth shut. I was clearly expected to be a fly on the wall for this one. No one turned to ask for my experience. They didn't care. However, I wanted to shout -- what is it about 24 hours of Lamaze breathing and epidural free childbirth that sounds like I was unconscious to YOU? Just as well.
Mostly, there was talk about wine selection, furniture, cars, vacations. Not babies. Even when the presents were opened. Everybody stood around for the most part as the parents to be took turns unwrapping gifts.
Not that it wasn't fun or funny. The comments were hilarious. What I'm whining about is that it wasn't the way it used to be and I'm not sure that was a good thing. Women still need each other's company and as the lines blur between what men do and what women do chances for ordinary female bonding are relegated to weekends at expensive spas or support groups for divorcees.
After all that, it may be hard to believe that I had a really good time last night. The little miniature cupcakes with the swirly white frosting were to die for.
Something like this may not occur in communities where the dads are driving big rigs and moms are doing twelve hour shifts at a restaurant. But you never know. Moms are driving big rigs these days and lots of dads are taking their barbecue skills into the restaurant biz. I think I'm getting off track a bit.
The party started at 7:00. And when I left at 10:30, it was still going strong. If there weren't so many onesies lying around this could have been any party anywhere with married people. Unmarried people would have been hanging all over each other. These folks have been married long enough so that you couldn't tell who was with whom.
When a party is for married people, the entertainment seems to be geared to the guys. From the time of the party -- nighttime, to the food -- meat and cheese. Along with a lot of crackers and cheese and dips, there were little beef sandwiches and miniature hot dogs wrapped in blankets.
I'm not sure when this couples baby shower thing began, but I wonder why? Have women infringed on male terroritory so long that ours is fair game? I'm sure it's the result of most pregnant women working and not staying at home to prepare for the ritual of the birth. My attorney brother and sis in law have barely missed a billing hour with any of their three kids.
With parity on the work front, fathers of the up and coming babies started including themselves in all things baby, saying things like "We're pregnant." As if they could actually comprehend the experience -- the nine months of mayhem that finally emerges alien-like, slippery, sllimy, and fully-baked from our bodies. Okay, I know sometimes the guys feel like their wives have become the aliens, so a little slack is required here. I guess this younger generation of fathers also figured if they had to get up in the middle of the night and change a poopy diaper, our baby showers were fair game.
I remember a time when baby showers were the sole domain of females. When girls could talk about "IT." Pregnancy. What it did to their sex lives. Their bodies. Their souls. Their relationships with their husbands. A shower was a few hours of catharsis. It was a chance for a new mom to be to let out her anxieties among friends. And leave at least some of her fears with the wrapping paper when she went home.
In the good old days, baby showers were afternoon events, often in the middle of the week. So we had plenty of time to get home to make dinner. Shower cuisine usually meant jello salads and sandwich loaves. With real china coffee cups, dessert plates and cloth napkins. We dressed up, sometimes even brought our own new babies, if we were nursing and they were small.
The presents were cootchy-coo cute and we ooo'd and ahhh'd like girls do, sitting in a tight little circle, elbow to elbow, as close as we could get to one another. Conversation was all about babies.
Last night wives were with their husbands so the babies were with sitters at home. With few exceptions, conversation was about husband and wife stuff, like work, since in every case, hubba bubba and wifey poo are both saving the world.
There were a couple of sotto voce conversations with the mother to be that I was in on. One of her friends said that their mothers all had to watch their weight. I said, "No we didn't. I gained 46 pounds." They just stared at me. Oh good, I thought, what's next? The expectant mom, who is tall and willowy and due at the end of the year, said her mom didn't look pregnant until her seventh month. Wait a minute. Her mom was my matron of honor when she was three months pregnant. She already had a baby bump then.
When one of the friends commented, "They put our moms out cold," referring to the bad old days, I actually kept my mouth shut. I was clearly expected to be a fly on the wall for this one. No one turned to ask for my experience. They didn't care. However, I wanted to shout -- what is it about 24 hours of Lamaze breathing and epidural free childbirth that sounds like I was unconscious to YOU? Just as well.
Mostly, there was talk about wine selection, furniture, cars, vacations. Not babies. Even when the presents were opened. Everybody stood around for the most part as the parents to be took turns unwrapping gifts.
Not that it wasn't fun or funny. The comments were hilarious. What I'm whining about is that it wasn't the way it used to be and I'm not sure that was a good thing. Women still need each other's company and as the lines blur between what men do and what women do chances for ordinary female bonding are relegated to weekends at expensive spas or support groups for divorcees.
After all that, it may be hard to believe that I had a really good time last night. The little miniature cupcakes with the swirly white frosting were to die for.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Turkey Day
Last weekend I was this close to getting a plane ticket to New Jersey for the holiday when I learned that my presence was required here in town. A difference of 670 miles and a couple of hundred dollars. Not to mention five to six hours of traveling [assuming we weren't stuck on a tarmac somewhere] versus half an hour. The TSA peeps at O'Hare haven't been doing too well either when it comes to spotting the fake bomb parts coming through. So I'm kind of relieved that I won't have to keep an eye out for anybody trying to light their shoes.
Apparently my girlfriend from Dallas will be here for a week to visit her pregnant daughter and son-in-law for the holiday. Lots of parties are planned -- including a baby shower, catching one of the shows in town, meals and meals, plus hanging out. So she told my other friend in New Jersey, who happens to be her sister, that she had custody of me this year. I like to think that's a good thing.
The flip side is that when I fly to NJ, for obvious reasons, I'm not expected to bring pies and wine or a green bean and mushroom soup casserole with me. Although I have a friend who always packs up dozens of fresh, homemade tortillas in a suitcase when we go to the Jersey Shore. And when we get to the beach house, she immediately fills a large fruit bowl with avocados. That comes from being raised on a ranch in Texas.
When I only have to drive a few miles I can certainly be expected to stop at Baker's Square for pies and go to ye olde wine shoppe for vino. No problemo. I've got all the money I didn't spend on a plane ticket or at that leather shop in the United concourse. So I will use it all on booze and food.
On the other hand, I have been informed that if I dare to bring green bean and mushroom soup casserole, I will be wearing it on my head. Along with cranberry sauce [no matter how you prepare it, even pushed out of a can], I think nothing says Thanksgiving like green bean and mushroom soup casserole. You can do all the Martha side dishes you want, but save some space for that special fried onion topped treat.
Frankly, I think even the pilgrims would have been grateful for a serving or two.
Some of you might be wondering why I'm not taking this opportunity to offer to bake the pies. Oh, how I wish that someone would beg me. I love to bake pies, but apparently we're eating at someone else's great grandma's house and she and her side of the family LOVE the Baker's Square French Silk pie, so I'm not going to prove that I can make one too. After all, they're baked fresh daily, 460,000 at a time, which is about 459,999 more than I can bake at one time. I'm also bringing a pumpkin and a pecan pie for the holiday purists in the crowd.
I remember once making a pumpkin pie from scratch. And I don't even like pumpkin pie that much. I have trouble with something that's supposed to be a vegetable trying to pass as a sweet. I was even making homemade bread without a breadmaker in those days. Back then I had so many excess female hormones they were leaving stains on my clothes.
I baked that pie from start to finish -- scratch. I did everything except grow the pumpkin. Bought a smallish one, not too big, sliced it, took out the seeds, baked it, scooped out the meat afterward and measured and mixed in the spices all by myself. Damn I thought I was good. I even made the crust without cheating and using an egg. Tender and flaky, right out of Fanny Farmer. Poured the pumpkin goop into the shell. Baked it. I even baked the seeds into crunchy snacks. I was truly shocked by what I did. It tasted GOOD! People ate it. I had two pieces. But the tastiest pumpkin pie I ever made was a pumpkin mousse pie in a meringue shell crust topped with homemade peanut brittle pieces. I couldn't, and still don't, understand why anyone would want a regular pumpkin pie when they could have pumpkin mousse and a meringue crust. But, during the holidays, people seem to like their pumpkin in the missionary position.
Not cooking means you don't get to choose the menu. So I guess another year will go by without Aunt Louise's spinach souffle oyster dressing, or Grandma Tootie's cranberry salad thing, or my mother's traditional stuffing that starts with slicing a huge loaf of Italian bread into cubes the day before so it can dry out properly. Or making gravy with red wine and giblet broth.
But I can still look forward to hunting for eggs in the backyard afterward. Then bobbing for remotes before the football games start.
Apparently my girlfriend from Dallas will be here for a week to visit her pregnant daughter and son-in-law for the holiday. Lots of parties are planned -- including a baby shower, catching one of the shows in town, meals and meals, plus hanging out. So she told my other friend in New Jersey, who happens to be her sister, that she had custody of me this year. I like to think that's a good thing.
The flip side is that when I fly to NJ, for obvious reasons, I'm not expected to bring pies and wine or a green bean and mushroom soup casserole with me. Although I have a friend who always packs up dozens of fresh, homemade tortillas in a suitcase when we go to the Jersey Shore. And when we get to the beach house, she immediately fills a large fruit bowl with avocados. That comes from being raised on a ranch in Texas.
When I only have to drive a few miles I can certainly be expected to stop at Baker's Square for pies and go to ye olde wine shoppe for vino. No problemo. I've got all the money I didn't spend on a plane ticket or at that leather shop in the United concourse. So I will use it all on booze and food.
On the other hand, I have been informed that if I dare to bring green bean and mushroom soup casserole, I will be wearing it on my head. Along with cranberry sauce [no matter how you prepare it, even pushed out of a can], I think nothing says Thanksgiving like green bean and mushroom soup casserole. You can do all the Martha side dishes you want, but save some space for that special fried onion topped treat.
Frankly, I think even the pilgrims would have been grateful for a serving or two.
Some of you might be wondering why I'm not taking this opportunity to offer to bake the pies. Oh, how I wish that someone would beg me. I love to bake pies, but apparently we're eating at someone else's great grandma's house and she and her side of the family LOVE the Baker's Square French Silk pie, so I'm not going to prove that I can make one too. After all, they're baked fresh daily, 460,000 at a time, which is about 459,999 more than I can bake at one time. I'm also bringing a pumpkin and a pecan pie for the holiday purists in the crowd.
I remember once making a pumpkin pie from scratch. And I don't even like pumpkin pie that much. I have trouble with something that's supposed to be a vegetable trying to pass as a sweet. I was even making homemade bread without a breadmaker in those days. Back then I had so many excess female hormones they were leaving stains on my clothes.
I baked that pie from start to finish -- scratch. I did everything except grow the pumpkin. Bought a smallish one, not too big, sliced it, took out the seeds, baked it, scooped out the meat afterward and measured and mixed in the spices all by myself. Damn I thought I was good. I even made the crust without cheating and using an egg. Tender and flaky, right out of Fanny Farmer. Poured the pumpkin goop into the shell. Baked it. I even baked the seeds into crunchy snacks. I was truly shocked by what I did. It tasted GOOD! People ate it. I had two pieces. But the tastiest pumpkin pie I ever made was a pumpkin mousse pie in a meringue shell crust topped with homemade peanut brittle pieces. I couldn't, and still don't, understand why anyone would want a regular pumpkin pie when they could have pumpkin mousse and a meringue crust. But, during the holidays, people seem to like their pumpkin in the missionary position.
Not cooking means you don't get to choose the menu. So I guess another year will go by without Aunt Louise's spinach souffle oyster dressing, or Grandma Tootie's cranberry salad thing, or my mother's traditional stuffing that starts with slicing a huge loaf of Italian bread into cubes the day before so it can dry out properly. Or making gravy with red wine and giblet broth.
But I can still look forward to hunting for eggs in the backyard afterward. Then bobbing for remotes before the football games start.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Affy Tapples
Have you noticed that Affy Tapples, the brand, are getting smaller and smaller as the years go by? They're almost crabapple sized these days. Not only that, but by now, in the middle of November, they're kind of mealy when you bite into them. In fact, they're kind of mealy when you bite into them anytime.
Which has made me an aficionada of sorts. I started out with an early appreciation for giant caramel, not taffy, apples covered in nuts. Especially really crisp, tart green apples, rich, homemade, not Kraft, caramel and, freshly chopped nuts. Until I accidentally tasted a caramel apple rolled in crushed toffee bits. They look alike. But they sure don't taste the same.
Imagine my thrill upon discovering that my grocery store now makes them fresh on the premises throughout the Halloween season, which, in Chicago, ends after the circus leaves town in about a week. So, a couple of days ago during my bi weekly stop at the deli counter I picked up one of my favorite apple treats and couldn't wait to have time to eat it, since they're really large.
Having the day off helped. But I waited until after lunch to take the first bite, a moment I had anticipated for at least 48 hours.
ACK. The apple was crisp and tart. The caramel was delicious. But the toffee wasn't toffee; it was nuts. Here I had my taste buds primed and ready for the delicious sweetness of toffee pieces and what do I get but nuts. Do you have any idea how icky nuts taste when you're expecting toffee? I guess I have to start wearing my reading glasses when I go shopping.
Somehow I'll manage to finish it. But oh, the disappointment.
Which has made me an aficionada of sorts. I started out with an early appreciation for giant caramel, not taffy, apples covered in nuts. Especially really crisp, tart green apples, rich, homemade, not Kraft, caramel and, freshly chopped nuts. Until I accidentally tasted a caramel apple rolled in crushed toffee bits. They look alike. But they sure don't taste the same.
Imagine my thrill upon discovering that my grocery store now makes them fresh on the premises throughout the Halloween season, which, in Chicago, ends after the circus leaves town in about a week. So, a couple of days ago during my bi weekly stop at the deli counter I picked up one of my favorite apple treats and couldn't wait to have time to eat it, since they're really large.
Having the day off helped. But I waited until after lunch to take the first bite, a moment I had anticipated for at least 48 hours.
ACK. The apple was crisp and tart. The caramel was delicious. But the toffee wasn't toffee; it was nuts. Here I had my taste buds primed and ready for the delicious sweetness of toffee pieces and what do I get but nuts. Do you have any idea how icky nuts taste when you're expecting toffee? I guess I have to start wearing my reading glasses when I go shopping.
Somehow I'll manage to finish it. But oh, the disappointment.
Day Off
I love not having to work on a weekday. There's so much TV to catch up on. Naps to enjoy. Food to eat. Entries to write and piss people off.
First, you may recall that I wanted to see what the American Civil Liberties Union was going to do about the 82 year old lady who was tasered by the cops during a wellness check. To get the ball rolling, I called the Illinois office in Chicago and left my name and number and the subject. The recorded voice promised to get back to me within a week or ten days.
Must be slow in the civil liberties biz, since an elderly sounding person named Ruth called me back in 24 hours. Ruth is a volunteer who works at their intake desk. Before calling I had perused the ACLU site. Nowhere did I see anything about abuse of fourth amendment rights and wellness checks listed anywhere. NOTE TO REMO: Shut up.
Apparently that's because no one's ever complained about the problem before. People just assume cops have permission to enter a senior's house any time without a warrant, as long as they're over sixty. Especially if someone [anyone] thinks they've fallen and can't get up.
Guess the ACLU folks don't read the papers or watch the news because no one there had heard about the old lady and the taser story that spent two or three days on the airwaves just a stone's throw away. This did not diminish their shock over what went on. But they seemed completely unfamiliar with the idea that this probably happens several times a month in every community.
So I have two choices here: go down there in person and speak very slowly to explain the situation. Or write them a letter first that they can read very slowly and then go down there and explain it in person. I think I'll write a letter first. While I figure out something nice to wear.
So many windmills to tilt, so little time.
First, you may recall that I wanted to see what the American Civil Liberties Union was going to do about the 82 year old lady who was tasered by the cops during a wellness check. To get the ball rolling, I called the Illinois office in Chicago and left my name and number and the subject. The recorded voice promised to get back to me within a week or ten days.
Must be slow in the civil liberties biz, since an elderly sounding person named Ruth called me back in 24 hours. Ruth is a volunteer who works at their intake desk. Before calling I had perused the ACLU site. Nowhere did I see anything about abuse of fourth amendment rights and wellness checks listed anywhere. NOTE TO REMO: Shut up.
Apparently that's because no one's ever complained about the problem before. People just assume cops have permission to enter a senior's house any time without a warrant, as long as they're over sixty. Especially if someone [anyone] thinks they've fallen and can't get up.
Guess the ACLU folks don't read the papers or watch the news because no one there had heard about the old lady and the taser story that spent two or three days on the airwaves just a stone's throw away. This did not diminish their shock over what went on. But they seemed completely unfamiliar with the idea that this probably happens several times a month in every community.
So I have two choices here: go down there in person and speak very slowly to explain the situation. Or write them a letter first that they can read very slowly and then go down there and explain it in person. I think I'll write a letter first. While I figure out something nice to wear.
So many windmills to tilt, so little time.
Mini Rantette
What's the deal with Keith Urban? Have I missed something? Do Australians who sing country music float your boat? And what the heck does Nicole Kidman find so mesmerizing about this guy?
Okay it's me. Maybe it's because I was never attracted to skinny dudes who play in a band that he just seems like another loser with capped teeth and messy hair in a black t-shirt. Get him off the stage, take away his guitar and what's left? Someone who just got out of re-hab. Whoop de do. At least Jon Bon Jovi can act.
Speaking of losers, how about Drew Peterson going on TV this morning to answer questions from Matt Lauer about his third and fourth wives? Has there ever been a more unsympathetic husband of two dead women? I'm sorry, this last one is just missing. He's no longer suspended from the police force. He resigned. I can't wait to see how screwed up his kids will be when they're grown.
There's actually a radio talk show featuring two sixty something ladies here in Chicago that lets people call in on Wednesdays to rant for thirty seconds about something that's pissing them off. They call it Speak Your Peace.
On Thursdays they have a hour of sex talk about all kinds of stuff you usually read about alone and in the bathroom. If you're a guy at least. They warn the audience that what they are about to hear may not be suitable for more sensitive listeners. You can call in and go by Vince or Rhonda if you don't want to reveal who you are.
And to think I used to listen to FM music in the morning.
Okay mini rantette is over. I guess that last part wasn't much of one, but at least I got the Keith Urban thing off my chest.
Okay it's me. Maybe it's because I was never attracted to skinny dudes who play in a band that he just seems like another loser with capped teeth and messy hair in a black t-shirt. Get him off the stage, take away his guitar and what's left? Someone who just got out of re-hab. Whoop de do. At least Jon Bon Jovi can act.
Speaking of losers, how about Drew Peterson going on TV this morning to answer questions from Matt Lauer about his third and fourth wives? Has there ever been a more unsympathetic husband of two dead women? I'm sorry, this last one is just missing. He's no longer suspended from the police force. He resigned. I can't wait to see how screwed up his kids will be when they're grown.
There's actually a radio talk show featuring two sixty something ladies here in Chicago that lets people call in on Wednesdays to rant for thirty seconds about something that's pissing them off. They call it Speak Your Peace.
On Thursdays they have a hour of sex talk about all kinds of stuff you usually read about alone and in the bathroom. If you're a guy at least. They warn the audience that what they are about to hear may not be suitable for more sensitive listeners. You can call in and go by Vince or Rhonda if you don't want to reveal who you are.
And to think I used to listen to FM music in the morning.
Okay mini rantette is over. I guess that last part wasn't much of one, but at least I got the Keith Urban thing off my chest.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Mrs. Linklater -- Your Weekend Sports Anchor
Twice in recent weeks, Sports Illustrated has had members of the New England Patriots on the cover of their magazine. Once it was Tom Brady and just now they featured the linebackers. So far the SI curse hasn't kicked in. Usually it doesn't take much for an appearance on the cover to adversely affect the person or team that's featured. Usually win streaks end or batting slumps begin -- pretty much anything good that's going on comes to an immediate halt. But so far, nothing of the sort has affected the Patriots' undefeated record. Maybe the cover curse is just on a delay. Let's see what happens this weekend. Ha -- bet they have a bye.
Brian Griese went down with a shoulder injury during the Bears' game last weekend. The way he went down usually means that someone missed a block. Yessirree. When the play that injured Griese was reviewed it turns out that Cedric Benson, the Bears overrated, underperforming running back blew his blocking assignment. Usually he comes out on pass plays because of his suspect skills, but not this time. What were they thinking? He might suddenly be effective? I think players should be fined when a missed assignment causes the quarterback to go down and out.That money can be sent to me for safekeeping. It might offer them a little incentive to work harder. In college I'd rescind a player's scholarship. Or sit him down for a long long time. In high school I'd bench a kid for the season if the QB went down for good because that kind of mistake. Yeah, I'd be one tough MF if I were a football coach.
If I go to bed early I'm guaranteed to wake up in time to catch Poker After Dark. It's happened enough times that I'm becoming familiar with all the big names -- Ivey, Lederer, Hellmuth, Harman, all of whom are named Phil, Gus, and Howard I think. There's also Jennifer Tilley's boyfriend the Unabomber, and a female player with short blond hair. The group plays for $120,000, winner take all. Every week there's a new group of bigime players. The play by play guy talks in jargon so I have no idea what's going on most of the time, until someone gets up, shakes hands with everyone and there's one less person at the table. I wonder if I could get in a game at the local senior center.
Since the last time I played poker was in junior high for safety matches, it's been a long learning curve for me. Not to mention this is all taking place in the middle of the night, I'mhalf asleep and basically just watching TV to kill time until I crash again. There's only one player that seems like he could pass for a regular person and that's Phil Ivey. He doesn't have strange hair, long hair or hair on his face. He doesn't wear shades. He doesn't wear a cowboy hat. He doesn't have an obnoxious personality. He does wear a wedding ring. By comparison, everybody else seems like a character out of a bad detective novel. Kind of like me.
I see by the clock on the wall this entry is over. Time to haul up the anchor, Mrs. L's weekend sports report is officially toast.
Brian Griese went down with a shoulder injury during the Bears' game last weekend. The way he went down usually means that someone missed a block. Yessirree. When the play that injured Griese was reviewed it turns out that Cedric Benson, the Bears overrated, underperforming running back blew his blocking assignment. Usually he comes out on pass plays because of his suspect skills, but not this time. What were they thinking? He might suddenly be effective? I think players should be fined when a missed assignment causes the quarterback to go down and out.That money can be sent to me for safekeeping. It might offer them a little incentive to work harder. In college I'd rescind a player's scholarship. Or sit him down for a long long time. In high school I'd bench a kid for the season if the QB went down for good because that kind of mistake. Yeah, I'd be one tough MF if I were a football coach.
If I go to bed early I'm guaranteed to wake up in time to catch Poker After Dark. It's happened enough times that I'm becoming familiar with all the big names -- Ivey, Lederer, Hellmuth, Harman, all of whom are named Phil, Gus, and Howard I think. There's also Jennifer Tilley's boyfriend the Unabomber, and a female player with short blond hair. The group plays for $120,000, winner take all. Every week there's a new group of bigime players. The play by play guy talks in jargon so I have no idea what's going on most of the time, until someone gets up, shakes hands with everyone and there's one less person at the table. I wonder if I could get in a game at the local senior center.
Since the last time I played poker was in junior high for safety matches, it's been a long learning curve for me. Not to mention this is all taking place in the middle of the night, I'mhalf asleep and basically just watching TV to kill time until I crash again. There's only one player that seems like he could pass for a regular person and that's Phil Ivey. He doesn't have strange hair, long hair or hair on his face. He doesn't wear shades. He doesn't wear a cowboy hat. He doesn't have an obnoxious personality. He does wear a wedding ring. By comparison, everybody else seems like a character out of a bad detective novel. Kind of like me.
I see by the clock on the wall this entry is over. Time to haul up the anchor, Mrs. L's weekend sports report is officially toast.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Wellness Check on Steroids
I don't know whether any of you got the news about the 82 year old woman who was tasered by the cops here in Chicago, but when I tell you she was taken down by police officers on a mission to do a wellness check, you can no doubt understand my interest.
Apparently a city agency went to her house to check up on her. It sounds like a family member might have been worried and/or too lazy to do it themselves. The folks who showed up on her doorstep could see her through her front window brandishing a hammer in a threatening manner. At this point, I would have simply checked the box marked YES she is alive and left. Clearly if she could wield a hammer standing in the window, she wasn't incapacitated or in need of emergency help.
Perhaps she felt the hammer would emphasize that she wanted them to go away. Perhaps she just didn't want to let them in her house because she didn't know who they were and frankly wasn't in the mood for company.
The people from the agency didn't go away because they are bureaucrats. They called the cops. The cops arrived to help. They didn't bring a warrant I might point out. At this point, I guess the lady answered the door for the cops who then forced their way in. In fact they admitted that they forced their way in.
Did I mention that NOBODY HAD A WARRANT? And this intrusion was supposedly about a wellness check?
Needless to say, said 82 year old lady was afraid for her life so she started swinging her hammer another time to protect herself, which scared the cops, who blasted her with a taser.
There was one phrase in the story that supposedly justified all this asinine treatment of a poor old woman -- she apparently has a history of schizophrenia. As if you have to be schizophrenic to not want the cops or strangers to come into your house.
Time to call the ACLU. Old people have rights too. So do old people who are considered crazy.
And yes, the new Office of Professional Standards is investigating.
Apparently a city agency went to her house to check up on her. It sounds like a family member might have been worried and/or too lazy to do it themselves. The folks who showed up on her doorstep could see her through her front window brandishing a hammer in a threatening manner. At this point, I would have simply checked the box marked YES she is alive and left. Clearly if she could wield a hammer standing in the window, she wasn't incapacitated or in need of emergency help.
Perhaps she felt the hammer would emphasize that she wanted them to go away. Perhaps she just didn't want to let them in her house because she didn't know who they were and frankly wasn't in the mood for company.
The people from the agency didn't go away because they are bureaucrats. They called the cops. The cops arrived to help. They didn't bring a warrant I might point out. At this point, I guess the lady answered the door for the cops who then forced their way in. In fact they admitted that they forced their way in.
Did I mention that NOBODY HAD A WARRANT? And this intrusion was supposedly about a wellness check?
Needless to say, said 82 year old lady was afraid for her life so she started swinging her hammer another time to protect herself, which scared the cops, who blasted her with a taser.
There was one phrase in the story that supposedly justified all this asinine treatment of a poor old woman -- she apparently has a history of schizophrenia. As if you have to be schizophrenic to not want the cops or strangers to come into your house.
Time to call the ACLU. Old people have rights too. So do old people who are considered crazy.
And yes, the new Office of Professional Standards is investigating.
Football Banquet
The banquet was fun. I helped do the video. The senior awards ceremony took a mere three and a half hours. I looked fetching in my cheerleader's uniform. The coach cried. [Because he's retiring, not because of my outfit.] However, I think the pompoms worked. I got a hoody t-shirt presented to me by my friends' son, who is one of the captains, for helping his mom do the team videos during the season. I also got a lovely bouquet of flowers.
Our sports videos have been well received. Two years ago the sophomore team baseball video won an award, a gold statue of some woman in a drape.
Since everybody is used to seeing fuzzy high school videos shot from eight stories up, they really appreciate seeing the up close and personal videos we shoot from the sidelines and with zoom lenses from up in the stands. Some of the shots really do have an NFL feel, but we're shooting mini dv, not film, so while things can sometimes seem similar, slow motion and everything, it's still video, not film.
We could shoot in HD because some of the cameras are pretty spiffy, but one of our favorite cameras isn't that fancy -- although it has a very fast lens and a really good zoom. I use it because it's much lighter. All the cameras are synched to shoot like the older camera at thirty frames per second, not 24. Otherwise the footage won't match. Like anybody reading this could care.
We were limited to only twenty minutes for this year's video at the end of all the awards. The individual game highlights alone take over an hour. So we invited everyone to see the whole show the next night at a pizza party for the team.
To cut things down to twenty minutes for the banquet, I did season highlights in three parts -- Defense, Special Teams and Offense. There is always a reaction to a big hit or hard tackle, but we actually had moments of enthusiastic applause for some of the long runs.
The offense was saved for last. To open that segment, I used four separate clips of my friends' son running with five and six players trying to take him down. He has always been fast, but his strength is phenomenal.
Slow motion only emphasized how much and how far he was dragging people. After the last thirty to forty yard run, where he carried the whole defense an extra ten yards to the one foot line, the place went up for grabs. Plus, he had just been awarded a huge trophy for being honored as the conference player of the year, so I was glad I started out with him.
The team also had its own Devon Hester. In white. He returned three kick offs for touchdowns. Plus another one to the four yard line against a team that just got knocked out of the state semis. But the biggest applause for his efforts was saved for a touchdown run up the middle past everyone on the field. I was able to follow him the whole way from where I was shooting. The hooting and hollering started about midfield and grew to a roar by the time he got into the end zone. Cool.
At the pizza party the next night, we had the captains give out five fuzzy footballs as awards to good players who didn't get the big awards, but who were favorites of the video crew. One went to the backup QB for doing the funniest coach impersonation. Another kid got one for his impersonation of all the captains. Another back up guy could have had a fuzzy football for being able to play ball and lead cheers at the same time, but he also has a mustache and a goatee so he got a fuzzy football for looking like he's 35 years old. Another guy got a fuzzy football for taking out a referee. He made a diving pass and knocked the ref on his ass when he got up. I can't remember who got the last one or what it was for. Not a good sign, since I made up the awards.
Four more years of football are over. I started out shooting basketball, then soccer for my younger daughter's teams back in 1989 and '90. Then I did the boys' basketball team at her school, too. Followed by a year of flying to NJ every weekend in the fall of '97 to shoot another friend's son who took his team to the state championships in football. Plus I went to some of his college games.
Hmm. There's still one more season of baseball or track in the spring.
Then, I promise to get a life.
Our sports videos have been well received. Two years ago the sophomore team baseball video won an award, a gold statue of some woman in a drape.
Since everybody is used to seeing fuzzy high school videos shot from eight stories up, they really appreciate seeing the up close and personal videos we shoot from the sidelines and with zoom lenses from up in the stands. Some of the shots really do have an NFL feel, but we're shooting mini dv, not film, so while things can sometimes seem similar, slow motion and everything, it's still video, not film.
We could shoot in HD because some of the cameras are pretty spiffy, but one of our favorite cameras isn't that fancy -- although it has a very fast lens and a really good zoom. I use it because it's much lighter. All the cameras are synched to shoot like the older camera at thirty frames per second, not 24. Otherwise the footage won't match. Like anybody reading this could care.
We were limited to only twenty minutes for this year's video at the end of all the awards. The individual game highlights alone take over an hour. So we invited everyone to see the whole show the next night at a pizza party for the team.
To cut things down to twenty minutes for the banquet, I did season highlights in three parts -- Defense, Special Teams and Offense. There is always a reaction to a big hit or hard tackle, but we actually had moments of enthusiastic applause for some of the long runs.
The offense was saved for last. To open that segment, I used four separate clips of my friends' son running with five and six players trying to take him down. He has always been fast, but his strength is phenomenal.
Slow motion only emphasized how much and how far he was dragging people. After the last thirty to forty yard run, where he carried the whole defense an extra ten yards to the one foot line, the place went up for grabs. Plus, he had just been awarded a huge trophy for being honored as the conference player of the year, so I was glad I started out with him.
The team also had its own Devon Hester. In white. He returned three kick offs for touchdowns. Plus another one to the four yard line against a team that just got knocked out of the state semis. But the biggest applause for his efforts was saved for a touchdown run up the middle past everyone on the field. I was able to follow him the whole way from where I was shooting. The hooting and hollering started about midfield and grew to a roar by the time he got into the end zone. Cool.
At the pizza party the next night, we had the captains give out five fuzzy footballs as awards to good players who didn't get the big awards, but who were favorites of the video crew. One went to the backup QB for doing the funniest coach impersonation. Another kid got one for his impersonation of all the captains. Another back up guy could have had a fuzzy football for being able to play ball and lead cheers at the same time, but he also has a mustache and a goatee so he got a fuzzy football for looking like he's 35 years old. Another guy got a fuzzy football for taking out a referee. He made a diving pass and knocked the ref on his ass when he got up. I can't remember who got the last one or what it was for. Not a good sign, since I made up the awards.
Four more years of football are over. I started out shooting basketball, then soccer for my younger daughter's teams back in 1989 and '90. Then I did the boys' basketball team at her school, too. Followed by a year of flying to NJ every weekend in the fall of '97 to shoot another friend's son who took his team to the state championships in football. Plus I went to some of his college games.
Hmm. There's still one more season of baseball or track in the spring.
Then, I promise to get a life.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Dead Wives Club
Shades of Scott Peterson. This is really creepy. Not only does suburban Chicago cop Drew Peterson share the same last name, but he also has another Scott Peterson attribute -- a missing wife. The creepiest part is that Drew and his wife named their year old daughter Lacy.
This latest wife, the one that vanished, is number four. His third wife died in a supposed accident, after she divorced him for cheating with the future fourth wife, the one now missing, who was pregnant.
Lisa Stebic's husband, also a fine upstanding Chicago lad, recently said he understands how Drew Peterson feels, because both of them have wives that managed to go missing without a trace. And everyone [i.e. the MEDIA] is not subtle about suggesting that the husbands might be responsible.
Lisa went missing six months ago. She and Stacy Peterson were each divorcing or planning to divorce their hubba bubbas. And told friends and family that their husbands had threatened them.
Yesterday Peterson was upgraded to "suspect." Stebic's hubba bubba is still just a person of interest. They're going to exhume Peterson's third wife for some tests that weren't done the first time around.
Number Three was found drowned in an empty bathtub with signs of a struggle. Because the fifty something Peterson is a cop the original "accidental" death finding may have been the law enforcement equivalent of professional courtesy. Now a new bunch of cops are saying that the crime scene photos suggest that wife number three died from a homicide that was made to look like an accident. Like the other ladies, she had told friends and family that he was going to kill her. So he may be sent to prison for his third wife's death before they get around to dealing with what he did to his fourth wife. And if you don't think he did anything to his fourth wife, you've never been married.
So basicaly it's looking like we have two husbands and three wives who wanted to divorce them. The good news for one is that she actually got her divorce. The bad news is that she was dead shortly thereafter. The other two women are only missing and presumed dead.
More proof that marriage is an institution. For the criminally insane.
This latest wife, the one that vanished, is number four. His third wife died in a supposed accident, after she divorced him for cheating with the future fourth wife, the one now missing, who was pregnant.
Lisa Stebic's husband, also a fine upstanding Chicago lad, recently said he understands how Drew Peterson feels, because both of them have wives that managed to go missing without a trace. And everyone [i.e. the MEDIA] is not subtle about suggesting that the husbands might be responsible.
Lisa went missing six months ago. She and Stacy Peterson were each divorcing or planning to divorce their hubba bubbas. And told friends and family that their husbands had threatened them.
Yesterday Peterson was upgraded to "suspect." Stebic's hubba bubba is still just a person of interest. They're going to exhume Peterson's third wife for some tests that weren't done the first time around.
Number Three was found drowned in an empty bathtub with signs of a struggle. Because the fifty something Peterson is a cop the original "accidental" death finding may have been the law enforcement equivalent of professional courtesy. Now a new bunch of cops are saying that the crime scene photos suggest that wife number three died from a homicide that was made to look like an accident. Like the other ladies, she had told friends and family that he was going to kill her. So he may be sent to prison for his third wife's death before they get around to dealing with what he did to his fourth wife. And if you don't think he did anything to his fourth wife, you've never been married.
So basicaly it's looking like we have two husbands and three wives who wanted to divorce them. The good news for one is that she actually got her divorce. The bad news is that she was dead shortly thereafter. The other two women are only missing and presumed dead.
More proof that marriage is an institution. For the criminally insane.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Mrs. Linklater -- Your Weekend Sports Anchor
This weekend another marathon runner died.
For those of you not keeping tabs on dead runners, last month a police officer from Michigan died while running in the Chicago Marathon. Boy did the New York Marathon organizers gloat over that one. That won't happen to us because we're New York.
Sure it was unusually hot for the Chicago Marathon. Sure they canceled the race after three hours. Sure it was a PR nightmare. But the guy had a prolapsed mitral valve, which you can live with on medication, but you can die with it. too. He had a defective pumper and he caused major stress to it by running in the heat. Whose fault is that? The docs who cleared him to race? The weatherman? I smell accountability.
His death was probably a good indication that he should have stayed home. His family now has a lawyer [quelle shock!!] who is accusing the ambulance and the responding EMTs of getting lost on the way to the hospital.
Yesterday, an elite marathoner hoping to qualify for the Olympics died while running in New York. So nanananana New York, someone died on your watch too. Okay, he wasn't running in the actual New York Marathon. He was running in the Olympic Qualifier Marathon, also in New York. But he died.
I don't know why they held the Olympic qualifier the day before today's yearly marathon for everybody else. Were they trying to save on paper cups? The guy who died had only run five miles before he collapsed. The reports at first said he was healthy.
Well, he wasn't. He'd had an enlarged heart from the time he was thirteen. I didn't hear all the details, but he was cleared to compete by his docs. Is there an echo in here? People should remember that a doctor's opinion is just his opinion. An educated guess. If something's wrong with your heart, taking it out for a marathon run is probably not a good idea, since you could die. Have I mentioned that your life could be interrupted? Finished, caput, toodaloo?
Think of all the football players the docs cleared to start after concussions. Who now spend their fifties wondering where the toilet paper is.
The kind of enlarged heart the New York runner had wasn't made clear. Was it just large and athletic, which can be a good thing, particularly in an elite runner, giving him a huge competitive edge? Or was it big and flabby from a defect or disease? Did the docs think the guy had one thing and it turned out to be another? I have two dead friends who made the mistake of being elite athletes. The docs thought their enlarged hearts were big, healthy "athletic" hearts, when they were actually sick and dying.
I have the feeling that the young man who just died may have been the victim of doctors who were trying to be good guys and not stop him from following his dream of making the Olympics. Or he may have been misdiagnosed. I'm sure his family will soon hire attorneys who will find a reason to sue somebody.
A Kenyan won the men's side of the New York Marathon. Not the Olympic qualifier. A Kenyan won the Chicago race, too, I believe. Kenyans and Moroccans win most of the marathons. Not only do Kenyans live at a very high altitude, which gives them an advantage competing at sea level, but I just read that most of them start as kids, running from eight to ten miles to school every day. Someone said the way to give Americans a chance to win after almost two decades of being also rans is simple: just send school buses to Kenya.
There are plenty of excellent female marathoners from Africa, too, but Paula Radcliffe, who is English, won today. Somehow the Brits have cracked the code. At least she has. I think she has won most of the marathons she enters and holds a record or two. I do know that she sat down on a curb and quit during the hot and humid 2004 Olympic marathon when it became clear that she couldn't win a medal. At least, it seemed that way to me. So she's not a machine or anything. She also likes to lead from the start, which is unusual in a long race.
Enough about New York, now Mrs. Linklater wants to talk football: Notre Dame loses to Navy after 230 years? In triple overtime? Earth to Charley Weis -- hasta la bye bye.
Oregon beats ASU. Sorry Remo.
Okay haul up the anchor, the weekend sports report is over.
For those of you not keeping tabs on dead runners, last month a police officer from Michigan died while running in the Chicago Marathon. Boy did the New York Marathon organizers gloat over that one. That won't happen to us because we're New York.
Sure it was unusually hot for the Chicago Marathon. Sure they canceled the race after three hours. Sure it was a PR nightmare. But the guy had a prolapsed mitral valve, which you can live with on medication, but you can die with it. too. He had a defective pumper and he caused major stress to it by running in the heat. Whose fault is that? The docs who cleared him to race? The weatherman? I smell accountability.
His death was probably a good indication that he should have stayed home. His family now has a lawyer [quelle shock!!] who is accusing the ambulance and the responding EMTs of getting lost on the way to the hospital.
Yesterday, an elite marathoner hoping to qualify for the Olympics died while running in New York. So nanananana New York, someone died on your watch too. Okay, he wasn't running in the actual New York Marathon. He was running in the Olympic Qualifier Marathon, also in New York. But he died.
I don't know why they held the Olympic qualifier the day before today's yearly marathon for everybody else. Were they trying to save on paper cups? The guy who died had only run five miles before he collapsed. The reports at first said he was healthy.
Well, he wasn't. He'd had an enlarged heart from the time he was thirteen. I didn't hear all the details, but he was cleared to compete by his docs. Is there an echo in here? People should remember that a doctor's opinion is just his opinion. An educated guess. If something's wrong with your heart, taking it out for a marathon run is probably not a good idea, since you could die. Have I mentioned that your life could be interrupted? Finished, caput, toodaloo?
Think of all the football players the docs cleared to start after concussions. Who now spend their fifties wondering where the toilet paper is.
The kind of enlarged heart the New York runner had wasn't made clear. Was it just large and athletic, which can be a good thing, particularly in an elite runner, giving him a huge competitive edge? Or was it big and flabby from a defect or disease? Did the docs think the guy had one thing and it turned out to be another? I have two dead friends who made the mistake of being elite athletes. The docs thought their enlarged hearts were big, healthy "athletic" hearts, when they were actually sick and dying.
I have the feeling that the young man who just died may have been the victim of doctors who were trying to be good guys and not stop him from following his dream of making the Olympics. Or he may have been misdiagnosed. I'm sure his family will soon hire attorneys who will find a reason to sue somebody.
A Kenyan won the men's side of the New York Marathon. Not the Olympic qualifier. A Kenyan won the Chicago race, too, I believe. Kenyans and Moroccans win most of the marathons. Not only do Kenyans live at a very high altitude, which gives them an advantage competing at sea level, but I just read that most of them start as kids, running from eight to ten miles to school every day. Someone said the way to give Americans a chance to win after almost two decades of being also rans is simple: just send school buses to Kenya.
There are plenty of excellent female marathoners from Africa, too, but Paula Radcliffe, who is English, won today. Somehow the Brits have cracked the code. At least she has. I think she has won most of the marathons she enters and holds a record or two. I do know that she sat down on a curb and quit during the hot and humid 2004 Olympic marathon when it became clear that she couldn't win a medal. At least, it seemed that way to me. So she's not a machine or anything. She also likes to lead from the start, which is unusual in a long race.
Enough about New York, now Mrs. Linklater wants to talk football: Notre Dame loses to Navy after 230 years? In triple overtime? Earth to Charley Weis -- hasta la bye bye.
Oregon beats ASU. Sorry Remo.
Okay haul up the anchor, the weekend sports report is over.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Try Again
It worked finally!!! Cutie pies aren't they? They both called me on my birthday and said "Happy Birthday Auntie Grandma!" And, in just a few days my sis in law is going to take off work for a day and have another one. Just in time for the holidays. I think that's very thoughtful of her.
Message to L'il Bro
Hey, could you drop everything and re-send pix 114 and 059 again? I think my computer needs Midol or something. Those two won't upload. Thanx, Beeg Sis
Wait a minute -- one of them finally loaded. Okay, let me try the other one for the umpteenth time.
Cute Older Sister Alert
I can't seem to upload the next shot of the "knight" kissing his lady. [See above for actual kissing moment.]
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