Big Boom Below

 Not too long ago, I came across one of those links on Facebook that was posted by a group with a name like "Remember the 50s," "Things That Used to Be," or "You Know You're Old When..." Pictured there was a floor furnace, with a caption that read, "Remember these?" How could I forget?

For those of us of a certain age who grew up in parts of the country where gas heat was the norm, the floor furnace was a standard feature of many post-WWII homes. It consisted of a rectangular grille which sat level with the floor and a compartmentalized gas burner structure beneath the floor. In Memphis, where I grew up, most people's houses had foundations, not basements, and thus the inner workings sat between the floor above and the bare ground below. A small window atop one of the compartments provided a view of the pilot light below. The only way to access all the floor furnace innards was by crawling under the house, which of course chanced encounters with all kinds of insects and other beasts. Such endeavors were always best left to the professionals. The whole thing always looked a little dodgy to me, but it did keep the house warm.

One unique feature of floor furnaces was that due to expansion and contraction of the gas compartment, they would periodically produce noise. For the most part, we adapted to the sound such that it became part of the collective creaks and groans of the house, but every now and then, if the furnace experienced major metal motility, it would emit a large and very loud boom. It was always necessary to warn first-time visitors about the boom, and if we didn't, we'd often find them emerging from the guest bedroom in a panic, fearing that Nikita Khruschev was about to come to blows with Homeboy Elvis. It was unsettling, to say the least.

A considerable amount of focused heat emanated from the floor furnace, such that standing on its grates with thin house shoes, or worse, barefoot, was taking a calculated risk. On several occasions, a guest would hear the loud boom, then flee in their nightclothes, stepping on the furnace along the way, certain that they had, as both Catholics and Presbyterians would say in their Apostle's Creed, "descended into hell" within what appeared to be a cozy little 1949 house. It could inject a fair amount of anxiety into someone's visit, but after that first night, it generally became a source of amusement to all.

Nowadays, heat comes from all over the place. Our current HVAC system features all kinds of blinking LED lights to let you know that it has everything under control. The house stays warm, and no one ever burns their feet, so there's that. But sometimes late at night, when I awaken at 3:15 AM, I wonder -- if both Khruschev and Elvis have passed on, are we really out of the woods?

Emerge 2024: A Cicada Conference

Here at Brooksville, we're busy preparing for the arrival of the 13- and 17-year cicadas. In order to get a little ahead of the curve, I'm publishing our tentative schedule for Emerge 2024. Please forward any questions directly to me.

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Friday, May 3

5:30 PM -7:00 PM:
Check-in at Brooksville Deck. Free luggage storage.

7:30 PM - 10:00 PM:
Emerge 2024 Welcome Xylem Dinner, featuring keynote speaker Dr. Hemiptera McIntosh, author of "Sing Your Heart Out"

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Saturday, May 4

10:00 AM - Noon:
Breakout Sessions: 
  Below Deck: "What You Missed in Hibernation"
  Above Deck: "Making the Most of Your Emergence"

1:00 PM - 3:00 PM:
Breakout Sessions:
  Below Deck: "Lessons Learned: How We Occupied DC in 2021"
  Above Deck: "Strategies to Avoid Being Eaten by Household Pets"

6:00 PM - Midnight:
Celebratory Dinner and Dancing on Front Lawn, featuring dining on some of the region's premier plant materials and music by the one and only Sik-Ā-Da-Mon

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Sunday, May 5

7:00 AM - 9:30 AM:
Go-Forth Farewell Breakfast

9:45 AM - 11:00 AM:
Group Sing-a-Long and Goodbyes

11:45 AM:
Checkout time. Ridesharing available.

In Living Color

 "The following program is brought to you in living color on NBC."

Words like those, heard often on American TV back in the 1960s, signaled that the program about to be aired was something special. Instead of being broadcast in black and white, those of us lucky enough to have a color TV would be treated to a veritable video rainbow. It sounds comical nowadays, but back then, a color TV was something of a luxury. My Aunt Alma had one, and my mom and I used to go over to her house on Friday evenings to watch shows like Gomer Pyle, USMC and Hogan's Heroes. It should be noted that our visits represented dedication to video excellence on the part of my mom and me, since Aunt Alma had a smelly little black poodle that she named Tangeroo, or in her words, "Tange-WOO." It was a sweet little dog, but still.

Fast forward sixty years or so, and here we are in a world that is very different, both in appearance and attitude, and yet still, people crave color in their lives. I'm not sure whether you've noticed, but if you take a look at home design websites or magazines, you'll see a return to color. People are no longer scared of painting a room something other than a safe neutral, and that is really livening things up. I think I have some ideas about why this is occurring.

For one, it's just time. Color choices are cyclical. Several years ago, we were all laughing at those midcentury kitchen shades of harvest gold, copper tone, and avocado. And yellow? Fuhgeddaboudit. But now, I'm seeing colorful kitchens on HGTV and Discovery Plus. Granted, I have yet to see the aforementioned marvelous three, but blues and greens are in abundance. And I read an article last week that yellow (in tasteful shades of course, because otherwise, it can knock you silly) is experiencing a comeback.

Another reason for more color, I believe, is that people need some brightening up, both in their lives and in their surroundings. Face it, we've kinda got a mess going on in the world at large, and I think that most people like to decorate their homes in such a way that they are either soothed or energized, depending on the person and the room in question. With more people working remotely and spending larger amounts of time at home, this seems perfectly understandable.

I have to stop here for a minute and address the popularity of "griege," you know, that shade of gray that has for some years appeared to be the perfect neutral. Granted, we have two rooms in our house that are painted variations of it, but I was surprised recently when, at a loss for how to decorate my gray office/study/Casbah, one of my daughters suggested that it was missing an accent color to bring in a little warmth. Enter some rust accent pieces, and voila, problem solved.

This color shift also appears to be applying to vehicles. Back in the 1970s especially, you could buy a car in almost any color of the rainbow. Some of these were glorious, others appalling, but nevertheless, they were striking, not to mention easily identifiable by either friends or law enforcement, depending on how close to the edge one conducted one's personal business. For a while there, it seemed that all vehicles were neutral, but that too is changing. The Germans, always a driven people, seemed never to have let the color wheel stop spinning. Germans are not afraid to put any color on a car and call it a day. (I can say this because I'm part German myself.) I've had three BMW's, and they were all neutral, but doggone it, if I ever get another one, it will probably be some shade that will make me glad I had cataract surgery.

In summary, I'm actually glad to see all these colors back. To me, it signals a positive change in people's willingness to express themselves in a way that is harmless to society, and heaven knows, we need more of that. There's no need for our environments to be as sterile as the inside of a refrigerator or for all rooms to be the color of the Sahara. Let's live a little.

By the way, I have my eye on some green Allbirds shoes. Think I'm gonna go for it.

The Three Krogers

There's a popular meme afloat these days that reads something like, "I'm at the place in my life where running errands counts as 'going out'." I think that if we were all to be honest with ourselves, this is actually the case for many of us, particularly since the Covid lockdown. But there's a grain of truth to this adage, in that we really don't have to explore too far to satisfy our need for a shot of dopamine from time to time. If you're not familiar with that oft-mentioned neurotransmitter, Psychology Today provides a succinct and accurate definition of its effects: 

Dopamine causes you to want, desire, seek out, and search. It increases your general level of arousal and your goal-directed behavior. Dopamine makes you curious about ideas and fuels your search for information. 

This is true; indeed, one needs look no further than the nearest grocery store to get a dopamine fix. Now, that's crazy, you say, but honestly, when you grab that last shopping cart and enter those automatic doors, don't you feel a little rush seeing all that food right there in front of you? Of course, you do. 

For some reason, in our area of north suburban Atlanta, we have three Kroger supermarkets within a two-mile radius. We refer to them by nicknames, and so they are "Kroger 3000", 1.5 miles from our house, so named becuase it is located at 3000 Old Alabama Road, "Scott Road Kroger", 1.4 miles away, and "Rivermont", a veritable field trip at 1.8 miles down the road. (There is a Publix thrown in there, and that's a good thing, because they have the best prices on pet food.) All these stores have been in business for at least 15 years. You'd have thought that at least one of them would have closed, but instead, two of them have been totally remodeled in a somewhat post-apocalyptic style, while the third retains its bright, cheery personality. The first two can reduce the dopamine flow a bit, but then you see the Cheez-Its, and it shoots right back up there. 

I was fortunate to marry a lady who is an incredible cook and baker, so I'm often sent on shopping trips, and to be honest, I don't mind that at all, since I grew up in the grocery business and have always had something of an interest in it. Since I quit working full-time a while ago, I actually find myself at a store several times a week, and every time I'm there, I find something that either fascinates or appalls me, sometimes both in one trip. Who can say that's not excitement? 

Some years ago, when Scott Road was built, the designers included animated figures above several of the departments. This was endlessly fascinating to children and to more than a few adults. A cow mooed above the dairy section, and a nearby chicken let out a happy cackling sound as eggs descended beneath her, each accompanied by a happy slide whistle sound. When Scott Road was remodeled, many of these animatronic wonders were silenced, casting a pall over an otherwise lighthearted shopping experience. I mean, it had been like being at Disney, but for a lot less money. 

I always appreciate the spontaneous joy that is sparked by produce misting. There you are, looking for turnips, when suddenly, you find yourself in a suburban rainforest, closing your eyes and basking in the gentle, refreshing mist, all while other shoppers look at you as if you have ingested a big bowl of peyote. Produce is general is exciting, because it's so unpredictable. You can have been at the store on Tuesday morning and seen beautiful fresh green beans, but when you return at 5:30 PM, along with all the "happy" shoppers who are stopping by on the way home from work, all that's left of said vegetables is a sad assortment of wispy green strings which appear to have been used in the filming of a Walking Dead episode. It's a very temporal thing, produce is. 

Speaking of, the most difficult item to find in any of our Three Krogers is shallots. A few weeks ago, my wife sent me shopping with a list that I thought (and that's the operative word here) included them. I recalled from an earlier visit how hard they had been to locate. What I didn't really pay attention to was the fact that she had asked for SCALLIONS. Despite the fact that I'm an over-60 male, I do know what scallions are, but having this bizarre fixation on shallots instead, I desperately asked a produce employee if they had any scallions. He looked at me quizzically and then pointed to a bin no more than 15 feet away and said, "Scallions? Those are green onions. They're right there." And I knew, right then and there, that he was laughing at me. Of course, I knew what scallions were, I thought. Was I losing my mind? No, I told myself, I got them confused with SHALLOTS, which are nigh-on-impossible to find. It's a mistake anyone could make, I told myself.

One particular factor that added a bit of challenge to the otherwise engaging activity of grocery shopping during the Covid era was the forced redirection of customers up and down the aisles in such a way that they would minimize contact with each other. At each of the Three Krogers, and also in The Publix, removable tape was put down in each aisle, indicating the direction traffic was to flow. I liked this, because it seemed to avoid traffic jams among shoppers, and to some degree, it minimized the sudden about-face that someone does when they realize that they've forgotten something farther back down the aisle. Not that I have ever been guilty of that, of course. When the tape was removed, all hell broke loose, and now you have to stand your ground in front of the peanuts in order to avoid getting sideswiped. 

So honestly, I think there's something to that meme I mentioned at the beginning of this post. Years ago, I had to drive all over Atlanta to satisfy my need for urban exploration, but these days, I only need drive less than two miles to experience a rush of dopamine. I try to park in the same area in front of each respective store, so that there's no gotta-find-my-car stress when exiting. Truly, I feel the joy sparking in a way that would make Marie Kondo proud. 

By the way, I think one of the reasons that overhead chicken isn't cackling any more is because her eggs are selling for over $5.00 a dozen. But that's another post. Ciao.

Georgia Driver's Guide

Every region or municipality has its share of, shall we say, unique driving skills. Today, I'd like to focus on those that are noteworthy in the region I've called home for 40 years, the state of Georgia. I'm sure that many of these practices exist in your area as well, so it's important to note that I'm not just picking on Georgia. I am, after all, one of its drivers.

For the sake of brevity, and also to hold your attention, because I know you're reading this online, I've condensed the need-to-know rules of driving in Georgia into eight simple guiding principles. I hope that these help you in your travels within our fair state. Let's get started.

1. Making a Left Turn

It is important to realize that making a left turn (at least in the United States) is a more complex endeavor than making a right turn, since one must be aware of traffic coming from more than one direction. Therefore, in the interest of safety, it is recommended that any left turn be made as slowly as possible, even if this involves stopping in the middle of an intersection to decide whether said left turn is, in fact, the preferred option. Take your time here.

2. Handling Four-Way Stops

There is perhaps nothing more confusing than the four-way stop. In this scenario, traffic coming from four directions must all come to a stop before proceeding. Traditional driving instructions indicate that the first vehicle to arrive at the intersection has right of way; however, in recent times, this rule has largely been discarded in favor of the philosophy that everyone must decide, via a roll of the dice, who goes first. The person rolling the highest number, of course, goes first. In case of a tie, the larger or most expensive vehicle goes first.

3. Controlling Speed

States and municipalities vary widely in the degree of speed enforcement. In Georgia, a law enforcement officer will rarely stop a vehicle unless a) it is traveling at least 30 miles per hour over the speed limit or b) it jumps a curb and begins traveling on the sidewalk, and the latter of these is not strictly enforced.

4. Driving in Congested Areas

When driving in congested or confusing areas, i.e. five-way intersections or areas with heavy traffic or misleading signage, it is advisable to speed up so as not to further complicate what is already a bad situation. The basic rule here is KEEP MOVING. Exceptions to this are cases where either pedestrians or Canada geese are crossing the road. Deer frequently appear on Georgia roads, but most of them know to avoid vehicles. Not all.

5. Parking Techniques

When pulling into a parking space, backing in is recommended, particularly in areas of dense traffic or in parking garages with small spaces. This is especially important for large SUV's and pickup trucks. Drivers of such vehicles should never pull forward into a parking space. When pulling out of a parking space, whether forward or backward, looking to the right and left is not recommended, as this is unnecessary and can change the angle of egress.

6. Driving on Straight Roads

In Georgia, straight roads are rarely seen, but drivers must remember than many people from other regions or countries may be used to driving on them. The main thing to remember about straight roads is that eventually, they will curve. Be patient on the straightaways, and keep speed to a minimum so as not to distract other drivers.

7. Negotiating Roundabouts

In recent years, roundabouts (also called "rotaries" or "traffic circles") are a relatively new phenomenon introduced to Georgia in an effort to make intersections safer (see #2 above) and reduce the severity of collisions. If you find it necessary to stop in the middle of a roundabout, which is unusual but not entirely impossible, be aware that other drivers around you may keep moving, resulting in higher insurance premiums for all involved.

8. Purchasing an SUV

The modern world demands consumption of every conceivable technology, so when shopping for an SUV, aim for a vehicle in the $100,000 and above price range. This will ensure the ultimate safety in backing into parking spaces, taking charge at four-way stops, and particularly in making left turns, where the LED lights mounted on each surface will ensure that all other drivers are aware of your intentions.

I hope you find these driving pointers useful. Happy Motoring in the Peach State!

Breaking the Sour Cream Barrier

I am that rare individual who possesses a California birth certificate and yet does not care much for avocados. I'm often asked, and these are the exact words, "How can you be from California and not like avocados?" Well, I only lived there full-time when I was a wee tot, and back in those days, Angie Dickinson had not made those 1970s commercials that resulted in the avocado becoming an object of culinary desire. In later years, when I would spend summers in the San Fernando Valley and Ventura County, I was more enamored of Thrifty ice cream and whatever nibbles I could pick up around town while riding my Spyder bike. Food was an afterthought -- sunshine was first on my mind.

Over the years, there have been certain foods which have just never had much appeal to me. In some cases, I downright fear a food, but that's getting better as I get older. And it's about time, since in many senses of the word, I guess I am a senior citizen. My latest personal victory has been sour cream. I've wondered for years why people like to dabble this appropriately-named concoction onto otherwise delightful Mexican food, but it took a to-go order mistake for me to acquire a taste for it.

One day during the height of the pandemic, I placed an online to-go order at my local Chipotle, during a brief interval in which it was not shut down because of lettuce or salsa contamination. I ordered my usual: a bowl with black beans and cilantro-lime rice, with barbacoa for the protein, and corn salsa, grated cheese, and salsa verde. When I picked up the order, I didn't check the contents, and I arrived home with a chicken bowl, pinto beans and white rice, pico de gallo, and a topping of SOUR CREAM. In a bout of both horror and hunger, hunger won out, and I started eating, realizing that I actually liked this, so much so that on my next online order, I intentionally ordered what I had been served in error. And that was the beginning of my sour cream fascination.

Now, a year or so later, I cannot order the #1 combo at Taco Bell (three crispy Supreme beef tacos with a beverage of your choice) without sour cream. In fact, I've started saving the little bits of taco that crack off as you're eating and using them to scoop up more sour cream. In so doing, I tell myself that I am actually eating a taco salad, which is kind of healthy, I think.

This experience with crème fraîche makes me wonder what else I may be missing. I recall vividly sitting in front of an order of KFC mashed potatoes one night in the 1960s and being told by my mother (an otherwise gentle and caring individual) that I could not leave the table until they were finished. I sat there for an hour, probably missing much quality television, until I finally dipped my spoon into the potatoes and gravy, put it in my mouth, and experienced what can only be described as a religious awakening. Since that evening, I have been a huge fan of mashed potatoes, and also now enjoy many other foods that I once feared, among them broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower, carrots, and even tater tots. I try not to even think about all the years without tater tots.

One day last summer, I was having lunch with my daughter Hannah at Mi Vida on the waterfront in Washington, D.C. It is referred to online as "Celebrity chef's high-end Mexican fare in a glamorous bi-level setting with killer waterfront views." Without my even thinking about it or paying much attention, Hannah ordered guacamole. When it arrived, I took a bite and found that I actually enjoyed it. This meant that in a sense, I had achieved something major, since guacamole contains more than a little avocado. Hannah was elated and immediately snapped my picture while I sat there smiling and eating the guac. She then forwarded it to our whole family, including our daughter Sarah, whose homemade guacamole I had often refused. I was reprimanded by Sarah, who said something like, "Oh, sure, you won't eat mine, but you'll eat it there. Fine."

I really do try to keep an open mind about things, but I know that food remains a weak point. My kids tell me I eat like a teenager, but I don't think that's necessarily true. For example, I tend to favor those things that McDonald's has on sale in the mobile application, not just any random old thing on their menu. And I almost always, practically never, ok, maybe once in 2019, order large fries.

Wait a second. Can you put sour cream on top of guacamole?

Pigskin Panic

A while back, I was listening to the "Fresh Air" podcast on NPR, and host Terry Gross was introducing one of my favorite writers, David Sedaris. She mentioned that although Sedaris' writing generally tickles your funny bone, he also is not afraid to address subjects which may make readers uncomfortable. It occurred to me that my stories are typically innocuous, but to really stretch as a writer, I also should not limit myself. Hence, this post. What I want to write about today is sports, specifically football, and even more specifically, college football.

People get so excited about football. I have absolutely nothing against maintaining a healthy level of physical activity; in fact, I think that the more we sit, the worse we feel. The human body is just not made to remain in a still position for extended periods of time. But there must be something genetic about rabid fascination with football. What I mean here is the kind that keeps people glued to their seats for an entire weekend or screaming for their team to win, even suffering low-level depression when their team loses. It's all just a game, but it's a big game.

In this part of the South, college sports are front and center. When I moved to Atlanta, a female friend asked me, "So, who do you support in football, Georgia or Georgia Tech?" I replied that I had little interest in football, not to mention that having just moved from Chicago, I had little to no familiarity with either school, except that I knew Georgia Tech produced engineers. She said, "Well, you have to pick a side!" Believe me, it was years before I got around to it, and that was only when my oldest daughter enrolled at Georgia Tech. Then, the choice was clear.

Growing up in Memphis, we had a powerhouse basketball team at Memphis State (now University of Memphis), and of course, we had dedicated fans. The difference there was that basketball and football were pretty much on even footing -- you heard as much about one as the other. But honestly, down here, I don't believe the area would even function were it not for college football season. I am barely aware when teams start playing, but many of my friends, who are kind and decent people, know exactly when that first game is happening. Weddings (and probably even some funerals) get rescheduled around football games. It's amazing.

I went to Northwestern University, which back in the 70s did not have a winning football team. In fact, we were everyone's homecoming game, because we were so awful. That situation has improved greatly in the intervening years, to the point where Northwestern has played in several bowl games, including the Rose Bowl. But back in the day, we might get 9,000-10,000 fans at a game, and that was in a stadium that seated roughly 55,000. Down here, the stadiums are full to the brim and then some. At Northwestern, many Saturdays came and went without any evidence of a football game even happening. It was just quiet and peaceful on campus, and if it wasn't freezing, it would be nice to go outside for a while.

I have to admit that it's easy to get caught up in the whole thing. I have friends who say they are a "house divided" in that one person attended college (usually) at the fierce rival of the other. But going to a school is not a prerequisite for being a fan. For example, I have many friends who hail from points far north of here, but they are dyed-in-the-wool Georgia fans. Even me, myself, and I am entertained by LSU fans -- sure, I've been to Louisiana a number of times, but I didn't go to school there. However, I am totally fascinated by the level of celebration which these people are able to muster. I mean, it's Louisiana -- if you don't know how to party, you need to find another place. Also, I like the LSU colors.

So I just observe this whole thing and marvel at those people who maintain such strong ties to their alma mater or would-be alma mater. I don't totally get it, but I guess that if you like team sports, it's the bomb. Whenever I watch a football game, though, I am reminded of Andy Griffith's lines in his comedy monologue "What It Was, Was Football." In this piece, Andy plays a bumpkin sort of fellow who attends his first football game without really knowing what it's all about:

"I think it was that it's some kindly of a contest where they see which bunchful of them men can take that pumpkin and run from one end of that cow pasture to the other without gettin' knocked down or steppin' in somethin'."

We've only got about three months until college football season, so get your spirit wear while the gettin's good, amigos. Until then, review those stats from last year and prepare to make some party talk in the fall. May the best team win.

Sonic Boom

I'm "of the age" where I've discovered that my hearing (among other senses) is not what it used to be. Of course, my family and friends have been telling me for years that my hearing was on the fritz, but I didn't really believe it was all that bad; that is, until I started noticing that I couldn't even hear conversations at restaurants unless the person was sitting directly across from me or to either side. I found myself tuning out a lot.

Then, one day in late 2019, I visited an ENT for an ear infection, and as part of my exam, an audiologist tested my hearing. After the test, more detailed that any I'd had before, she showed me the results, which indicated fairly significant hearing loss in both ears. She told me that I could "really benefit" from hearing aids and offered me a pair to try. Curious as to the results, I put them in and walked outside. I was surprised to find that I could hear the fallen dry leaves hitting each other. It's kind of like when you get glasses, then realize that you're supposed to be able to see the leaves on trees. Anyway, I thought the situation over for about five minutes and opted to invest in a pair of Widex Evokes. Hey, who can resist hearing aids that are made in Denmark run by a company whose CEO is named Jorgen Jensen? I mean, there's something to be said for that.

Well, let me tell you, hearing aids have come a long way, my friends. They no longer are the brownish-yellowish behemoth attachments that sit on the back of the ear. Today's models come in all kinds of styles and designer colors. (I'm certain that some of this heightened aesthetic demand is because they're now used by all us Baby Boomers who spent so much time attenuating our hearing at "hard rock concerts" and now want something high-tech but low-profile.) Anyway, the pair I have is this matte grayish silver, and they feature Bluetooth connectivity along with AI-based sound profile creation. What this means is not only can I stream music at any time I have my phone around (which is always), and also carry on private and audible phone conversations, but that the hearing aids actually adapt to the ambient noise for any location that I'm in. This is all very transparent to the user, by the way, except when it's not, which can be interesting and generally humorous.

One thing notable about my entry into the land of artificially-enhanced hearing was that I made it last December, shortly before the pandemic started. That meant that I only had to deal with the noise of the world (much of which I hadn't previously noticed) for only a few months before beginning work at home, in a nice, peaceful environment. So I'm thinking that as we re-enter the riotous post-pandemic world, the adaptability feature of the hearing aids is going to be working overtime to compensate for all the cacophony. As it stands now, I can hear conversations several tables away at quiet restaurants, and that's not even turning up the volume. If I wanted to go all Mission: Impossible, I could jack them up to 10 and hear impending invasions of fire ants and probably lots of other stuff I'd rather not know about.

So, here's the thing: if someone that you trust tells you that you need hearing aids, don't be frightened. Honestly, I love mine. They are expensive, but they are so worth it, and once you have them, you'll think of them just like glasses or contact lenses. As musician Brian Jackson says about his pair, "Life is so much better when you can hear all the colors." Amen to that.

Les dangers du poisson grillé

The best fish I have ever eaten was a marvelous plate of swordfish at Hugo's Lighthouse in Cohasset, Massachusetts. The worst was some dreadful mackerel from a sushi sampler at Yagura Ichiban in L.A.'s Little Tokyo. In between, there have been many other fish dinners, and fortunately, they've typically been on the good side. 

Being married to a Bostonian gives me the occasional opportunity to sample really good Atlantic seafood, and having been raised in Memphis, I absolutely adore a plate of fried catfish and hush puppies. (To be honest, I'm really hooked on Captain D's as well.) All fish is brain food, or so they say. Some people even go whole hog and load themselves up on fish oil for one reason or the other. If the capsules weren't the size of a bus, I'd probably take them myself.

And so it happens that from time to time, and not very often at that, we prepare our own seafood at home. This most often results in a delectable meal, pictures of which either or both of us will promptly post on Facebook or Instagram. But not always.

Years ago before we had children, Karen and I decided one evening to grill some kind of innocuous white fish out on a little Weber tabletop grill that we had procured while testing the waters of back yard grilling. It was a neat little device, and it used a single propane tank, the kind you would use to power a lantern. Everything was going well with the fish grilling until I tried to power off the gas and remove the tank from the grill. I discovered that the valve on the propane tank had not closed; indeed, a small flame had erupted from the tank, and I was unable to extinguish it. In something of a panic, I tossed the tank into the back yard and immediately called the Roswell fire department.

It is worth noting that in those days (the early 1980s), the city of Roswell was still a relative outpost from the city of Atlanta, and perhaps because of this, it had its own volunteer fire department. Hence, any fire call would be answered by a plethora of vehicles, some of which, such as pumper trucks and hook and ladders, were the vehicles of the trade, whereas others were pickup trucks with makeshift sirens and lights, driven in many cases by good ol' boys with the very best of intentions. Within minutes of making my call, trucks started to arrive. And arrive. And arrive. Soon, our street was full of vehicles of all kinds, and the neighbors had come out of their houses to see what had happened. 

An official looking fireman rushed up to us and asked what had happened. I answered, "I was grilling fish." He smiled, then I told him what had happened with the propane. He donned a heavy-duty protective suit, then accompanied me to our back yard, where the lone little propane tank lay flaming. I was, of course, a bit embarrassed by all this attention, and I indicated as such to him, but he told me that I had done the right thing, because occasionally, these small propane tanks explode, producing shrapnel. He managed to put out the flame, but the propane continued to leak from the tank, so he took it back to the front yard and placed it at the edge of our driveway, which sat at the top of a hill, visible to anyone who passed on the street.

We thanked the fire crew, and they went on their way. The little propane tank continued to leak for another two days, so we kept an eye on it, as did many of our neighbors, I'm sure.

We successfully grilled fish many more times until one night in 1995, when we decided to experiment with the somewhat dated Jenn-Air grill that was in the kitchen of our current home. We were leasing at the time, awaiting the sale and closing of our previous house, and owing to the situation, we were trying to be very careful with the fixtures of our (hopefully) new home, just in case things didn't work out. Many years had passed since the Roswell Fish Incident, and perhaps we had let our guard down a bit, but the important thing to note is that our intentions were good. We were a recently relocated family, trying in earnest to feed our two young daughters a healthy and delicious grilled fish meal.

Initially, everything went well. The fish sat sizzling, looking for all intents and purposes like the perfect meal, when suddenly, flames erupted, licking at the bottom of the cabinets above. In a panic, I reached for the nearest fire extinguisher. (One thing to note here -- in my 40 years, I had never used a fire extinguisher.) I pointed the nozzle of its red cylinder at the range top and squeezed the handle, at which point a giant cloud of powdery-looking chemicals filled the kitchen. Karen yelled to me that she wanted me not to spray the fish, because it was expensive. Just to be on the safe side, she wiped it with a paper towel, and the whole thing was done. We transferred the fish to a safer cooking alternative, and we all sat down to a nice meal. No one grew a third eye, so I believe we removed all the chemicals.

We still grill fish, but under closely monitored conditions. The kids made good grades in school, and I hope that at least some of that is owing to brain enhancement from the fish that we so diligently tried to serve them. I'm just glad that we didn't set ourselves on fire in the process. 

Happy grilling, y'all.

I've Got My Hands Full Over Here

The cleaning people were coming to our house this morning, so I started collecting items to take with me to the coffee shop where I'm now sitting. On cleaning days, I head to the shop at around 8:00 AM and remain there until around 10:00, when the cleaning is usually completed. About an hour ago, I packed my laptop and all its accessories and then started gathering everything else: walking shoes, socks, my wallet, a pair of regular glasses, a pair of computer glasses, and a pair of sunglasses. It was about then that I realized I needed to grab my flexible nylon duffel bag, the one that I got for free at my last job, for overflow. There was simply no way everything would fit into the laptop bag. Such situations are not unusual.

About twenty or so years ago, the item known as the "man purse" came into vogue. To me, it seemed like a logical thing: a tiny backpack-like invention that could be strapped over your shoulder. I bought one and used it almost every day to go back and forth to work. Mine had compartments for phones, pens, an ID card, as well as a stretchy piece of webbing on the outside that would allow you to pack a water bottle. It was made of black leather and hung comfortably over my shoulder. During the period I carried it, both the Palm Pilot and iPod were invented, and it was great for toting those around. But eventually, the cultural male gender assertion began to take hold, and the "man purse" became a thing which was no longer cool to carry. I shook my head and acquiesced, because when you're a guy, that's what you do.

Let's take a look at the obvious here. Men's pants are made with functional pockets, but for ladies, this is not always the case. Women's jeans, for example, are made with shallow pockets that are marginally functional, unless you're carrying nothing larger than a package of chewing gum. Women often end up carrying their phones in their back jeans pockets, a practice which carries its own risks, especially considering that Apple now thinks nothing of charging over a thousand dollars for an iPhone. But women also have the option of carrying a handbag (it's not a "purse", as they used to tell us when I worked at Macy's). The handbag is a completely practical, useful item. Men are not culturally permitted to carry anything resembling one, because that would not be man-like. And therein lies the problem.

If you can't carry a handbag, where do you put the stuff that you have to carry around with you? Why, in your pockets, of course. That works up to a point, but unless you are wearing cargo pants or shorts, you're going to run out of room in short order, and guess what? Men are often chastised for wearing cargo pants. I beseech you, therefore, what are we males supposed to do?

Well, I can think of only one logical answer. All that stuff you're carrying, guys? Find a way to put it on your smartphone. For credit cards, boarding passes, reward cards, and the like, you can use Wallet on your iPhone or iPad (wait, you don't have room for an iPad). You can take pictures of things that you'd like to be carrying around but don't have room for and store them in your phone's photo album -- that way, you can look at them and think about what you would do with them if you could hold them in your hand. Need a tape measure? There's an app for that. Your keys? Well, you're on your own there, and by the way, key fobs are getting bigger and bigger.

To me, it's just so obvious that guys need another way to carry stuff, one that doesn't come with any gender-based stigma against its use. How many times have you guys, fortunate enough to have a female significant other, had her tell you, "I'll put that in my bag" while you're struggling to find available pocket space? That's crazy, because if you think about it, she already has her own stuff to carry. The difference being that her gender, savvy about such things, sees no issues with carrying a handbag; designers offer bags in a plethora of styles and colors to complement almost any wardrobe. They are practical, everyday fashion accessories. Now, that rocks. The fact that males have no equivalent is just, in a word, dumb.

It's high time that we disposed of the notion of judging that a guy is less "masculine" because he needs to carry some kind of bag. If we don't do something soon, we males will be carrying our entire lives on a smartphone, which of course will make Apple, Samsung, and others even happier than they already are. Let's put our minds to a solution -- we're the same species that once sent people to the moon. But come to think of it, I don't think astronauts even had pockets. I rest my case.

Doing Shots with Mickey Mouse

For some unknown reason, I can remember events that happened many years ago with remarkable clarity. I cannot recall exactly what it is that I need to pick up this afternoon at the grocery store, but I can remember exactly where I was, and what toy I was playing with, when I heard that John F. Kennedy had won the 1960 Presidential election. It makes no sense, but it comes in handy sometimes.

Back in 1959, when I was one month shy of my fourth birthday, my parents and paternal grandparents decided to take a car trip from Tennessee to California to see my uncle, aunt, and cousins. My mom and dad had lived in California when I was born but had moved back East several years later, so in addition to visiting my dad's brother and his family, they also wanted to get back out West to see some of their favorite places. My dad had recently purchased a 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, shiny yellow with lots of chrome and a big old V8 under the hood. It was a powerful, yet comfortable car, but it was also produced during a time when air conditioning was a relatively new thing, and our car didn't have it.

And so it was, on a sunny morning in April, 1959, we headed west from our home in Dyersburg, Tennessee, with my dad driving, my mom in the front passenger seat, and yours truly in the back, sandwiched between my grandmother and grandfather, who by the way, were always impeccably dressed. We crossed the Mississippi and headed into the wilds of Arkansas.

My parents were savvy about car travel, having crossed the country many times on their own, so before we left, they purchased a couple of toys for me to play with on the trip. One, designated as the westbound toy, was a doctor's kit, and the other, which I was supposed to keep wrapped until the return trip east, was a plastic toaster that could be disassembled and reassembled. Once we had gotten some miles behind us, I pulled out the doctor's kit and got to work.

It's worth noting here that in those days, just about every other child born in the United States had some type of allergy or respiratory issue, and I was no exception. I was constantly being taken to the doctor, a wizened older fellow in downtown Dyersburg who would give me a shot in my buttocks (as Forrest Gump would say), then "allow" me to go home until the next poke session. The shots never seemed to do much, but I started to take them for granted as part of life.

Since our California trip would clock in at nearly 1,900 miles each way, and given the fact that I had no siblings, I brought along the only friend that would fit in the car with me and everyone else, a little squeezable plastic Mickey Mouse. He wore his trademark red pants but had long since lost his shirt, which was a good thing, since a) the car had no air conditioning and b) we would be driving through the desert. Almost immediately upon opening the doctor's kit, I started giving Mickey shots. I was concerned for his health, and it kept my little brain occupied knowing that I had to care for him on a regular schedule. In effect, it made the miles tick away. Mickey got a shot about every hour or so, and this amused my parents and grandparents alike.

We had many adventures on that trip. Mickey and I saw Hoover Dam, a vestigial version of Las Vegas (I still remember the old Sands and Golden Nugget signs), and the Grand Canyon. We even survived a flat tire in Needles, California, which is notable for often being the hottest place in the United States. Finally, after several days of driving, we made it all the way to Los Angeles and marveled at how anyone could grow a palm tree right in their front yard. We watched TV the night that my mom and dad went to see Lawrence Welk, and we saw, right there with our own eyes, my mom dancing with Mr. Welk. Mickey seemed to be doing well in California, so I pulled back on the shots schedule to give him a little room to enjoy himself.

After a couple of glorious weeks, it was time to head back East, so we said our goodbyes, and I resumed Mickey's shots, just to be on the safe side. I also opened the plastic toaster and began disassembling and reassembling it between administering shots. I was one busy guy, just let me say.

Everything was motoring along well until we got to Needles, where once again, upon entering the city, we had a flat tire. We got that fixed and left town, then headed east. It must have been about 30 or 40 miles before I realized that Mickey was missing, so my dad (and I will never forget this) turned the Bel Air around on an Arizona highway and headed all the way back to our motel in Needles, where I found Mickey safely nestled in the bed sheets. We got back out of town with no further tire damage.

I don't remember much about the trip back home, other than the fact that my grandmother put sheets of comics from the newspaper up on the windows to shield us from the desert sun. My grandfather, never a stitch out of place and almost always in a good mood, would make sly observations from time to time that would keep the rest of us reasonably happy, given the close proximity of our seating arrangements. My mom and dad seemed to have gotten their fix of California, at least enough to sustain them until their next trip out, which, as it happened, wouldn't be for another ten years.

I guess we often take family time for granted when we're younger. But I still remember so much of that trip, the joy on my parents' and grandparents' faces when we got out of the car in Los Angeles and saw our family. The moments we shared were all ours, and even Mickey was a part, thanks to some good proactive health care on the part of his owner. The trip was so worth it.

If you're headed out of town this summer, be safe, and I hope that you experience, to borrow an old Esso phrase, "Happy Motoring." I also hope that you can make some memories of your own, so that one day, you'll have some stories to tell, regardless of whether regularly scheduled preventive healthcare and appliance maintenance are involved.

True Colors

I found myself in an odd, but strangely familiar, situation today. I had eaten a healthy steamed chicken and broccoli entree for lunch, but I was still hungry, so about two hours later, after a bit of light shopping, I stopped by a McDonald's drive-thru, then pulled over into a parking lot to eat my second lunch, because honestly, I just couldn't wait any longer. That alone was bad enough, but the really sad thing was that the lot where I was wolfing down my food was outside an LA Fitness gym. I sighed and resigned myself to errant behavior, but soon, the addictive flavor of the french fries washed over me and erased any sense of guilt I might have had. That's when I noticed them.

Two young men stepped out of their vehicles, stopped to say hello to each other, and headed into the gym. Both were rather heavily tattooed, with buzz cuts that gave them a rough and ready air. They strutted into LA Fitness, muscles a-blazing, and it was then that I remembered that once upon a time, I sort of walked in those shoes. Of course, there were a few differences. For one, I don't have any tattoos. (I got a temporary lizard tattoo on a 2007 weekend trip with friends after we had consumed a very large amount of light beer, and it scared the bejesus out of my friend Neharika, whose childhood home in India had been plagued by lizards. Since that time, I have not messed with tattoos.) Also, my haircut is a simple 3.5 clippers "do" that is very easy to maintain but still has a Baby Boomer One Step Removed look about it.

My commonality with the two modern gentlemen harks back to 1988, when I spontaneously decided that a) I needed to take more vitamins and b) I needed to get more exercise. A new gym named Sportslife was opening in the area, and they were signing up people at an attractive introductory rate. I braved it one evening and headed over. The very first thing the trainer did was to line us all up and give us a fitness evaluation. The group numbered about ten, and we were pretty equally distributed by gender. We were asked to perform various calesthentics, including a series of push-ups and sit-ups. Sit-ups have always been a weakness of mine, and I only made it to about eight or nine. The young woman next to me, on the other hand, attired in a brilliant yellow outfit with coordinated leg warmers and matching shoes, did 25 without missing a beat. She didn't even look tired. I realized at that point that I had a long way to go.

To make a long story short, I joined Sportslife and became a regular. I worked out three times a week, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, for about an hour and a half per session. I was religious in the order I did things and cycled through a combination of circuit training, cardio, and free weights that just made for the perfect workout. I began to see results, and that was encouraging. At one point, I could set a StairMaster on its 8 out of 10 setting and easily climb for 20-25 minutes. If I tried to do that now, paramedics would need to be on call. Yet, I was doing this three times a week and feeling absolutely incredible. But the exercise alone wasn't the whole experience -- part of it was a visual thing, and here's where I contrast the experience with that of today's gyms.

Sportslife was a product of the 1980's, and if you actively participated in the 80's, you remember such things as bright colors, form-fitting attire, Big Hair, and color-coordinated scrunchies. The gym itself was architecturally stunning, and everyone in it looked at least somewhat happy, even though, let's face it, we were all glistening profusely. On any given day or evening, the place was populated by a dedicated group of exercising fools, dressed in every color of the rainbow. And this didn't apply only to women -- we men had our own scintillating array of duds. I owned a nice pair of Nike white and teal training shoes, three pairs of stretch athletic tights in black, blue, and purple, and t-shirts in a plethora of colors. You would think that I would have stood out like a sore thumb, but I didn't. This was because Joe Schmo, weighing in at around 250 with biceps the size of Staten Island, would also be wearing a brightly colored outfit, as would all the other guys who made their way through the locker room. Drab was out, flash was in, and it was a grand time. I was in the best shape of my life, and honestly, I felt like a million bucks.

But somewhere in time, many people, and especially men, began to be fearful of color. We all remember how 80's neon gave way to 90's grunge, so it wasn't just a gym thing. Over time, I had let my Sportslife membership lapse, so when I once again joined a gym in the late 1990's, first a YMCA and then some years later, LA Fitness, I noticed that everything had taken on this monotonic variation of gray and black. It wasn't just the clothes, but the people, too. No one seemed to really smile at gyms any more. The atmosphere had become street-ready and aloof, and it made me uncomfortable, so I let it go and started walking for exercise, which I've maintained to this day. Who knows? It may turn around, and we may find ourselves back in a convivial workout universe. I would like for that to happen, but I'm holding on to a memory, I guess.

I still have those purple workout tights. They only measure about a foot across at the top. Every few years, during a clothing purge, I'll try them on, just for old time's sake, but I just can't bring myself to give them away, because they remind me how good I felt back then. I can't wear them for any measurable amount of time, because my circulation would be cut off, and given my recent experiences with eye issues and kidney stones, I just don't need anything else. But you know, I still think there's a special place in the world for spandex.

Wired

We relocated to Atlanta from Chicago in 1982, and we have been here since, except for two years in Charlotte, North Carolina, in the mid-90's. As soon as we returned to Atlanta after our time in the Tar Heel State, we located and put a contract on a house in a neighborhood that we'd always had our eyes on. It was in an excellent school district, which was very important to us. Plus, it was only about three miles from our old house, so it was like coming back to a familiar neighborhood. We instantly bonded with our neighbors and have remained that way ever since. We've lived in the house since 1995, and we always say that none of us will move unless all of us move. It's a nice feeling, to be living this way in a metropolitan area with lots of relocated folks and more arriving all the time.

Most of our houses were built between the years 1984 and 1989, well after the advent of cable television, so there was no waiting for cable to be run to the neighborhood. By the time we got here, it had indeed arrived; in fact, when we made our first visit to the house with our dedicated real estate agent Sandy, we noticed that there were cable jacks and telephones everywhere. The former owner had been the CFO of the Upton's retail store chain, and from all indications, he liked staying in touch.

Our cable saga began with Media One, which at one time had the dubious distinction of being the company with the worst customer service in the United States. It was acquired by AT&T in 2000 and then by Comcast in 2002. I have to say that when we initially moved into our house, there was no problem getting cable connected. Right away, we were able to experience the mystical adventure of being Media One customers. We survived the acquisitions by AT&T and later by Comcast, but it was in those early days that things began to get interesting.

From time to time, as is the case with all modern television technology, reception issues surfaced. The technicians would almost always come out at the appointed times to repair whatever was broken, but if you had to contact a person by phone, you had to be prepared. One night, I sat on hold with Media One for about an hour and fifteen minutes, after which time I was about to pull out locks of my already thinning hair. But the service people themselves were generally nice, and some even had a pretty good sense of humor.

One of the most memorable visits we had from service people was during the early Comcast days, when two energetic, knowledgeable young Japanese contract technicians who appeared to be related or at least very good friends, showed up to fix whatever problem we were having. At one point, they said that everything was really messed up and that they needed to run another cable along the side of the house. This was amusing to me, since at that time, we already had two cables running in parallel along the side of the house where they wanted to run the third one. Nevertheless, I acquiesced, and a third cable was run, parallel to the other two and evenly spaced. Several days later, my next door neighbor David was working outside, and when he saw the three cables, he started laughing and said that we would never have to worry about the house falling down, because it was now so well supported by coaxial cable. And he's a mechanical engineer, so I trust him.

All along our pay TV journey, we've had issues where the solutions, regardless of provider, have been to run more cable or replace splitters and connectors. As Mick Jagger once said, "Anything worth doing is worth overdoing." At one point in time, I knew what all the various cables did, because I would follow the technicians around and outside the house as they ran or rerouted them. But over time, I lost interest in doing this and instead opted to sit inside the house and wait for a signal to reappear -- to play dumb, as it were. The result is that we have a truly byzantine arrangement of cabling supporting our TV viewing, and I have no idea what some of it does or if it even carries a signal.

One afternoon about eight years ago, we were shopping at Best Buy, and they had one of those desks set up where they try to sell you some TV service other than the one you're using (how do they always know?). In our case, the salespeople were selling DirecTV, and when they snagged us and told us the phantasmagorical low price we'd be paying, we decided to make the switch from Comcast. In order for the service to work, we of course had to have a satellite dish installed. This was a bold step we'd never taken, but when the installation technician showed up in a nice, clean van with the logo emblazoned on the side, I figured the whole thing was legit, and our installation proceeded without a hitch. When we locked on the signal, I saw that the DirecTV channel guide was a beautiful thing to behold, graced with a tonal palette rivaled only by the finest of National Geographic photographs.

We had DirecTV for about five years, and I must say that overall, it was a pleasant period of time. DirecTV has one of the highest customer satisfaction ratings in the business, and our experience bore that out. There was exactly one phone number to call, and when we needed something fixed, they were on it. One night, I was experiencing some kind of minor system malfunction, so I called "the number." The person who answered was not able to assist me, but she instantly (and I mean instantly) transferred me to a technical support representative. This lady sounded like a hippie, and I don't mean the faux-hippie-but-really-a-hipster-who-wishes-they'd-lived-in-the-Seventies type, but the real McCoy. She asked me a few questions and then immediately gave me a solution that worked the first time. I found her entertaining, and at the end of the call, when I thanked her profusely for giving me such a quick fix, she laughed and said, "You're very welcome. I've been doing this a long time, and you know how this stuff is. It's so weird." Amen to that.

Despite the great service offered by DirecTV, the prices started to climb, as they have been wont to do since the introduction of pay TV. My wife Karen started hinting about switching to AT&T U-verse, since they seemed to offer lower prices for more channels. I demurred, saying that I'd heard some bad things about the service. I held off like this for about two years, with the DirecTV prices climbing and the U-verse offers getting better and better. Early one evening, a young man came to our door trying to sell us U-verse, and I proceeded to lecture him on why I didn't want the service. I think that, after the first five minutes, he had actually stopped trying to sell me on it, but by then, I was wound up and had started listing all the various and sundry problems I'd heard from other people. He finally went away without convincing me, sporting what looked to me to be a profound sense of relief.

But finally, due mostly to service outages during periods of bad weather, we made the decision to leave DirecTV in favor of U-verse. It all happened when we went to upgrade iPhones at the AT&T store. They made it sound so good, both financially and technically, that I finally gave in, and we scheduled the installation.

Several days later, the U-verse technician showed up in a nice, clean van with the logo emblazoned on the side. This part felt familiar. Once again, I felt that we were about to get something pretty good, and when he entered the house with a professional demeanor and tools on his belt that I had never seen, I was fascinated. There were all these weird wrenches and electronic tools that appeared to be fiber optic related, and for about two hours, he took control of our cabling and set us on the path to U-verse. It started out well, except for one thing: he gave us this little book full of phone numbers to call in case something went wrong. Note the use of the plural here: there was not one number to call, but many numbers, depending on what might have happened. But the channel guide...oy vey...it was beyond magical. For any given program, a stunning (and grammatically correct) paragraph would be displayed, telling you everything you might want to know and then some. Aesthetically, it was just a beautiful thing to behold. But beauty, as we all know, can sometimes be only skin deep.

There is no way to truly describe in sufficient detail, within the length of this blog post, what we experienced with U-verse. Although I have great respect overall for the past accomplishments and true innovations of AT&T as a company, it is evident that the U-verse television service has some serious technical limitations. In fairness, many of these are infrastructure related and cannot be readily ameliorated. When I would ask friends who used U-verse about the service, I found that the answers were bipolar -- either the service fell into the "I don't know, I've never had any problems" category, or it had to be disconnected due to poor reliability.

The difference between DirecTV and U-verse was actually quite simple: DirecTV service would go out during bad weather, whereas U-verse would go out regardless of the weather. In some cases, it even appeared to perform more poorly during good weather. Whenever there was an interruption, a very detailed screen would appear, listing five steps to take to recover the service. Each step was listed as a paragraph, and each was grammatically correct. Punctuation was flawless. However, despite the five steps listed, the real fix for restoring service was either to simply sit and wait for a few minutes, or to go mix up a martini, after which time the signal would return in all its former glory.

And then one night, we were again upgrading phones at the AT&T store, the same store, in fact, where they had sold us on the U-verse service. The sales associate asked us what we were paying for U-verse, and he told us that surprise, he could save us money by switching us to DirecTV, which by now, AT&T had purchased. With a look of amusement I told him that it was right here, in this very same chair, that I had been sold U-verse. He laughed, and then he told me that DirecTV was now "the thing." I later found out that AT&T has for some time been pushing all new TV customers to DirecTV. So, once again, we switched, even though I had reservations about phone support through the "new" AT&T-owned DirecTV. Besides, U-verse hadn't had any hippies on its support staff.

Last December, the DirecTV technician showed up to perform the installation. This time, I did not see an emblazoned logo on the service van, but still, I allowed him to enter the house and make the necessary modifications to restore our DirecTV service, and I'm pleased to say that, since that time, we've only had two minor service interruptions during bad weather. On clear days, everything seems to work. A few weeks ago, I saw a note that DirecTV is sprucing up its channel guide, improving its tonal palette a few degrees more. Things can only go up from here.

Oh, by the way, in all this back and forth, some of the cables have been removed, so that now, alongside the house, those three parallel cables have been reduced to one. I don't know if that single cable goes anywhere, but I'm sure I'll find out sooner or later. Best to leave well enough alone, I say.

The Think-A-Tron

Growing up, I don't recall ever making Christmas gift wish lists. I'm still slow to complete them, as my family will attest. I think this is because in my early years, my parents were just humdinger Christmas shoppers. We weren't a wealthy family, and during the year, we didn't exchange extravagant presents, but at Christmastime, my parents always amazed me with the gifts they found and gave me, many of which I did not know were on the market until I actually found them under the tree. One such toy was the Think-A-Tron. I received one for Christmas in 1962 and was immediately taken with it.

The toy had been developed by Hasbro and introduced onto the market sometime during the late years of the Eisenhower administration (an era which I actually remember, although that is material for another blog post). Anyway, the Think-A-Tron was something of a magical device. It consisted of a gray box resembling a computer punch card reader -- all computers used punch cards, or "Hollerith cards", at that time. The idea was that you slid a tiny punch card containing several questions (A/B/C or True/False) into a tray, then pushed the tray into the machine. Once the card had been fed, the machine would begin whirring, and a "digital" display would flash, finally settling on the letter of the correct answer.

This may all sound incredibly simple, but the Think-A-Tron came with about 500 punch cards, so running through them was a pretty good mental workout, and some of the questions were actually a bit challenging. They were all sourced from the Book of Knowledge, a popular children's encyclopedia at the time. and each card had questions printed on both the front and rear sides. One side contained the A/B/C question, the other the True/False question. Each card was pre-scored with paper dots which could be punched out to resemble a Hollerith card, but those dots weren't what actually controlled the Think-A-Tron; rather, a small notch on the side of each card determined which letter the toy would display. Once the player figured this out (and it wasn't readily apparent), determining the correct answer became something of a no-brainer. Still, the machine, with the commotion it created, was endlessly fun to watch, and I remember that most of the time, I purposely did not look at the notches so that I could test my answers.

The Think-A-Tron was my big present that year, and it was somewhat expensive for the time, ringing in at around $10.00. In today's currency, due to the calculated 713% rate of inflation since 1962, it would be worth about $81.00. In those days, people didn't get iPhones for Christmas; there were no credit cards, so things had to be bought with cash. Given that, I was eternally grateful to have received my Think-A-Tron, and I'm pretty sure that I stayed on my best behavior well throughout 1963 and maybe on into 1964.

Having worked in the information technology field since 1979, I'm wondering if that Think-A-Tron had anything to do with my eventual chosen profession -- I think it probably did. I remember the nights of studying for midterms and finals in college, memorizing those organic chemistry reactions, analyzing nervous system action potentials, trying to visualize objects in multidimensional calculus, that sort of thing. I was actually a serious pre-med student for most of my time at Northwestern. But it's interesting that in the end, what won out for me was a field I'd never considered, one for which my interest was most likely sparked at an early age by that clever little Think-A-Tron, with its two D batteries and its flashing lights. If I ever find one of these things in an antique shop, it's a done deal.

Note: Click here if you'd like to see a working demo of an actual Think-A-Tron.

The Imitation Game

I have this thing for accents. I love listening to them and imitating them, sometimes in my own head, sometimes out loud. I have to be careful when I use them in the latter context, so as not to offend anyone, because that is never my intention. I simply find speech patterns a fascinating subset of sociolinguistics. I've done this for so long now that our daughters call it "doing The Voices."

I've tried to remember when this habit started. I don't recall imitating accents as something that I did in my high school or college days; rather, I believe it began when I was traveling for business in the early 1980's. In those days, I was the information technology manager for a Chicago company with five regional offices across the country: two in Chicago and one each in Boston, Los Angeles and Atlanta. I spent significant time on the road, typically visiting each location several times a year for the better part of a week at a time.

My job was very interactive. Unlike today's IT jobs, which are largely defined by remote access to servers, cloud-based applications and toolsets, much of the work in those days was done on site or over the phone. I was in charge of the company's systems development and operations, so I spent tons of time talking to people, and aside from the knowledge I gained by sharing in the day-to-day experiences of my fellow employees, I also began to appreciate the stories they would tell at lunch or after work. The essence of some of their stories simply could not be communicated without occasionally using their own words, with their own inflections.

I learned that every region has an accent and cadence that is particular to its manner of speaking. It's actually quite humorous to witness those situations when the speaker denies that he or she has a regional accent, because we all do. There's nothing wrong with it, because truly, there is no right or wrong in speech patterns. But I still marvel at the fact that people in some parts of the country believe themselves to be accent-less, while many others, although fully appreciating their own lingual specificity, believe that there is one bonafide Southern accent. I mean, we must have over a hundred Southern accents, dag-nabbit.

Back when our daughters were younger and we were taking extended car trips to places like Pennsylvania, Illinois and Vermont, I would occasionally lapse into an accent typical of the region to which we were traveling. I saw it as my bounden paternal duty to give our children a taste of what to expect so that they wouldn't arrive at their destinations as strangers in strange lands. This technique alternately delighted and horrified the girls.

On one particular trip, as we drove through central Mississippi on our way to New Orleans, I began speaking with a Justin Wilson accent. Wilson, as you may recall, had a long, successful career on public television as the host of "Louisiana Cookin'," a show that we watched almost every Saturday. His favorite expression was, "I gar-on-tee." I spent the larger part of our drive to "Nawlins" that afternoon sprinkling my language with faux-Cajun talk, which came to me somewhat easily, since a) it was something my dad used to do, and b) I had watched so much Justin Wilson. Anyway, Sarah, who was 16 at the time, finally had enough of it and said, "Dad, stop it. They don't talk like that down there." I knew better, but I acquiesced.

Several hours later, we pulled into New Orleans and checked into the Pontchartrain Hotel, road-weary but with still enough energy to do some exploring. Our younger daughter Hannah and I went one direction, while Sarah and my wife Karen headed the other, and after about an hour and a half, we reconvened at Jackson Square. Sarah pulled me aside and said, "Dad, I apologize for what I said earlier...they do talk exactly like that down here." I laughed and for a moment felt that rush of endorphins that accompanies every successful parenting effort.

Hannah also has a regular line about my habit, and it never fails to make me laugh. We'll be walking somewhere, or maybe sitting down to dinner in a remote location, and I'll break into an accent. She'll say, "Stop it, Dad! People actually talk like that here!" This causes me to either immediately cease or continue at an accelerated pace, depending on the situation and/or local population density. I do try to exercise discretion in these situations, however, because Hannah has a very good sense of timing and has probably kept me out of many a sticky and potentially life-threatening linguistic confrontation.

Probably at no time did this habit of mine provide more delight to my family than one Christmas season about ten years ago, when the girls, Karen and I visited the Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina. After a grand tour of the beautifully decorated mansion, we opted for dinner at a local Carrabba's Italian restaurant. Although we were in an artsy town in the middle of the mountains, something made me use (unconsciously, I might add) my Old Jewish Man accent, which I learned from my friends in college at Northwestern, many of whom were Jewish and would lovingly imitate their older relatives all the time. Every time the waitress would stop by our table to ask how the food was, I would answer with phrases like "Such a lovely meal" or "It's unbelievable...I can't get enough of it," always intoned in the style of Jackie Mason or Henny Youngman.

We finished our dinner shortly before the restaurant closed, and our waitress made one last loop around the dining room to pick up everyone's check. As she stopped at each table, she said, "Merry Christmas!" Finally, it was our turn, and as she approached the table, she paused for a moment and, obviously thinking twice, said, "Happy Holidays!" The girls looked at me with this "Oh, my God" stare, but all I could do was laugh. The story has since become a classic in the annals of our family history, and I have to admit to being somewhat proud of myself for sounding so convincing.

At any rate, I have this habit, and I don't know if it will ever stop. When Sarah brought her new boyfriend Tom to our house for dinner one night in 2008, she asked me to do The Voices. I was a bit hesitant, because I didn't want to do anything inappropriate, but she assured me that Tom would like them, and he did. They've now been married almost five years, so I guess I'll keep doing them. Besides, my own accent is somewhat distilled and needs a little spicing up now and then.

Mother Machree and Helen Lucille

My Aunt Ida Mae outlived three husbands and one boyfriend. Divorced at 47 and living in the small Tennessee town of Trenton, she took it upon herself to enroll in a local beauty school and ended up opening her own shop, "Coiffures by Ida," in the mid-Sixties. At the time, we all asked her what "coiffures" meant, and she said it was just a fancy French word for hair styles and that she thought people would notice it more than "Ida's Beauty Shop."

Ida's business flourished. She converted the living room of her High Street house into a salon, and she proceeded to build a loyal contingent of customers who would walk up the steps to the front door, then come in for their scheduled appointments and of course, a little bit of socializing. Ida had a great air conditioner in the salon, so people liked hanging out there to take a break from the Mid-South heat. All the customers (except for her son Marion) were women, but one day, a well-dressed man came up the steps, and Ida introduced him as her new boyfriend Mac.

It's important at this juncture for me to create a mental image of Mac. Think Monopoly Man. Mac stood only about five foot six, just a bit shorter than Ida, and always wore a starched white shirt, suit vest, and trousers. He generally opted to forego the suit coat, owing to the heat, but he always wore a pocket watch attached to his vest, and he would pull it out to check it from time to time. A retired insurance executive who apparently had lived life on a schedule, Mac was well off and lived in a tidy brick house just down the street from Ida, which made walking to her house his preferred method of "courting." He was, of course, always impeccably dressed.

To say that Mac was entertaining would be a vast understatement. He was a natural comedian who spoke in a rather hybridized accent that was some mysterious fusion of Southern, Cajun and a few other things which would be hard to categorize. His expressions were punctuated by long, drawn-out vowels more reminiscent of the South Carolina Lowcountry than our part of West Tennessee, so I had to believe that he had spent some time there or in some place with a similar accent. We never got around to discussing that, though, because it was his humorous exclamations that preoccupied us. My favorite of his was one that I've never understood, even after years of searching for the meaning online. When Mac was truly surprised by something, he would contort his face into an expression of astonishment and exclaim, "Mother Machree and Helen Lucille!" He drew out the phrase so that it actually sounded more like, "Motha Ma-CHREE and Helen LU-SEAL!"

The only consistent reference I've found to either of the two ladies mentioned in this expression is a definition for Mother Machree. This was the title of a 1928 silent film about a poor Irish immigrant who moves to America. Helen Lucille was not the name of any other character in the movie, and a web search only reveals obituaries for people by that name, none of whom seemed to have acted in movies, although I suppose that would have been possible. At any rate, this Helen Lucille appeared to have had quite an influence on Mac.

# # #

The green neon lights shone against the black night sky on the quiet highway outside Milan. Mac had decided to take Ida, my mother Peggy, my cousin Marion and me out for ice cream, so here we were, off this deserted highway at some place that had "Freeze" in its name. Marion and I ordered soft serve cones dipped in chocolate, and as soon as we had them in our hands, we started devouring them. Mac, on the other hand, ordered a large cone of plain vanilla soft serve, and when the server handed it to him, we all stopped to behold its glory: there, resting upon the top of a humble wafer cone, was a veritable tower of ice cream. It must have been at least eight inches high. Mac looked at it, then with a swipe of his right hand, removed the top half and dumped it onto the ground as he exclaimed, "Motha Ma-CHREE and Helen LU-SEAL! No way I can eat this much cream!" We laughed so hard and so long, until we finally jumped back in Mac's Caprice Classic and returned to Trenton, full of frozen deliciousness.

Mac was not a good driver. My mother especially hated riding with him, and for good reason. He would run out in front of other motorists, veer intentionally off the side of the road, and jiggle the steering wheel back and forth, all the while saying, "This car's tryin' to play tricks on me!" Mac loved to go to buffets on Sunday, so whenever we were in Trenton, he would take us out, insisting that he drive one of his Caprice Classics (as you may have imagined, he had several over the years). These trips were always nerve-racking ordeals. One day, Mac wanted to take me out for a personalized tour of Trenton, and my mom reluctantly agreed. Our brief expedition was highlighted by a drive through the town cemetery, where at one point, as the car veered off the drive, Mac commented, "This car's tryin' to play tricks on me, right here in the graveyard!" We got back home, and when my mother found out where we had been, she was not amused.

But despite his reckless driving, Mac had a good heart. He and my Aunt Ida had some fabulous times together, and until his passing in the early Seventies, he was a constant source of companionship and amusement, not only to Ida, but to us all. Mac was really and truly Ida's boyfriend: after her divorce, she focused on making a living for herself and raising the one of her two sons who still lived at home, and she did well, so Mac was like the icing on the cake. He was a classic gentleman who would come courting at predictable times, and even though not formally a member of the family, he seemed like one to us. After he died, his survivors had little to do with Ida, and although at first she was hurt by this, she recovered in short order and found another husband, and when he died, yet another. They were fine gentlemen both.

Which brings me back around to the point of this story: we all encounter people in our lives who leave on us a lasting impression. At the time, it seems that they will be with us forever, but in truth, we must take advantage of the time we have with them. In my case, I have never met another Mac, although my eyes are always open for someone else of that ilk. I would love it if that were to happen.

Oh, and one more thing: If you know or can find out who Helen Lucille was, please let me know.

Driving Mister Bill

Bill, my driving instructor, bore an uncanny resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson, right down to his ubiquitous cigarette holder.

If you don't know who Hunter S. Thompson was, let me give you a brief introduction. Thompson was the counterculture creator of "gonzo journalism," a style of writing in which the reporter becomes involved with a story to such a degree that he or she ends up becoming an integral part of the action. He was something of a folk hero in the 60's and 70's, an edgy writer who served as the inspiration for Doonesbury's "Uncle Duke" character. He once went so far as to tell Garry Trudeau, the comic's creator, that he would set Trudeau on fire if the two ever met.

Bill, on the other hand, worked for the Tennessee Driving School on Summer Avenue in Memphis. He was originally from Detroit, a factor which most definitely influenced his driving techniques, but he had relocated to Memphis some years before he took me on as a student, and he knew the city upside down. Bill was absolutely unshakable, and that was one of the reasons he succeeded at his job. The other reason, I always thought, was that he had a biting but strangely likeable sense of humor.

Nothing phased Bill. I was a somewhat tentative driver initially, but on my first lesson, Bill took me out onto Summer Avenue, a rather major road in our neighborhood, full of commercial distractions and lots of traffic lights. He was patient, funny, and gave me all kinds of pointers: using the car's hood to align where I was in the traveling lane, watching whether people's wheels were moving at intersections, looking over my shoulder when backing up, that sort of thing. The lessons he taught me must have stuck, because I use them all even to this day.

Humor came in handy during my driving lessons. I recall one day that I stalled a manual transmission car at the intersection of Poplar Avenue and Yates Road, and I couldn't figure out how to start it. The problem was that I had the car in the wrong gear, but Bill sat there patiently as I was practically reduced to tears, while impatient motorists behind me began to show evidence of their discontent. By the time we got back home, I was laughing at myself, but I never made that mistake again, and Bill never reminded me of it.

Probably my favorite Bill memory was during an early morning lesson, when we were traveling westbound over a viaduct on Chelsea Avenue, a heavily industrial section of Memphis. Out of nowhere, another motorist suddenly ran out in front of me. I applied the brakes quickly but carefully, thereby avoiding a collision, but Bill shook his head and said, without missing a beat, "Next time, hit the SOB." I laughed, he laughed, and we drove downtown to continue the lesson.

Bill was not what you would call politically correct, and he had entire categories of drivers whom he believed should be monitored and avoided at all costs. The problem was, his list encompassed the vast majority of drivers on the road, in effect all of us, so as with many things I heard back in those days, I took that advice with a grain of salt. I don't think he meant all that stuff, anyway --  even at the time, it seemed more for comic effect.

My time with Bill was brief, but I thanked him mightily when within a decade of his lessons, I found myself commuting on some of the nation's busiest highways in and around Chicago and Los Angeles. Bill was actually very good at what he did, and some of his pointers came in especially handy when dealing with the inherent whims and weirdness of urban traffic. It's almost as if he wanted you to get inside the heads of other drivers and anticipate what they might do. Whatever his method, it worked, and before long, I found myself driving all over the place, beginning what would become a lifetime of urban exploration.

So thanks, Bill, wherever you are. I don't know if you're still alive, but if you are, I hope your driving days have been uneventful, that you haven't skidded in the rain, and that you still have your cigarette holder. Without your tutelage, I might never have driven past the city limits.