Category: Boomer

Boomer, Cynicism, DayQuil, Facts, Health, History, Humor, Medicine, Methamphetamine, NyQuil, Social Commentary

The Quils vs. the New Stuff and How Ice Changed the World

Posted on by Bake My Fish

Have you recently tried to buy any original NyQuil (introduced in 1968) or DayQuil (1974), or the generic brand of the same product? You have to give your name and address, possibly show identification and sign for it; if the store even carries the stuff. Most of it has been replaced with a non-pseudoephedrine containing impostor. If these new products were tested on anyone, I want the phone numbers of those people.

The New Stuff doesn’t work, especially the new NyQuil. They have replaced pseudoephedrine with phenylephrine in DayQuil, because methamphetamine is manufactured by Speed Freaks using pseudoephedrine as a key ingredient. It has been eliminated completely from NyQuil. Now the rest of us have to suffer through severe colds with inadequate medication. We are forced to purchase a lesser product containing phenylephrine so Crank Heads don’t have their faces eaten away by the sores that develop from their addiction. Let’s save them all! It’s the humanitarian thing to do! There are several street names for methamphetamine, including: crank, crystal, meth, ice, speed, glass, and chalk. You can read more about the reasons for the changeover to the new stuff here. 

Original Nyquil worked. It flat out did the job. I could take it at night before going to bed and wake up feeling myself. With The New Stuff, I wake up feeling like crap.

The same goes for original DayQuil. It worked great during the day, when you wanted to avoid drowsiness. They simply removed one of the ingredients, doxylamine succinate, from original NyQuil when producing original DayQuil, which is the antihistamine that makes you sleepy. Both pseudoephedrine and phenylephrine are nasal decongestants, but the newly formulated NyQuil doesn’t contain either of them, and the new DayQuil, which does include phenylephrine doesn’t work as well as original DayQuil. NyQuil is now made with acetaminophen, which most people know as the ingredient in Tylenol, dextromethorphan (a cough suppressant), and the aforementioned doxylamine succinate. New DayQuil contains all those ingredients except doxylamine succinate, and pseudoephedrine has been replaced by phenylephrine. Confused yet? I am. The final result is we now have another inconvenience caused by illegal activity.

I guess the crystal-meth manufacturers are pretty smart, even though some of them are blowing up their homes making their batches. How do they even extract the pseudoephedrine from the medications to produce their drug? I can’t imagine any of them have degrees in Pharmaceutical Engineering. But, criminals are usually more genius at whatever activity they pursue, than those pursuing them. And, they seem to have more resources to use in their ventures than those assigned to put them out of business.

Apparently, the decision was made to stop the manufacture of crank by taking away the source of pseudoephedrine and give us ineffective products in return. How did we end up being the bad guy? I didn’t ask for the cold. I am sure the criminal minds will figure out a way to produce ice using phenylephrine, Drano, rat poison or whatever people are willing to consume.

Well, I have to run. My cold is killing me . . . . and I need to buy some chalk.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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70s, 80s, Boomer, Facts, Food, Health, Humor, Media, Music, Rock and Roll, Root Boy Slim, Social Commentary, Washington Music Scene

Dare To Be Fat

Posted on by Bake My Fish

One of my favorite musicians was Root Boy Slim; circa late 70s – early 80s. He was a genius, who attended Yale University and was a fraternity brother of George W. Bush (in fact when George took over as Fraternity President, he kicked Root Boy out of the club). His real name was Foster McKenzie, III. A noble name for a person thought by most to be a derelict; the type of guy you expected to be living in a Whirlpool refrigerator box over a steam grate in Washington, DC. Well, he did have an apartment above a garage in Silver Spring, MD at one point in time. If you have an interest in him, check out his biography Roots of Root If you attended the University of Maryland during his 15 minutes of fame, you may have seen him at the Varsity Grill or other haunts in the vicinity.

What appealed to me was his Rock/Blues style and the lyrics of his songs. He was a hoot. Some of his bigger “hits” were “I Broke My Mood Ring,” “Boogie ’til You Puke,” “Dozin’ and Droolin’,” “Too Sick to Reggae,” and my favorite “Dare to Be Fat.” He died about a month before his 48th birthday. Not surprising, since he was obese and abused every chemical substance possible. My purpose here is not to sell you on the wonder and fascination of Root Boy Slim . . . . it is to lead into “Dare to Be Fat.”

Most Boomers are daring their bodies to live with the medical marvel of maintaining obesity via drugs and surgery. Our bodies can only take so much, not to mention our Health Care System. Surely, my early demise could be caused by some other disease or calamity; however, it won’t be obesity that takes me away. Although it may seem cavalier given my own indiscretions, I am concerned about how our Health Care System has suffered because of our Lifestyle.

I take a few drugs, which I want to discontinue. Medication for hypertension and high cholesterol, both of which can be attributed to allowing my body to grow to the point of obscenity, are a reality. Is it fair to those who take care of themselves to allow the Health Care System to keep me in check? These drugs are not cheap. Even though I absorb a co-payment, the overpriced cost of the medications is borne by the System. Sure, we can blame the drug companies for charging too much, but don’t we share some of that blame? If we didn’t eat ourselves silly, there would be no need for the drugs and no pharmaceutical companies to attack.

I don’t want to appear as some hero simply because I lost weight. I want those who are challenging the Health Care System to understand that it is only a band-aid. Obesity takes too many of us well before we should go. I worked until I was 68. Not just because I selfishly wanted to live a long time; I enjoyed the office atmosphere and being around people. Cutting it short unnecessarily, because I felt the need for too many bagels, doughnuts, Big Macs, Double Cheeseburgers and super-sized this and that, seemed a waste. Yeah, all those things taste good, but they’re deadly. Pay attention to what you are consuming before you are at the point of no return. Losing weight is not particularly enjoyable. I feel deprived. I also feel good.

Get a scale and get on it every morning. As your clothes start to feel tight, eat a salad. Drink a diet soda. Consume less. Exercise. It’s not the American Way, but don’t you think it’s odd that half the world is starving, while the other half is trying to lose weight?

That’s my speech for the day.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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Boomer, Cynicism, Humor, Media, Social Commentary

Amber Alert Goes Red

Posted on by Bake My Fish

I was driving to work one morning, when the blurt of an alarm came on the radio to announce an Amber Alert. Personally, I think Amber Alerts are a wonderful tool; a way of combating the perverts who feel the need to prey upon young children, making it possible for us common citizens to lend a hand in the capture of the culprits. All well and good; however, the assumed need to be “politically correct” interfered with the Alert because the description of the suspect and victim was so veiled in obscurity it was useless.

This is what I heard . . . . “3-year-old, Kyren Parks, 47 pounds. Suspected abductor . . . . Robert Douglas, 6 feet, 170 lbs.” That’s it! That was the description! They gave a general idea of the locale, but it was just as vague. So, I am looking for a male/female, Caucasian American/African American/Asian American/Hispanic American (sorry, I can’t think of any more hybrid Americans) child, 47 pounds, and a pretty thin Caucasian American/African American/Asian American/Hispanic American/probably male, who is the suspected abductor. Thankfully for everyone involved, there was not a tragic ending.

What the hell is going on in this country? Why can’t we describe people? Why is it so insulting to the specific race/ethnic group/religious affiliation/cult/whatever to give a detailed description of the suspect so the Amber Alert can actually help? We’re talking about a child being abducted here, not some 7-11 being robbed of $23 and a Mountain Dew Slurpee.

I understand the concern about profiling when identifying various races/ethnic groups/religious affiliations/cults/whatever with various activities that seem to be overwhelmingly skewed in any one direction. We don’t want to immediately associate a race/ethnic group/religious affiliation/cult/whatever with any particular criminal activity by inadvertently categorizing the person as the member of a certain race/ethnic group/religious affiliation/cult/whatever because it would be innately wrong. But we are dealing with children when it comes to an Amber Alert, and unless you have no heart at all, children do matter.

I continued on my way to work and at every stop light looked around for a small male/female, Caucasian American/African American/Asian American/Hispanic American child, 47 pounds, and a pretty thin Caucasian American/African American/Asian American/Hispanic American/probably male, who is the suspected abductor. Fortunately, I didn’t confront a father taking his child to pre-school or the donut shoppe and make a fool out of myself by beating the snot out of him because he might be the suspect.

Let’s throw this silly urge to be unbiased out the window and give better descriptions during Amber Alerts of both the suspects and the victims. I would rather save a child than insult a race/ethnic group/religious affiliation/cult/whatever.

(By the way, Kyren is a boy.)

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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Boomer, Cynicism, Facts, History, Humor, Media, Social Commentary

Tangible Spam

Posted on by Bake My Fish

During the 60s there were several newspapers in most cities. It seems today in the majority of areas around the country they have disappeared or merged into one. I like competition. It makes things cheaper and requires a thirst for perfection in order to stay in business. Free is cheap. But the onslaught of free papers is getting out of control.

Walking through my neighborhood I am noticing more and more signs attached to mail and newspaper boxes that read, “No Free Papers.” Apparently, it is getting to the neighborhood sign makers, too. It would be OK if the free papers were newsworthy, but they are simply advertising vehicles, which makes them free and encourages litter. Yeah, politicians need to get the message out so we can choose between empty promises of the best looking, family person, who loves Jesus, and a better school system. I guess we do need to vote. We are Americans and voting is part of our heritage. But do we need 471 competing rags, littered with coupons offering us 20 – 40 cents off just about everything? Are there any gas coupons in them? I don’t recall ever getting a paper offering petroleum discounts.

If you are away from your home for a day or two, and it rains, you have a driveway filled with some sort of clear, pink, yellow, or orange-colored, spongy mass that once was a free paper. If you are away for a longer time, the sunlight turns it into some sort of disintegrating, clear, pink, yellow, or orange-colored, spongy mass that once was a free paper, that is now embedded in the crevices of the driveway. Of course, being polite, and not wanting the wrath of your Homeowners Association, you are neighborly and clean up the disintegrating, clear, pink, yellow, or orange-colored, spongy mass that once was a free paper, that is now embedded in the crevices of the driveway. The point is, you didn’t ask for this.

I always hated the “opt out” option. Is there really an “opt in” option? Usually, you have to make an ass out of yourself complaining, then the distributor of the free publication directs your attention to the fine print. Otherwise, the papers keep coming, and coming, and coming. Electronic Spam always has the link that you have to click in order to stop the messages from arriving in your email box. It really doesn’t work for several months, but the “opt out” option is there, nonetheless.

Unless you can catch the sneaky bastard delivering the free papers, you don’t get a chance to stop the flow. Try setting a trap of nails or glass particles in front of your driveway, and maybe it will discontinue, but you face the possibility that the trap you set becomes your own problem, once you have forgotten about it. Or the neighbors’ kid flattens the tire on his/her bike, and you are faced with explaining yourself to someone you thought was a friend.

If you are a walker, you’ll notice the papers in driveways and if they have been there for some time, it’s a disgusting mess. You don’t want to pick them up and throw them away, because there is a slight possibility the person who has received them may actually want them. I doubt it, but who wants to be the neighbor stealing the other neighbors’ paper? Even though there is no possibility the papers can be read in the condition they exist, to throw them away is an invasion of privacy. And, who wants to be the neighbor invading privacy?

I guess it’s hopeless, so I will go now. I need to make a sign.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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Boomer, Cynicism, Food, Health, Humor, Social Commentary

The Right To Bare Arms

Posted on by Bake My Fish

‘Tis summer and shoes might not be worn. You can’t go into a food joint without shoes or a shirt. Can you go in with bare arms? It depends on the number of tattoos and/or needle marks, I suppose. As Americans, we have a Constitutional Right to Bare Arms. Tank tops are possibly acceptable if you are female (and in decent shape). If you are a fat guy with a serious belly protruding, you may want to rethink your wardrobe.

The wearing of baseball caps in an eating establishment is common these days. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps I am old-fashioned and think a cap should be removed, but I live in a somewhat “Redneck” area and it seems to me there is not a second thought with regard to baseball caps. Let’s not dwell on the amount of grime on the sweat band. What the heck, no one sees it. It’s there, digging into the forehead of the wearer, and most likely not healthy. I don’t have scientific proof as to how unsanitary it might be. Sweat and dirt are a gross combination, so there is probably evidence to suggest the touching of the rim and constant removing of the cap and replacing it could lead to some form of bacterial contamination. Then there is the running of the hand through the hair before replacing the cap. That cannot be good. If he (I say he because few women wear caps) goes to the rest room, the odds are not in your favor he is washing his hands after whatever bathroom activity he has completed (I’m amazed at the number of men who leave the latrine without doing so).

If the guy wearing the cap touches a chicken wing on the buffet bar and puts it back (unobserved by you), is that wing healthy? You won’t know until you are ill from the lack of sanitation, which you didn’t know was a problem because, “out of sight, out of mind.” No, you have to depend on your immune system filtering the bacteria he transmits while his fat ass is fingering the food.

It may be somewhat possible to determine the extent of contamination based on the stains on his T-shirt. If there are only a few, maybe it’s safe; however, if he just came in from the construction site and went directly to the all-you-can-eat bar without visiting the men’s room for a wash, you are in trouble. Should you spend your meal worrying about him washing? Most of us don’t. We trust the restaurant is clean and the patrons are thoughtful.

We do have the Right to Bare Arms. But, we don’t have the right to crap on our neighbors’ plate. Wearing a cap in a restaurant is inconsiderate to those who don’t. Then again, to regulate it is another form of Government intervention we can live without. As long as we survive the food-borne disease.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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Boomer, Cynicism, Humor, Media, Social Commentary

Howling In The Grieveyard

Posted on by Bake My Fish

The 60s were fun for a lot of us. For some it was a difficult time. Vietnam caused a horrible rift in the country, with people taking sides either for or against. A lot of good things emerged from that era; political accountability, a renewed attention to personal hygiene, the Beatles, the Motown sound, muscle cars, mood rings, genital herpes, Charles Manson, and granola. A troubling phenomenon with its “peace, love and understanding” roots in the 60s has developed in today’s world . . . . . grief counseling.

If you are a Grief Counselor, I don’t mean to get personal. But what you do is hard to understand. Attorneys get grief for chasing ambulances, but Grievees chase disasters. “I dropped my toast, butter side down.” Call a Grief Counselor! “My mother yelled at me for a messy room.” Call a Grief Counselor! “They took Court TV out of our cable lineup.” Call a Grief Counselor! “There’s a fly in my soup.” Call a Grief Counselor!

Now, I am as sympathetic as anyone. My wife was extremely embarrassed when we saw “Terms of Endearment” in the theater. I sobbed and blubbered during the scene where Debra Winger’s children stood by her bed while she was dying. Any movie sure to make me cry has to be watched in solitude. When we put our dog down three years ago, everyone in the Vet’s office was wailing when I lost it. So, don’t think I don’t grieve. Do I really need a trained specialist to tell me I am sad and keep reminding me?

When there is a news report on TV involving a mass shooting, an explosion, or some other tragic event, they announce that Grief Counselors are on the scene. Whew! Thank God! Everything will be OK, now! It seems like they arrive before the rescuers or the police. Do they have CB radios in their cars so they can get there right away? Are people actually waving flashlights to direct the Grievees to those needing grief maintenance? The bodies are still warm, while the Grief Counselors are busy gathering up anyone they can find to hold their hands, wipe their brows and shove business cards in their pockets.

When a High School kid loses control of a vehicle causing a deadly accident, which is usually the result of excessive speed, inadequate driving experience and/or alcohol/substance abuse, the school administrators dial the red Grief Phone to bring in a dozen or so counselors for the other students. Do you think the school officials would ever call a Priest, Minister, Rabbi, Mullah, or Monk to help the grievers? Not likely with the separation of Church and State and all. I would prefer my tax dollars go to feeding jobless pimps, buying dinners and plane rides for Politicos, providing condoms to those who won’t use them, cutting the grass on the White House lawn, saving the Clanwilliam Redfin, overpaying Defense Contractors, setting killers free to kill again, determining coffee is bad then good then bad then good then bad then good perpetually, or any other worthwhile cause.

Let’s put the grief ball back in the court of family and friends.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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Boomer, Cynicism, Facts, Health, History, Humor, Media, Medicine, Social Commentary

Aging In America

Posted on by Bake My Fish

What exactly is a Boomer? The official designation goes to those individuals born between 1946 and 1964. OK, that’s fine. Although my preference is to think of a Boomer as someone born between 1945 and 1960, I am positive being born in 1950 qualifies.

Many of us were Hippies. Many, many smoked pot (many still do). We watched black and white televisions as children. Leave It To Beaver and Andy Griffith were hilarious (then). Zorro, Johnny Yuma, Superman, Batman, The Cartwrights, and Wyatt Earp were some of our heroes. At our Elementary schools we ate grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup on Fridays. The year 2000 seemed like a fantasy, and we thought 50-years-old was a foot in the grave, with the other foot on a greased ice block. Now 60 is just around the corner. 70 is likely. 80 is not an Impossible Dream. So, where are we now?

Most of us are overweight, with High Cholesterol, HBP, Diabetes, ED, Prostate Cancer, Hormone Therapy, Cataracts, and we walk funny. Our AARP card is drawn like a gun at the movie theaters, hotels, restaurants, or any place we can save a dollar or two. We have angst over our retirement. We feel guilty bitching about our neighbor’s kid’s loud music, yet we still attend Stones concerts. Mowing the lawn is now a chore, rather than a joy as it was when we were new homeowners. Fiber is no longer an afterthought. Having a toilet seat break under the weight of our asses is now an accomplishment (at least we’re going). We were shocked when they started saying “ass” on regular TV. Shopping at Walmart no longer feels like an assault on the local small business (we’ll be vying for the Greeters’ jobs soon).

Now we are “Seniors, Hear Us Roar in Numbers Too Big to Ignore.” The 2024 election is coming, and the Presidential candidates are lining up. They’ll start kissing our behinds and making ridiculous promises they’ll not keep. They will hope we die before they have to deliver. But we are viable numbers, with viable needs. Portability this, Entitlement that. They talk a good game when their jobs are on the line. How’s the new Prescription Drug Plan working for you? Have you been to Canada recently? Have you obtained an online medical evaluation from Almost-A-Doctor so you can buy drugs? Don’t worry, they’ll vow to fix all that. At least up until the Inauguration of January 2025. Then we’re stuck with whichever Loser wins. But aren’t most of the candidates Boomers, too? Shouldn’t they be sympathetic?

I want to be able to off myself if there is no hope of recovery from whatever devastating disease I have in the future. I don’t want a politician standing by my bedside preventing my wife from pulling the plug. What the hell does the politician know about me or any of us? We are a vote or a no vote. That’s it. Sure, they preach they care. But we know they don’t. When we’re at our Senior Center Dance, maybe they’ll come by to shake our hands, eat a cookie and wiggle their booties to the music . . . . . . . . because there is an election on.

So, let’s all gather ’round for the candidates to give us a big kiss. Some of them will pinch our cheeks. Some of them will slap us on the butts. But they will all look at us through rose-tinted glasses and wish us well. And beg for our vote. Think carefully about who will get yours.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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