Posts Tagged ‘Media’
Seinfeld Gang, Come On Down!!
Last time we talked, I was lamenting about the Beatles not being Boomers. Eventually, I’ll get over it. After all, I’m not dancing in the streets to Revolution. There’s this thought that hanging my hat on the memory of the best musical group in the History of Forever might get me a seat on the bus to Boomer Heaven, but I can live with the notion there is not such a place. My salvation is realized in the fact all the actors in the Seinfeld series are Boomers. Alright!! Life can go on. Hello, Newman.
I don’t want to drone on about the popularity of Seinfeld. Personally, I can’t get enough. So
what if I have watched all the episodes a zillion times? Every repeat cracks me up. The diner scenes still make me laugh. Big salad, indeed. Is it just me, or is Elaine hot? Even today, at 47? It must be the French part of her that gets me. That baguette under her arm makes me crazy. And then there’s the dancing. Go, Elaine. You rock!
Every episode is funny. My wife and sister-in-law love the “Low Talker/Puffy Shirt” one. My nephew thinks the “Chinese Restaurant” episode is great. The only thing I liked about the restaurant scene was when the Maytla Dee shouted, “Caultlight!” I thought of Hoss (Boomer reference).
L
arry David is a genius. He and Jerry Seinfeld created the show, and since it’s conclusion, Larry has gone on with Curb Your Enthusiasm, which is a lot like Seinfeld, without the censorship. Hilarious. I really like that Larry David graduated from the University of Maryland. A terrific school and my Alma Mater. He’s a Yankees fan, which might make some Orioles fans crazy. Regardless, he has a great mind. Do you remember the episode where Elaine was wearing the Orioles hat, while sitting in seats provided by George Steinbrenner? That was a riot. Especially when Kramer was hit in the head by the foul ball.
Cosmo Kramer flies into the room and we all laugh. The recent difficulties with his stand-up act notwithstanding, he was the show. The only episode in which he was not included was the Chinese Restaurant scene. That explains why it’s at the bottom of my list.
The neurosis of George Louis Costanza was Larry David personified. George is so annoying you love him. He always seemed a donut-hole away from exploding. It was particularly grating during the last season, when almost every episode ended with George screaming in the air, and the camera panning away from him in a Heavenly direction. The technique was overused and got on my nerves.
This Boomer Club I have recently been touting is still accepting applications. We’re not that strict and will allow WWII-era children, as well as Desert Storm babies. I feel good we have broadened acceptance.
Sounds like America.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
P.S. Check Out These Seinfeld Clips!!
The Beatles Are/Were Not Boomers. Who Knew?
I was surfing through Google Images, looking for a picture of Linda McCartney to add to my slide show Some Famous Boomers Who Have Passed. Then I searched her history on the Web to discover she was born in 1941. Officially, being born before 1946 does not qualify as a Boomer. That seems odd to me. Then I searched for the boys in the band, and learned none of them are, either. Even Stuart Sutcliffe and Pete Best. All of those left are “Old Dudes.” Not groovy.
My first dance (with someone other than myself) was to I Want To Hold Your Hand. It seemed to me the guys singing it were in sync with me. Then She Loves You became my favorite, and I was in Heaven. At that time I thought, “These guys are really hip.” Now realizing they are much older than me, the magic has waned.
Boomers are the 60s. The Beatles are, too. Why then is there some official definition of who is or is not a Boomer? I thought of John, Paul, George and Ringo as “my guys.” Aside from geneaology, we are the same. Now, I can’t be seen with them.
My nephews, aged 17 and 16, are Beatles fans. They are 40 years my junior, and I am younger than any member of the band. Does this mean I should be doing the Charleston at dance clubs in tribute to music forty years prior?
The Beatles really were catalysts in the Hippie Movement; nevertheless, they were born too early to be considered Boomers. Weird. Most of the drivel in the 70s, like Mah
arishis and Hare Krishnas, were directly influenced by the inertial karma of the Beatles. Yet, they are not allowed in the Boomer Club. Paul, we love you and you know you should be glad. But, please stand behind the rope. You’re not on the list.
Recognized as the first born among official Boomers is Kathleen Casey-Kirschling. She just filed for Social Security benefits on October 15, 2007. The assault on your tax dollars has begun. I’m proud to run point for the Boomer Army.
And here’s another bit of Bummer Information for you. The Monkees don’t qualify, either. And guess who else (this’ll kill ya)? Gilligan.
Welcome to our club.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
Seed NewsvineA Rose By Any Other Name
This Christmas I watched Bad Santa. For me it was a rerun; my third viewi
ng. Anyone who has seen this movie was either put off by the profanity or thought it was frickin’ hilarious. I’m among the latter. The movie is politically incorrect; seldom appropriate; often vulgar; but downright funny. The fat kid in the picture to the right latched onto Santa, who holed up in the kid’s house, while avoiding the authorities. He was a Bad Santa.
After an hour into the movie, “Kid” gave Santa his report card (all Cs, with one B). Santa looked at the grades, and focused on the boy’s name. “Your name is Thurman?” 
“Yeah.” “Your name is Thurman Merman?” “Yeah.” Then he looked at the kid with this expression that could only be associated with the thought, “You poor, pathetic loser. No wonder your life is so screwed. What kind of name is that?” Exactly.
what a name can do to a child’s future. Richard Head, Tom Thumb, Ira Heinilick, Hymen (anything), Isabell Ringing, Easton West, Howard Ewdune. Should I continue? I like funny names. There are many more here. I mean no offense to anyone whose name may really be one of the aforementioned Monikers. Nothing personal, but the names are funny.
deways? Did I look too much like Dad? Why did you punish me like this?”
What’s That In Your Pocket?
Now, don’t snicker when you read this. I’m here to discuss a serious matter. It’s not the end of the world, but to some men it may seem that way. Macho no mo’ is not a reason to jump off a bridge, or drive your car into a wall. There is hope. You can get assistance from several sources. Medication is available; although it’s quite expensive. And, not covered by Health Care plans. They consider it a luxury drug, meant to solve a luxury-less problem; unnecessary in the eyes of those determining what to allow. They’re probably not getting any, so it doesn’t matter to them. Spending all their waking moments finding ways to deny coverage leaves little time for romance.
Research in
dicates there are several causes of libido malfunction: smoking; diabetes; high cholesterol; too much alcohol (when was the last time you were drunk and the man?); high blood pressure; venous leak; depression; and a tiny wee wee. There are several other reasons, and most likely some yet to be discovered. Basically, any condition causing restricted blood flow can be the culprit. After all, it’s an organ, not a bone.
Much money is being made providing chemical solutions
to men suffering from this traumatic experience. The drug companies developed at least three pills, and many herbal enhancements to keep the motor running. There are creams, devices, implants, and other remedies to make it possible for afflicted males to enjoy continued activity with the “love of their life.”
Th
e most interesting, yet frightening remedy is a potential cure based on the venom of an aggressive and extremely deadly creature . . . . the Brazilian wandering spider. Now, I don’t know about you, but it seems to me to inject poison or any other potentially paralyzing agent into the body for the sake of six or seven minutes of “Oooo, baby, baby” is a bit risky. Pass on the spider toxin. Temporary rigidity isn’t worth chancing permanent paralysis.
If you are having difficulties, and the woman in your life
is becoming frustrated with your inability to be her ideal mate, see your doctor or therapist for relief. They’ll gladly give you samples of medication and a prescription. Don’t be embarrassed to ask. The pharmaceutical companies give the samples to the doctor to be handed out. They want you to be hooked on their new miracle drugs. No one is complaining about the cost of the product, because they don’t want to admit they’re users. It’s like the first time a guy thinks of a vasectomy. The thought goes through his head, “Will this be the end? Will I be impotent from this procedure?” Guys have difficulty thinking they are less than virile. Either you take something, or continue making love with a rope.
If you need it, just ask the physician. Maybe they’ll even give you a badge to wear proudly to proclaim your allegiance to taking care of business. It is estimated that 30 million men suffer from this syndrome. During football season it grows to about 40 million. The increase is most likely caused by excess alcohol, over eating, lack of attention, and many other conditions resulting from six months of College and NFL football TV viewing (including preseason games).
Well, I gotta run. The game’s on, and I need to pour a cocktail so I can take this little blue pill. She’s waiting for me, and both should have kicked-in by halftime.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
boomerJC1 May Apply For Social Security
Jiminy Cricket was born February 9, 1940, when he was officially revealed to the public in the Walt Disney hit film Pinocchio. The Blue Fairy gave him the job as the Conscience of our wooden friend. Jiminy has been an integral part of the Disney operation ever since. He is now 67 and considering retirement. Mature crickets live about 3 – 4 weeks. Jiminy has lived 3,520 weeks, well beyond all expectations.
The phr
ase “Jiminy Cricket” is a substitute for screaming “Jesus Christ” in anger or frustration. It’s a way of swearing, but not really. “Jeepers Creepers” is another exclamation used as a curse muzzle. Both have the initials J. C. The use of “Jiminy Cricket” by Walt Disney in 1940 was not the premiere of the term, as it had been used in print in the U.S. as early as 1918.
Now, I’m not trying to promote or dissuade any religious belief here, but I do think the correlation between Jiminy Cricket and Jesus Christ i
s interesting. For the sake of this post, I’ll call Jiminy JC1 and Jesus JC2.
JC1’s job (appointed by the Blue Fairy, mind you) was to keep Pinocchio in line. To make sure he remained good, honest and avoided temptation. For purposes of argument, Blue Fairy is God, Jiminy and Jesus are interchangeable and Pinocchio is humanity. Sounds reasonable, right?
Let’s talk about contrast with regard to fashion and personality. JC1 prefers a top hat. JC2 wore a halo. JC1 likes spats. JC2’s favorite shoe was the open-toed sandal. JC1 wears a colorful collection of vest, tie and tails, sort of form fitting. JC2 preferred loose, flowing robes; usually white. They also had quite different personalities. JC1 is chipper, sings, dances and is altogether upbeat. JC2 was quiet, laid-back, solemn and spoke with a bit of a monotone. At least that’s the way he was in all of his movies.
Some parents name their children Jesus. I’m sure it is out of respect and goes along with a very deep religious belief. Not too many will give their children such a name. I have met people named Jesus and I have met a few who thought they were The Jesus. But, I haven’t met anyone named Jiminy.
Jeepers Creepers, I gotta go.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
Just Go Out There And Cell!
“Can you hear me now?” We associate those words with the geeky, horn-rimmed Verizon guy, who started out walking through the woods alone and now is leading a pack of poorly-attired technicians. I am not sure what phrase Martin Cooper (pictured to the left) might have used to test his new device. But, one day there may be a church congregation worshipping this man for inventing the cell phone in 1973.
What did we do before Marty came along? Phone booths we
re a favorite urinal. Disgustingly dirty telephones on the side of lonely roads or in scary neighborhoods were our haven in emergencies or whenever we needed to make that sudden call to check what might be needed from the grocery mart. To the right is the last known working public phone booth in the Washington region. Only a few of the 70s-style booths remain. There’s one in Manhattan, a few classics in Pennsylvania, some on the Jersey Shore, and there are about a dozen Mennonite-built private phone booths in St. Mary’s County, MD.
Although I miss pay phones, I’m convinced they are the transmitter of fever blisters. Hasn’t the number of inflictions gone down over the last couple of years? It seems so to me. The transition from the phone booth, to the phone permanently attached in the car, to the credit card-sized data center that fits in a pocket has been a joy. Escaping it is becoming a chore. I carry my cell everywhere, and now it’s like my “clap on, clap off” emergency button. If I pass out or fall prey to a stray animal, my cell phone is programmed with the ICE (In Case of Emergency) number for my wife. Hopefully, if anything happens she has her cell turned on so the rescuers can do their rescuing.
Everyone has a cell phone. You can’t really argue against the cell as a safety device. It is a comfortable feeling to have your car break down on a desolate road and know your phone will save the day. Aunt Bea never called Andy from a back road. We’re fortunate there is a Marty Cooper.
One day they will be surgically embedding Bluetooth technology in the ear drums of infants in delivery r
ooms. They’ll be set for life. Speaking of Bluetooth, I have one. It’s a nice addition to the safety feature of the cell. I love using it on the road and having the hands-free option; but only while driving. Today, it has become something of a fashion statement. Wearing the Bluetooth everywhere is chique. We were recently in a restaurant on a Saturday night, when a group of eight people came in for dinner; four wearing a Bluetooth. A Saturday night is the perfect time for cell chit chat, while sitting at the dinner table, proving the Bluetooth is essential for the latest gossip update.
The idea for the cell phone was introduced in 1947 by AT&T, through their research department, Bell Laboratories. Motorola made the wise move of hiring Martin Cooper in 1954. Through the 60s and 70s, Bell and Motorola engaged in a mobile phone development war, and Marty came out the victor. Now we can pick up any forgotten or depleted grocery item on the way home from work. And we get free Caller ID. Martin, you are The Man.
It would seem a reasonable prediction that eventually the Bluetooth and cell phone will be one. We’ll walk around with a plug in our ear and everything will be voice-based. Hopefully, it will include voice recognition. Otherwise, we could really mess with people by randomly screaming something in their ears that might trigger a dial. The ability to be in touch at all times is a good thing. We can’t really get away, but we can’t get lost.
Excuse me. My phone is ringing.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
Maynard G. and Crowell – The Bums of Northern Parkway
First of all, understand these names are fictitious.* I wanted to use monikers that convey some sense of dignity for two individuals holding the title of “Bums of Northern Parkway.”
I work in Baltimore. Many times on my way to the office, I end up sitting at the intersection of Northern Parkway and Falls Road (since I rarely beat the light), in the right lane to turn south on Falls. This is considered the most dangerous intersection in the city (not relevant, just an interesting side note). In the median strip by the left turn lane to go north on Falls Road, one of two interchangeable bums is probably walking back and forth seeking financial assistance from the cars waiting for the light to change. I know bums is a lousy word. We can call them homeless, derelicts, hobos, or some other derogatory term used to poke fun at two fellow
s who are obviously down on their luck. They don’t have a lobby group or enough people who care to force us to be politically correct. To avoid being mean, we’ll call them Maynard G. and Crowell.
What strikes me is how many people ignore them. Regardless of the weather, the windows that may have been down are hurriedly closed, and the eyes of the drivers focus on anything other than Maynard G. and Crowell. No one seems to be reaching in their pockets or glove box to scrape together a dollar or some spare change to give. It’s easier to think, “Get a job, ” or “I work hard for my money, why should I give it to these beggars?” I understand. But, let’s weigh the situation with regard to Maynard G. and Crowell.
Maynard G. appears to be the victim of a stroke, industrial accident or birth defect. His right side is mostly paralyzed, yet he treks back and forth at a lumbering pace to gain the attention of anyone who will look. His ability to obtain employment seems thwarted. Crowell, on the other hand, borders on healthy enough physically, but probably suffers from a mental condition, handicapping his prospects of a real job. If you watch for awhile, Crowell always goes to the sign at the top of the median at the end of his walk and touches it in four distinct spots, in a very regimented pattern (some say a cross). Crowell won’t be browsing the Business Casual section of Men’s Wearhouse any time soon. Maynard G. and Crowell’s alternatives are slim.
One day a few weeks ago, I landed in the left lane on the other side of the street (the dangerous side) with Maynard G. approaching me. He had been relegated to this location after being dislodged by candy sellers who took over his other spot. Business for them was very good. I reached into my pocket, grabbed a handy dollar left over from lunch, and held it out for Maynard G., who dragged himself as fast as he could, while I worried the light might change. It was only a dollar, but you should have seen his face.
A lot of costumes worn on Halloween are in the Maynard G. and Crowell vain. When I was a kid, Freddie Freeloader was one of my favorite characters on the Red Skelton show. I laugh
ed, and he received accolades. I didn’t think it was mean; it seemed kind of funny. Pan Handling for a living is an acceptable skit. Maynard G. and Crowell are not amused.
Out of a total population of three hundred million Americans, we spend $20 billion dollars a year on ice cream; candy rakes in $46 billion; $8 billion dollars on beer, wine and spirits; NFL Franchises have a combined worth of $20 billion; and sales during Thanksgiving and Black Friday combined must exceed the annual budget of not just a few small cities.
So, the next time ice cream is on the tip of your tongue, while extravagant chocolate melts in your mouth, probably dessert following the Turkey Dinner you’ll take hours to absorb . . . . . just take a nano-moment to think about Maynard G. and Crowell.
Have a nice Thanksgiving with your family. Enjoy the football. Don’t run out of beer.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
* The photos were extracted from the Internet. They are not pictures of Maynard G. and Crowell.
Hope Springs A Kernel
Who doesn’t like popcorn? Raise your hand. You can’t. Because you do. It’s salty, crunchy, filling, nutritious, contains a reasonable amount of protein, lots of fiber and cheap. All good reasons to love popcorn. The snack is everywhere you go. Nothing says love like popcorn. Kids always smile when they eat it and popcorn is usually associated with some form of entertainment. The statuette for the MTV Awards is a Bronzed Popcorn Tub. How can something so idolized not be good?
Those of you who remember Drive-In Movies might r
ecall the concession breaks with the animated popcorn and hot dog walking across the screen, followed closely by soda. And how about Jiffy Pop? How many times did you ruin a batch? My Jiffy Pop always tasted like tin foil. Maybe I was eating the packaging.
I won’t go into ancient history (given this is a Boomer blog), so I’ll concentrate on recent events related to popcorn.
The popularity of popcorn in modern
times began in the 1890s through the Great Depression. Even though families were suffering during the Depression years, the affordability of popcorn, at 5 or 10 cents a bag, was within reach. Most businesses were going belly-up, yet popcorn flourished. There is a story often cited in popcorn-related writings of an Oklahoma banker who lost everything, and then bought a popcorn machine and started a business close to a theater. His popcorn sales made it possible for him to buy back his farms.
World War II brought with it a sugar shortage in the U. S., so popcorn got a charge from the lack of candy. Americans ate three times more popcorn than usual. 
But in the 1950s television started taking the families. People stopped going to movies and as a result, less popcorn was being consumed. But, the people realized television was kind of like the movies, only smaller, and they started wanting popcorn at home. Enter Jiffy Pop and all the other versions of home-popped ecstasy.
Then came
the microwave, and now we are hooked. I loved going through the office about two hours after lunch. I smelled popcorn. That distinctive smell. You know immediately, “Someone’s making popcorn.” Heads pop up over cubicles, in search of the culprit. The goal is to snatch a few kernels if offered. If not, grab it when they look away. But get some.
The first use of the microwave oven in the 1940s was to cook popcorn. It probably tasted lousy then, but popcorn has been so perfected over the decades, that Americans today consume 17 billion quarts each year. That’s 54 quarts per American. That’s a lot of fiber. Good for the paper industry.
I have to go. The popcorn’s done.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
If You’re Reading This, Thank A Boomer
Bill Gates (born 1955) and Steve Jobs (same year) have much to do with your abili
ty to read this post. I know they didn’t invent the Internet (that was Al Gore), but they perfected computers and operating systems making it possible for all of us to communicate anonymously in our underwear.
It is estimated that worldwide more than one billion personal computers will be owned by the end of 2008. Considering probably only 45% of the world lives in something other than a grass hut with no electricity, that’s pretty good. World population is about six billion, of which youth 
and illiteracy probably eliminate about 50% of the customers, so a penetration of 30% or more is significant.
Actually, Steve Wozniak (born 1950) was the visionary and partner of Steve Jobs at Apple, who conceived of and developed the PC. But Bill Gates and Steve Jobs tend to get the glory for the development of the personal computer onslaught. A pretty tacky but enjoyable TV movie was aired in 1999 called “Pirates of Silicon Valley,” which gave a dramatic presentation of the Computer Wars that made this post possible. You can get information regarding the movie here Pirates
If you ever get to Washington, DC you should check out the National Museum of American History. Review their computer exhibit Show It is even better if you see it live.
It is amazi
ng how attached I have become to my PC. Recently the hard drive crashed and it felt as if I would not survive the interruption. It was just a few days before my computer was replaced, but I had a serious “Jones” while waiting. In the meantime I got back online by going to the library and using their access. I like that my tax dollars are at work, but the library requires you wear pants. If they could bottle our computer addiction, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs would be selling it off the back of covered wagons as “Snake Oil.”
I can remember a time when the words, “The computer is down,” would set me off. It was assumed the person on the other end of the phone was lying. Now I know better. Today, everything is so integrated that if one thing goes down, everything does. If we have a phone problem in our office, it includes the phone 
system, Internet and our server. We can’t do business when this happens. Go ahead and get the bundled services from your cable company. Have them control your phone, Internet and television service. Maybe they can install cameras in your homes to keep an eye on you. Then lose one source and all the rest go down, too. You’ll be twirling your fingers wondering what to do next. Maybe a book or magazine will suffice, but the addiction will not go away. You’ll be pacing, while waiting for the service to come back.
Big Brother and Hal have arrived. Our lives are being governed by unlimited access to information. We can make the best of it and put it to good use. Or we can use it for evil. Boomers developed the technology and the survivors will perfect it into whatever it becomes.
Thanks for your time. I have to leave and call Comcast about my modem problems.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
I Know Paul Potts and He’s No Pol Pot
If you are looking for a Boomer reference in this post, you won’t find it. The Blog is titled Boomer Twilight; therefore, I apologize for failing in my expressed purpose.
There is this fellow named Paul Potts. He was born in 1970, which means he doesn’t qualify as a Boomer. I suppose the fact Pol Pot was mentioned in an effort to be quirky, qualifies as some skewed Boomer view, since Pol Pot was a Cambodian menace during the Vietnam War-era. But, I am officially obsessed with Paul Potts. Here is a video of his audition for “Britain’s Got Talent.” Grab a hanky.
I have also not been a fan of Opera. No particular reason. Just never paid much attention and I don’t own a tux. Paul Potts has made me a fan. His album just came out, and I’ll either buy it or steal it on the Internet. Pavarotti died recently. Perhaps we have his replacement. Sorry . . . Paul’s not Italian. Isn’t that kind of blasphemous?
Paul is an inspiration. A short, chubby chap from Wales, with bad teeth and lacking confidence, who sells mobile phones (until now). Kudos to Paul for overcoming all this. When you hear his voice there is just no possible way you cannot be impressed. I have watched the video many, many times and I get misty every time. I mean every time. He ended up winning “Britain’s Got Talent” and is now a star. He has appeared on the Today Show (with backup singers), Ellen Degeneres and several others of which I am not sure (probably Larry King). The point is, Paul has made it despite the odds.
In every interview I have seen, Paul Potts comes across as this really kind, unassuming, gentle, humble guy, who loves his wife. Hopefully the success he will realize as a star doesn’t change him for the worse. My guess is he will continue to be Paul Potts, provided his handlers let him be normal. You know the vultures are lining up to get a piece, and they will pick at him like Magpies on road kill.
Please Paul, stay real and continue to please the world with your voice.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
Dare To Be Fat
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 pu
rpose 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. Since January 15th, I have lost 60 lbs (still 25 to go). I’m not looking to win the Nobel Prize for Weight Loss, I just don’t want to die before age 60. 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 Life Style.
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. Sixty-years-old is young. Obesity takes too many of us well before we should go. I want to work until I am at least 70. Not just because I selfishly want to live a long time; I enjoy 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, seems 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. Fat Guy signing off.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
Amber Alert Goes Red
I was driving to work one morning, listening to “Mike and Mike,” 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/c
ult/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
Tangible Spam
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 disintegratin
g, 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 their 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
Boomer Twilight 
No Bank Ever Gave Me a Poe Toaster
with 4 comments
During my youth (I always dwell on that) Vincent Price was my hero. He was in all the Poe-based flicks. Vincent was scary.
Everything I ever read or heard about him as a real person, is that he was a super nice fellow; the kind of guy who would fix your flat tire if he happened upon you in dire need. Go, Vincent! My kind of people. Nevertheless, he was freaky.
I find Edgar Allan Poe fascinating. In today’s world, he would be shunned. An opium eater, drunk most of the time, and sleeping in alleyways. Still, a gifted author. Don’t get me wrong, I love Eddie. And to this day, someone leaves a tribute at his grave. Live poetry.
It’s not a Baltimore thing. I just like him. E. A. Poe would have been viable in any city of the world. His talent is universal. Baltimore is honored to claim him as their own. One of his best characters, The Raven,
became the local NFL franchise’s mascot. You can’t be given any better tribute than to have a billion dollar sports franchise named after a subject of your poem. Edgar lives on. I’m just glad they didn’t name the team “The Potters” because the logo on the helmet would be kind of lame.
In my travels, I often drive past the grave of Edgar Allan Poe. Sitting at the light, I glance over just to look. I never see anything sitting on the grave. So, I wonder. What happened to the cognac? You know someone is drinking it. Savoring the beverage left for Edgar. It’s good stuff. Well-liked by those who partake of cognac. Well? Who’s drinking it? Huh? Someone is. I think it warrants investigation.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
Written by Bake My Fish
January 19, 2008 at 7:55 pm
Posted in Boomer, Edgar Allan Poe, Facts, History, Humor, Media, Poe Toaster, Social Commentary
Tagged with Boomer, Edgar Allan Poe, Facts, History, Humor, Media, Poe Toaster, Social Commentary