Royal Baby WAIT

Yes the civilized Brits are excitedly waiting with Branston baited breath to see the birth of a new Royal runt soon, but c’mon I don’t get all the colicky fuss. Let’s face it no matter how you revile the tiles, unless the Scrabble babble turns into a ‘battle royal’ your word-score is still only gonna’ be  9 points. Only if the tot’s got three 6’s on its soft spot, regardless of sex or how much royal treatment it garners, it’s STILL just a goo-goo goop-machine to me.

So soon enough the Duke (formerly known as Prince) and Duchess are going to be in need of a few HUGgies when they heir their dirty laundry in public for the first time. Since the arrival of this blue-blooded famous fetus is so highly anticipated, I assume nobody wants the tot delivered by Royal Mail since at best it will be very late or at worst never arrive at all. Stateside the only truly rich ‘Royals’ happen to be a lackluster hapless n’ bat-less baseball team and a box of tasty choco puddin’ - both of which can be easily BEATEN with milk. 

Hey but I too was gifted with a high brow heritage and un-earned praise from loving parents who knew my true future claim to fame would be the ‘royalest’ of pains. I’ve tried like the ‘Dickens’ to live up to my folk’s Great Expectations but unfortunately  despite my love of the theater, red velvet, and fab Freddie’s  Mercury I’ll never become Queen Latifah.  Luckily I still have a little lyin’ left in me and an outside shot at King; but it all really depends on if I’ve got the royal jewels to snag a catsup-covered cardboard crown from a burger joint and ‘double decker’ all my checkers. 

Oh who am I kidding nobody except for my wife cares that I habitually stick out my pinkie finger when I say ‘Howdy’ to high tea or a highball. Clearly no matter how much I try, I’m still ignorant of long standing old world traditions across the pond, probably because I primarily make it my mission to sit most of the time. You see around my dungeon-less crab castle after I’m dealt a big chili-mac snack and draw a deep desire for a royal flush, it’s smarter to have fewer people waiting in line for the throne rather than a full house! 

The PERFECT floor covering

Oh sure I have been around the block a few times - that is of course if you are talking about my HEAD full of chedda’ or the perfect choice for prison floor covering. Other than my sandbox and the fridge, not many things in this Cracker Jack shack full of surprises gets a bigger workout than the floors and what I use to protect them from prancing, dancing and reeking feet.  Somehow though most surfaces seem to stand-up to my earthy ‘GIRTHly’ abuse yet every choice I make from bugs to rugs needs something more.

Since the wife hates feeling BURR BURR we prefer wall to wall polar bear in the bedrooms to encourage a cozy igloo life even if it makes the window SEALS feel uneasy. I don’t use vinyl anywhere in the house anymore except for the drool pool under my pillow or in the music room since CDs are so much better.  In the bathroom surfaces must be hard and impervious to water like Porcelain or my heart since SUBmersing showy shag daily in dribbles makes it stink worse than I do, and it’s hard on the SUBflooring.

Most folks are excited by wood but I don’t favor that flavor since when I lube up the halls with WD40 the termites prove to be slippery critters to kill and worse yet - BORING. In high traffic areas like the kitchen (or the laundry AFTER I’m done eating), I’m a fan of tile by a mile, because it’s easier to slide around on eggs and oatmeal should the mood, food, or lightning strike me. Concrete is the perfect hardness choice for the garage though I prefer soft serve in my cones especially in dry and arid Dessert environments.

Clearly I am not too picky about what lines my bird cage or stomach for that matter. All I really want is a patch to scratch and a place to bury my cares away in case of a bothersome buffet blow-out in me bloomers. You see due to my bad habits, spastic colon and ‘porculent-pig’ physique, the perfect floor that I ‘m suited for doesn’t matter … as long as it’s covered with straw, dirt, and SOMETHING to eat!

Bread stink instinct!

I wonder who the big bag of gas was that came up with the idea that money should be referred to as ‘Bread’! It wasn’t any of my corny ilk since when you live under a troll toll bridge, there are too few opportunities to make cash except from recycling cans, and overnight reclamation of the neighbor’s copper plumbing. The only REAL bread that I ever see and retrieve on a daily basis is those charity crumbs that the pigeons and furry vermin choose to leave behind.

Who really associates cold hard cash with a yeasty smell, flour, warm water, and a pinch of salt anyway? Isn’t all that stuff more akin to the luxuries of prison life rather than the genuine glow of wealth and prosperity? On second thought, I forgot that I usually have to take out a loan to purchase any of those ‘artisan’ bakery loaves offered at every overpriced organic snobby suburban market’. Gee, if Americans aspire to acquire so much ‘bread’ in their daily lives, I am curious what other kinds of dough the rest of the world rolls in and informally calls their currency?

I guess the English probably would name their scratch, ‘Muffins’, though if you pile them high enough they will most certainly add up to a few POUNDS on their buns. The Israelis might shuck their shekels in favor of the more valuable and ‘hole-ier’ Bagels, and the poor Italians end up with those throwaway triangle 'crust-backs' bonded to the bottom of greasy pizza boxes. What do you call those things anyway – maybe ‘I-SAUCE-n’-cheese’ is a good fit that will STICK?

Hmmm, come to think of it, except when I’m ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’, I guess  savory ‘bread’ is a better money metaphor than any flaky biscuit or cracker will ever be. After all I would much rather be a hard n’ crusty ‘breadwinner’ instead of just any ol’ oaf sitting on his soft-sofa loaf! Regardless, instinctively I have learned to keep my opinions and SOURdough personality to myself, because when too much of my hot air escapes rapidly in public, people have a tendency of LEAVENING me alone.

Made to be a Monarch

I just learned today that no ‘only child’ has ever been U.S. President. What a shame that yet another one of my self-flagellating nightmares has been dashed by geeky statisticians. Oh that’s ok, because the last time the ‘odds’ makers got something truly right was when my mafia parents MADE me. It seems I’ll never live there, but like the White House, I crow constantly about my crummy coop overflowing in a load of ‘white stuff’ ,with no fixes in sight too.

So since dirty birds like me spend so much time shopping at the ‘Home Despot’ I am probably better suited to the Monarchy anyway. Yes inbreeding has served me well since I am an expert on frilly clothes and routinely stick my pinkie out whenever drinking, hitchhiking or condemning other insects to their death. Anyway now with that recent Royal pudding of a wedding, the Monarchs are in fashion again and I have it on good authority that even cartoon lions cannot wait to be Kings.

Believe me I have put in the time to groom myself into an effective career as a future Monarch. I brush my tooth daily and powder not only my own Whig but the Tories’ too. Oh sure one unfortunate incident with a leg of MUTTon and everybody automatically takes the DOG’S side. Honestly, hopping to get around ‘aint’ that big of deal when all you do is sit around playing poker and smoking pricey cigars all day.

I cannot tell you how many troubling knights I have laid awake, crying remorsefully for closure - but not in a ‘Brokeback Mountain’ kind of way. I have grown considerably since the ‘dog leg’ incident, and as evidenced by my bathroom scale and golf scores, I have learned to control my gluttony. Even though I am only a man-child in a baggy blimp’s body and will never be President, despite life’s limitations I am still prepared to fly. So if I ever find myself reincarnated I hope to emerge from my chrysalis as a benevolent Monarch butterfly, dancing gracefully upon a radiant dew-kissed flower. Because let me tell you, there is no way I am repeating this grade again as a dumb gray sack of Pupa plopped on top of a rotten banana.

FINALLY WE LOOK INTO PAJAMAS

Since I, Raker, WCC’s 'sometime friend,’ am substituting,I wonder why this pajama-named blog has so little about pajamas . Also, I’m wondering how come the URL spells monoblogs without the “b,” as “monologs.” My guess is that WCC worked far into the first night to get this site launched. Being even groggier than usual, he just forgot the ‘b.’ Good thing he didn’t forget his pajamas. (He writes in a computer store window where he moonlights as a dummy.) Or, if you prefer, he IS a dummy, who doubles as a writer. I am not worried if he sees this. I get automatically fired whenever he gets back into town.

But I owe it to you, and to those professors of the future who will get million-dollar grants to research the lack of pajama facts herein. Worries me that this is far from the least vital subject which gets funded by giveaway money. But here is my unfunded attempt to remedy WCC’s ‘unfair labeling.’ I hope something I do will satisfy the hungry pajamophiles.

I know that in old movies everyone wore pajamas if they were in the same scene with the opposite sex. If women got up to answer a phone they instantly put on a bathrobe. We guess those old dial phones let in some cold drafts. In new movies adult pajamas are seldom seen, except on grandpas, (thankfully.) I have seen many cute “dorm pajamas’ for sale at Walmart. But my request to look into what college girls wear in the dorms is still pending, as it has been for several years. The Campus Police gave better service than the administration, however, when they called me in to discuss it. So I can’t see a thing from the 500 feet I am required to keep away.

I also know that in most hospitals you can’t wear pajamas. “Gap-View Gowns” are the uniforms of the sick. That’s so that nurses don’t have to paw around for a landing place to use for “shot spots." The health workers’ credo is “We open you up and see clear INSIDE you. So why worry if everyone else sees the OUTSIDE of you?" Makes you think that doctors and such don’t care about dignity...UNTIL you call one “Doc." He instantly looks very dignifed. “That’s Doc-TOR, Buster!" Best not to irritate anyone who holds the power of life and death over you, like doctors. Or waiters -- who are alone with your food.

Good news though. I saw that some British hospitals are using gowns with slits on the side to hide the split in the rear. Much better, but still the breeze can slip in and flop the flaps in a game of peekaboo. All of a sudden you are attracting the same attention as those slit-skirted women in Saigon bars.

But for the rest of us, the cry of the patient is still heard:

“Hey Nurse -- My gown has no rear end back there!”
“Hmm,” she says, I’ll take look.” She does, and laughs.
“Nope. You’re wrong. I saw a lotta rear end back there!”

-- The End. (A subject I just tried to cover.) --

ANIMAL LOVER

I like animals of all kinds but I am not what you would call an ‘animal lover’. When I was a kid I had warm and fuzzy pets like two snails named Sydney and Tyrone, an occasional carnival goldfish, and a green baby aquatic turtle named after my favorite Jane Fonda movie, ‘Salmonella’. I had a couple of dogs over my life but in both cases, after getting to know me, they always seemed to want to run away from my underground electric fence; – so much for that ‘man’s best friend’ palaver.

Aside from a milieu of stray mangy cats over the years, I have preferred mostly noiseless pets so that when they expire, I can use them to flavor soup. I know REAL animal lovers would never ever, dare think about the last sentence much less put it in print, so that is how I am sure I am not one of your ‘ilk’. Now that does not mean I go out of my way to torture animals or avoid petting them. On the contrary on more than one occasion I have fantasized about having a pair of ferrets or maybe mink on the collar of my favorite ‘Mac Daddy’ coat, to go with my pointy-toed alligator boots.

Truly though, I am more of a ‘gatherer’ than a hunter. I am not against hunting warm-blooded food in a cold-blooded way for sport however. That’s why several times a week, I get lost in the local warehouse ‘fight’ club, searching for hot appetizers to sample. Yes, you’ve not seen true animal behavior, until you’ve witnessed first-hand, the white-knuckled pursuit of freebie hand-outs, while beating back legions of gaunt yet ravenous senior-geezers.

As a kid I tried to shoot squirrels but my camera jammed and I missed every time. As a teen in Yorkshire we would hunt for rabbit and pheasant but it was with a Ford Fiesta, not with a gun. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a plate of ‘Ye Olde’ English, skid-mark fiesta stew. Hmmm, I guess if I’m willing to eat road-kill, I must actually be an ‘animal lover’ after all? More likely though, I’m just a hillbilly gourmet, who just happens to live in mainstream Missouri!

** Afterword **

Hey speaking of ‘animals’, I sadly must return my own ‘daughter-unit’ to her college cage back in San Antonio this coming week. So being the charitable yet increasingly lazy, ‘big blog-dog‘ for the Monologues, I have arranged a guest-blogger for your light-hearted yet strangely hard-headed reading pleasure next week. Yes, I have asked my ‘liver-spotted’ and dearest mentor / landscaper (code-named ‘RAKER’) to fill-in during my absence.

If this guy could speak English he would have his own blog, but fortunately for you he learned to write highly elegant ransom notes while in a Cuban prison. The rehabilitation (as well as his victims) have paid off handsomely, so he now works cheap and I did not have to pay his normal 2.99 pesos per minute phone rate for ‘stimulating’ blog conversation. Please be on your best behavior for my ‘bloggy-guest’, because he surely won’t be on his. Don’t use too many ‘big and small’ words in your comments, because ‘Raker’ is highly sensitive about his enormous waistline and teensy tiny ‘pin head’. Consider yourself warned and now Deputized. I will see you in a week. – W.C.C.

Cannibal Jam

Like the preference of millions of kids, I am a grape jelly fan. I know the choice is fairly benign as flavored toppings for toast go, but it is still my favorite. As a rule, I don’t like any kind of chunks floating around in my food. So preserves are a big ‘No No’, unless you are trying to corral untruthful and lazy wild animals like the aptly named ‘lions’.

Yes, keep that orange peel jam along with pulpy orange juice, and chunky fruit yogurt away from me. I want my jelly jolly pure, and everything else free of hidden texture and special surprises. So imagine my chagrin when yesterday reports from the U.K. surfaced of a jar of jam made from hair derived from the late Princess of Wales, Diana.

Can you believe they have already sold some 500 jars of this ‘hair-brained’ gunk for $7.60? Are anyone but cannibals and hairdressers dabbing this royal paste on their pancakes.? I’ve had a ‘Full Monty’ English breakfast in London, but I always thought THAT hair in my jam was by accident. If I had known tresses were so precious, I wouldn’t keep hacking off my mane, or my secondary hair for that matter.

If this Princess Diana ‘hair gel’ is such a good idea, why do they have to infuse the follicle with gin and a bunch of milk and sugar? Doesn’t anything with enough milk and sugar just end up tasting like ice cream mix? I’m sure the only thing that was REALLY infused with gin was the jam-packed liver of the guy who invented this ‘Do-Goo’. Who knows, if this fleecing trend keeps up, maybe Smuckers will open a bunch of salons to harvest other celebrity locks for jugs of jam. We already know that 'Hollyweird' seems to magically PRESERVE their looks and JELLY their brains!

The Spirit of Independence Day!

Happy Independence Day! Yes I gripe a lot about the Gov. and its multitude of problems and practices. But July 4th magically always draws me back in and encourages pause for reflection on the good ol’ U.S. of A. From my earliest days as a tot to now as a graying geezer, this day has always been one of my favorite holidays to stand in awe of not only America as a nation, but my incredible individual good fortune as an AMERICAN as well.

Even if you are not a fan of all the fireworks, fanfare, and hoopla associated with the holiday, I think you might change your mind a bit if all that stuff were missing. What better way to add an exclamation point to the ideals of personal FREEDOM, than with endless volleys of pyrotechnic mortars or a long sweaty parade?

But this day is more than fireworks, BBQ’s, and park outings, it is truly about the ever-present yet intangible SPIRIT that silently propels this nation forward through thick, thin, and the impossible. Regardless of political persuasion or personal identity, even when things get tough, Americans have proven time and time again – we have the will, and literally the 'constitution' to carry-on and make a difference.

Yeah, I’m sure our forefathers would have preferred the fun of shooting off a week’s salary worth of Chinese made fireworks, rather than capturing the true essence of the American spirit. They chose wisely, though, at incredible personal risk, to dog it out and translate that founding philosophy onto a little hunk of parchment called, the Constitution. How we got so lucky, I will never know. All I know is that I am proud, in awe, and incredibly hungry for a grilled burger, chips, and double helping of gratitude!

'HIGH FIVE' reasons Ozzy's still alive

Although 61 years is not really a record-breaking age to live to anymore, it isn’t bad for a rock-head like John “Ozzy” Osbourne. I don’t think personal longevity is one of the pre-conditions when auditioning for a heavy metal band like Black Sabbath. I mean all the occult stuff, hard booze, drugs, and oh yeah, biting the head off of an occasional bat (The furry flyer kind not the wood baseball ones), usually leads one to a reduced lifespan or at best - rabies.

So since ‘Ozzy O’ has beaten the odds so far, in his foggy and muddled mind, he got the fun idea to hook up with a genome mapping company to find out what makes his DNA tick. Being British and never pale to ale, little did Ozzy know, when the DNA folks asked him to share a pint, they actually meant , a pint of his BLOOD. This should finally dispel the age old myth and definitely prove, you CAN get blood from a turnip.

So CLICK HERE to see a more detailed video summary of the ground-breaking DNA gene science and research expectations from a bag of broken-down Osbourne hemoglobin. Or just skip the egghead explanation and go with my ‘High Five’ reasons Ozzy’s main blood supply is still in ‘circulation’ even if his brain isn’t. Enjoy . . .

1) Ozzy is the poster boy for why ancient Egyptians removed the brain BEFORE mummification

2) Osbourne is the last living model for ‘Hippie-style’ John Lennon sunglasses

3) He is the last U.L. approved test monkey for aggressive shock-treatment centered speech therapy

4) Official hair extension donor for cousin ’IT’ and Lindsay Lohan

5) National ‘spokes-squid’ for the powerful union “Inked Brotherhood of human Cephalopods”

Dirty Work Sacrifice

Can somebody explain to me the science behind, why my house and windows get so filthy all of the time. This dump is like having a little baby again that needs to be pampered and preened every day. Actually, just like when I had a baby, I don’t even care if they TRULY are dirty, as long as it doesn’t show to the casual observer.

I especially hate working on the computer in the early morning when magically the sun will come up and scare me. No I am not a vampire, though as a blogger the similarity can be confusing; it’s just the rising sun at an acute angle, hits the windows just right. This of course, while signaling my primal need for caffeine, also dramatically highlights the rivulets of dirt, grime, and bird strikes on my home’s wall of windows.

I know I sound like a royal whiner but you have to understand, to remedy my castle’s need for clean crenulations – well it requires a lot of work. I will have to push the special doorbell that I installed into my daughter’s dungeon suite so that she will come out when I need her. I will have to show her where the soap, ladder, catapult, and pressure washer is. Then I may have to wait upwards of a WHOLE FORTNIGHT to finally receive ‘instant gratification’ that only sparkling parapet windows and siding can provide.

Lest you forget, I am from the dark underbelly of medieval society that forages for ideas and humorous asides from other people’s leavings, leftovers, and misfortunes. I don’t actually DO anything – I’m kind of like that irritating reminder of yesterday’s gruel left on your table plates - AFTER they’ve been cycled in the dishwasher. I hang-on long enough to needle YOU into action, but escape your ‘fingernail justice’ just-in-time with a light rinse under the tap. Yeah like my windows, it’s dirty work. But I'm happy to sacrifice myself (or more appropriately my kid), in the name of science and have the chance, to cleanly live-on to WRITE another day!

Old TIMER'S Radio

You know one thing I was a little too young to take advantage of much was old time radio shows. Throughout the late 1930’s, 40’s, and 50’s, these short plays and comedy acts were THE biggest of the big deal of their day. Yes before television, internet, and satellite programming, radio drama and comedy were the top dogs on the block. Now talk radio is king but it tends to be repetitive, argumentative, and makes for anything but stress-free fun.

By 1960, most U.S produced radio dramas and fun comedy programs were canceled as TV quickly seized control of our lives with a bloodless coup. As a teen, on Sunday nights, one radio station in California would re-broadcast old time radio shows for only one hour. I would try to listen as often as I could and enjoy the colorful way the actors brought a script to life with inflection, emotion, and sound effects.

Apparently Sundays too, were the days with the least amount of radio listeners for normal music programming, because I remember my folks allowing me to listen to the very experimental Dr. Demento radio show. The program featured comedy, music, bawdy drinking songs, and anything goofy, weird and UN-television. Dr. Demento hangs on in relative anonymity today with his web presence and limited terrestrial radio audience. However in the homogenized 70’s, I think the show appealed to me with its irreverent humor and sophomoric innuendo which I embarrassingly still draw on today in my writing.

Despite worldwide media’s huge turn toward internet entertainment, television, and large budget motion pictures, radio still happily lives on today. Obviously with the advent of talk radio, mostly of a political tone, commercial markets in the United States, have boomed over the last 20 years . Still to this day Britain’s BBC media giant, produces NEW regularly scheduled radio dramas and soap operas for their European markets. Many of these programs air daily, or on weekends and are sometimes available through internet podcasts.

Now these days, whenever stuck in my motorized appliance, I have the good fortune of a satellite radio on board for audio entertainment. The XM/Sirius folks provide a whole channel dedicated to JUST old time radio shows. I love listening to the ‘Shadow’, or ‘X minus 1’, George Burns, Abbott and Costello – you name it. All the shows are not rip-roaring funny, or deceptively mysterious, but for anyone who spends as much time with words as I do, they are ALL very entertaining. If you are interested in a taste of the ‘good ol’ days’ then check out this site for true old time stress-free radio programming. Give them a listen, and you may never go back to your redundant talk radio station again.

Traumatized idols

With the exit of Simon Cowell on American Idol last night and the end of the television program LOST, this has no doubt been a traumatic week for many serially addicted TV watchers. I have not reviewed the actual market share numbers of these finales but no doubt the numbers will be big for their respective time slots and the broadcast networks who screened them.

I have never watched American Idol but I am well aware of Cowell’s acerbic persona and mop-haired ‘too cool for school’ image. I think I might like this show if they would get rid of the remaining judges, contestants, and the music, so I could be alone with my thoughts - now that’s GOOD TV. I have watched Lost a few times over the years but I cannot call myself a fan. Most of the time, the plot was so complex and the cast so large, I literally found myself, well … LOST whenever I tuned in.

It always seems the first few weeks and the last few weeks of a television show generate the most buzz and therefore the most viewers. So I have surmised that if I were a big shot television brain, I would come up with a new cable channel dedicated to screening ONLY pilot episodes and finales in my programming schedule. Think how much time my cable channel would save you if you only had to watch just the American Idol finalists named in one hour and then the winner crowned in the next?

And how about all those infomercials – who needs all the fluff and set-up when all we really want is answers to the big finish questions? Yeah, just tell us the payments, how many bonus gifts are included, and where in the recesses of my kitchen is there room for yet ONE more giant, un-used ‘griller spinner choppa choppa whiz bang’ gadget? Ok, since you’re now convinced that the finale of something is far better than the gooey nougat center, I had better cut this off before you get hooked. Yeah, if I wanted to traumatize all the readers who idolize me, I would simply SING … to myself!

Cabbie Adventures

Most of the time when I travel to a new place I end up renting a car. Unless there is a huge event in the city or a major tourist destination, rental cars for a whole day cost about as much as a couple of 15 minute cab rides. Yeah I have experienced the dirty cab and the cab that has an air conditioning or heater that doesn't work. However, unlike the jokes of late night TV or popular movie images of wacky insane cab drivers, my experiences have been almost ALWAYS engaging and luckily even rather pleasant at times.

On a trip last year I experienced my first cab ride in a Toyota Prius hybrid. Not only was that noteworthy enough in a business where the biggest of big, environmentally care-free cars reign king, but the cabbie was a violinist as well. And not a violinist in name only, he had his actual violin and flute right there in the front seat of the car. It seemed like a like a smart use of time to be able to play at stoplights or practice your love of music while waiting for your next fare. That guy would have been GREAT as a gondolier in Venice!

More recently, I met a cab driver who was military trained in radio electronics. He also seemed unusually interested in natural phenomena and excitedly talked about “ball” lightning, volcanoes, rainbows, and his interest in astronomy. I enjoyed the conversation but my only preference would have been that he didn't talk with his hands. Every time he would gesticulate to show how big or spaced out something was, he would take his hands off the steering wheel. He was a smart guy and I only wished I had some kind of new research engineering project to hire him away from the cab business. He already seemed very happy though and it was a mentally stimulating ride to the airport for me, so I tipped big for a change.

Now it is true I have had the occasional stereotypical crazy cabbie who has made me fear for my life. In London, though I was in no particular hurry, my cab driver would literally bump other cabs and shoehorn our cab through traffic. To make matters worse, he would open the window and scream at the other drivers for not yielding fast enough to his aggression. I sheepishly hunkered down in back, trying not to make eye contact with any of my driver’s victims. In New York I experienced the excitement of the ‘foreign’ cabbie who barely spoke English. He understood enough though to know that we were late to a show and piloted his cab like a rocket ship. Apparently this guy had a strict diet of TV cop shows, because I have never had such ride in my life aside from Disneyland. Yes while weaving in and out of traffic and bracing myself with the door strap, I truly wondered if this WAS the last cab ride of my life? I tipped ‘big’ that time too -– but I thought of it as more of a Tithe to thank the GODS I was alive!

La Historia of May 5th

Traditionally this has always been an interesting day for me. My family has primarily used May 5th as an excuse to go out and enjoy a tasty Mexican meal together. We also liked the day because it doesn’t take lots of preparation or costly debt to enjoy the camaraderie and fun celebration. Basically Cinco de Mayo’s job is to fill the ‘excuse for fun’ void between the end of the school year and Easter with a little Mexican flavor.

The day’s origin in history was anything but fun however. Military units from Spain, Britain and primarily France invaded Mexico in January 1862. Mexico purposefully stopped paying interest payments on their mounting debt so the Europeans came to collect. Soon enough the Spanish and British broke ranks with the French and went home 4 months later. It had become obvious that France had designs on Mexico’s land and natural resources more than its interest in re-payment of debts.

The French had mounted an undefeated army since around 1810. So the 5th of May in 1862 found its way into the annals of history, when the Mexican army took a stand at Puebla, Mexico. The Mexicans soundly repelled the French invasion force of nearly 8000 - double the strength of the defenders. It did not last however as within a year, Mexico City fell and the French occupied their lands. Napoleon III had hoped to establish a Mexican Monarchy patterned after the French model, but beholden to France’s sphere of influence. Continuing guerilla warfare plagued the new government and once America’s Civil War had ended, the now United states turned its collective resources on blockading further French intervention per the long established Monroe Doctrine. Without direct support from France, the failed Monarchists were deposed, and by 1867 Benito Juarez was restored as President of Mexico.

The celebratory nature of the day has always seemed to ring more important with American restaurant owners than with the people of Mexico themselves. Yes, there is no better feeling of pride than being reminded yearly of your ancestors lack of financial responsibility and subsequent impetus for war. Remember to bring your wallet or purse today, if you intend to enjoy the music, good food, and camaraderie of Cinco de Mayo. The costly lessons of history are clear … PAY YOUR DEBTS – because some folks get a little ‘touchy’ when they don’t get paid on time.

A Flag of Character

With the Tea Party folks around, I have seen more and more of those Gadsden flags flying. You know the ones, with the bright yellow field, a coiled snake in the middle, and the motto “Don’t tread on me” at the bottom. I like this flag because it is simple and to the point. I think it says just about all that needs to be said, when you are pondering the repercussions of kicking sand in the face of anything with fangs (and with the constitution to use them).

Christopher Gadsden (Feb. 1724 – Sept. 1805) was a wealthy merchant, revolutionary soldier, patriot and later British prisoner from South Carolina. He was among the first to serve in the Continental Congress and for nearly a decade prior, had urged the American colonies to form a union and fight England’s taxation policies. Even among friends Gadsden was outspoken but highly principled, stood for what he believed and was relentless. His grandson and U.S. Diplomat James Gadsden was of similar personality and later aided U.S. Southern transcontinental railroad expansion. The final 30 million acre chunk of New Mexico and Arizona’s current border (“The Gadsden Purchase”), was acquired from Mexico’s infamous dictator Santa Anna in 1852, for about 33 cents an acre.

It is believed that Gadsden’s flag was an adaptation of some of America’s first Philadelphia based Marines and their drum corps. They had painted their bright yellow drums like a coiled snake and emblazoned them with the famous “Don’t Tread On Me” motto. Regardless of genus, Gadsden’s flag and the U.S. Marines early history of toughness, resolve, and patriotism have forever become intertwined. It was Gadsden’s vision, and a little later, that of a young America, whose collective character came to be symbolized to the world by that defiant and deadly rattlesnake who prefers to be left alone in peace unless provoked.

In general I like people to fly flags as it shows a little passion; so it goes to reason that the Tea Party participants can relate to Gadsden’s pluck and stalwart symbolism. I believe it is healthy and a time-honored tradition that Americans should stand up and speak out when feeling dismissed or “tread” upon. In 2001 I was amazed at the amount of U.S. flags that flew for many months after 9/11. Despite the tragic catalyst which spurred the outpouring of patriotism, most every street stood up and displayed flags with passion. So smile proudly, when you see Gadsden’s snake, Old Glory, or even your favorite college sport flag flapping stately in the breeze. Regardless of your politics or favorite sport, those are your fellow PASSIONATE patriots simply expressing their points of view freely. They are not merely holding flags as individuals, they are proudly UPHOLDING a united America’s greatest treasure – its true character.

Meat Pop-tarts?

There are probably very few things on earth that can beat Kellogg’s Pop-Tarts. No I am not talking about debatable good taste or nutritional content. Even as a life-long fan, I will acknowledge that there are better choices for breakfast (like ANYTHING else). But when you sit back and look at the ‘tarty’ foil-packed pastries objectively, you should be in awe of one of the greatest ‘filling’ delivery systems the world has ever known.

Yes Pop-Tarts since 1964 (history linked here) have set the standard for grab-n-go slabs of flavored ‘goo’ when eating time is at a premium. They currently offer better than two dozen individual flavors and caloric combinations to meet any snacking need. The problem is as I see it, that Kellogg’s has only focused their attention on sugary sweet breakfast ’snack-stuffings’ rather than food-fillings of substance. We Americans, nee the world, are hungry for portable REAL foods to juggle while driving our cars - or at least help balance our hectic schedules.

Why hasn’t Kellogg’s patriotically stepped up to the plate with “Flesh-Tarts” or “Meat-Pops”. I know the names still need a little work and surely in prudish States, they will be illegal or highly regulated. But everybody would love to meet the maker of an on-the-go, toaster-ready, meat-treat right? Just look at how many cultures have already devised ways to wrap up chunks of protein into breads, pasta, or fried coatings, yet America’s representation is sadly lacking.

The Slavs have their meat 'Kolaches' but oddly it took the Texans to doll them up with Jalepeno. Go ahead and just try to pass over a fresh steamed bun or Spring egg roll at your local Asian buffet. The Mexicans tout their tamales with fervent pride. The Italians fill their Raviolis with meat and cheeses, but only the health-conscious folks of St. Louis would dare toast those ‘Ravs’ to a golden brown, in oil and bread crumbs. The Poles call their stuffed pasta 'Perogies' and the Saudi’s make a version with lamb called ‘Sambousa’. And of course, who can forget Sweeny’s favorite British meat pie crafted by hand (and foot and …).

So finally those Tea-party folks have a cause that all of America can get behind since nothing goes down better with a ‘Meat-Tart’, than a tall frosty glass of sun tea. Now is the time to make a principled stand. We cannot allow other cultures to continue to dominate the stuffed-meat market any longer – America is demanding change. I for one am confident that our country’s superior pastry prowess will FILL the need, and our entrepreneurial spirit will MEAT the challenge.

Captcha’s & Word Verification

I am still fairly new to the blogosphere. While I understand the need for those anti-spam word verification boxes on web pages, I often wonder if they have to be so hard to read? I mean the letters and nonsensical words will wrap, twist and run into each other like they are under water; or worse, written on a wilting stick of butter. It’s enough to drive you mad – or at least to drink!

These popular little goodies are known officially as “Captchas”. They are designed as a quick ‘challenge test’ so a website or form knows it is being accessed by a live person rather than a computer program or spam-laden ‘crawler’. These webmasters however, have to be sensitive to oldsters in training like myself though. I can barely spell REAL words much less these made up consonant and vowel pairings of letters that are generated willy nilly. That is the problem you see, if the verification query would at least randomize real words, then I might have a chance.

Last week, I was happily perusing a Spanish website and they offered up a genuine Spanish word for verification when I wanted to leave a comment. See I don’t even write 'en Espanol' very well but I can sure as heck recognize the difference between ‘tostados’ and ‘txlwnze’. Another site had the audacity to challenge me with a math problem Captcha? This was not something like ‘2+4’ either, it was a long series of addition, multiplication and subtraction. Who thinks this is a smart way to get followers back to their site, by proving immediately, that your readers are truly, DUMBER than a 5th grader?

I know things are changing for the better though. I ran into a website with word verification that asked me to answer a common question instead of requiring a transcription of letters. The question was “What color is snow?” Boy this site was lucky that I had not finished off that 64 ounce Big Gulp of Mountain Dew. My answer might have been WRONG if I had dropped that drink and made an off-colored mess.

Happily technology keeps advancing and continues to become easier all of the time. Today I came upon a British company with a Captcha that had a little audio button by the challenge word. When you push the icon, your computer reads aloud the ‘single’ word that is required to verify your entry into the website. Sadly the system is STILL not yet foolproof - I never did get into this site. Apparently over there, they’re still working out a few ‘Captcha kinks’ on their software? Hmmmm, where’s my double Mountain Dew on the rocks when I REALLY need it?