Over Easy

Who was the stupid idiot who first asked for: Eggs Over Easy? Whoever this fellow is, he has never battled with either a frying pan and spatula, nor a chicken. I know that for a fact.

If one approaches the chicken first as the source of the egg, and not as some would have you believe - otherwise, one knows immediately that getting the potential offspring of this squawking, wing-flapping bird is not going to be easy.

Locating the egg is your first immediate problem. Chickens are devious characters who often hide their pre-hatchlings which means that they have more gallavanting time to chase after the Brad Pitts of their neighborhood. In this respect, they have the right idea, for who wants to hang around the coop and egg-sit all day?

The barnyard diva can be miles away from the nest, but the moment you reach for one of her chicklets ( ah . . . hens tend to count their chickens before they hatch . . . ), she's all over you. And rightly so. For what mother wants to see her small fry end up in hot grease?

Assuming you have successfully schlepped the ovum from its rightful owner, the next step of this VERY DIFFICULT process of producing an "egg over easy" is removing the shell, a procedure which is fraught with danger.

If you cut your finger while trying to crack the shell, little spermatozoons, prematurely trapped when the case closed around them, may attach themselves to your bloody gash.

In the event that this happens, call an ambulance and let them rush you to the hospital's emergency room. Spermatozoons in bloody gashes are nothing to be fooled around with, so make sure you inform the doctor that this small cut on your finger is a major catastrophe because of the spermatozoons.

That may not happen, in which case, one merely needs to keep the yolk from nicking the jagged break in the shell. Splattered yolks do not "eggs over easy" make. If for any reason, the yolk does splatter, you will have to make chicken tracks back to the yard and talk to the hen who may attack you with foul language.

But that may not happen. There is a slim percentage of people who can crack a shell and get both the yolk and the albumen into the frying pan without breakage.

At this juncture, we must consider timing. You may think you're over the hump when you've gotten this far in the procedure, but if you're not careful your egg will be over the hill. Rather than cry fowl, time your cooking egg carefully.

Remove it from the grease at precisely THE RIGHT MOMENT. A second too long and you're back in the poultry pen with a very agitated pullet pecking at your appendages.

Beware of Spatula Interference when you transfer the egg to a plate. Spatula Interference is a common cause of the Broken-Yolk-Syndrome. Handle that flipper with care.

I would advise you to take particular note, at this point in time, to observe where you placed the egg shell while timing the egg.

If you have to rush the dense fellow who ordered "eggs over easy" to the emergency room, it's going to be difficult explaining to the doctor who handled your spermatozoon case about the need to dislodge egg shells stuck in this fellow's gullet.

But then, in the final assessment of this situation, anyone fool enough to order "eggs over easy" deserves to have these incredible edible chickabiddys stuck in his craw.
Over Easy © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Sunday Morning IV

Perhaps, ego is not such a bad thing for the nature of ego sees everything as a reflection of itself.

If you see yourself as kind, then you will see all others as being kind.

And if you know yourself to be patient, generous, honest and sincere, those are exactly the qualities you will find when you look upon all humanity.

If your heart is filled with love, you will see the fundamental unity of mankind.

And if you look upon your world from the eye of your soul, you will know there are no differences between you and your fellow man -- only similarities.
Chae

Lens Perspective

I think you should know right off, I live in a very small apartment. Two rooms plus a kitchen sink. There's so much room in this apartment, that the only space large enough for the fridge was out on the balcony overlooking Beggarman's Alley.

Which is OK, 'cause I'm not a junk collector. When I'm ready to depart this world no extra baggage will weigh me down. Except for the cameras. All four hundred and sixty-five of them.

I can't get rid of them because they were gifts. From my Mom. Every day she visits me with a "surprise." The only mystery involved is whether it's a Canon, a Minolta, or a Nikon. But we go through the whole routine, anyways.

"Oh Mom. A gift? For me? You shouldn't have."

She beams. "I just wanted to bring you a little something."

With Mother around, you don't just rip into a package. You open the tinselled paper carefully. And express delight. My tongue's so swollen from biting back sarcasm any sound uttered will pass for appreciation.

My arm sweeps an arc which encompasses the room. "And where shall we put it?"

Mom eyes the room with speculation. It's as if she's trying to find one more spot on an over-ornamented Christmas tree for the last decoration.

Her voice, a vague contralto, trebles: "I'll leave that for you to decide, dear. It's your camera. There's film in it. Shall we take some pictures?"

That's part of the routine, too. This glorious moment must be perpetuated.

Snap. Click. Snap. Click. Grin. We pass the Kodak back and forth. Forever frozen vignettes of Mother and of me.

By my calculations, a roll of 24 pictures times 465 cameras produces 11,160 immortal encapsulations of our relationship. Ergo, 11,184 with today's batch. Suffice it to say, Mom never heard of Brylcream. If she'd been a fellow she would know, a little dab'll do ya.

It was time for the tango to continue. The next dance step of our ritual? Looking at yesterday's mug shots.

Opening the steamer trunk filled with slick glossies, I handed Mom her latest fix of plastic personality profiles. She frowned as she usually does while thumbing through the stack. Doesn't usually take her long to flip past those that are out of focus, blurred, or too underdeveloped to see.

Today was different, though. She pulled one from the lot and clutched it to her chest. "Ah .... at last." Her eyes twinkled as she peered at me over her spectacle rims. "If I had seen these yesterday, I could have saved $582.99, today."

"Huh?"

"It only took eleven thousand, one hundred-and-sixty tries, but eventually you got a good picture of me. What a smart boy, you are."

"Does that mean no more cameras?"

She moved the stack of Canons, Leicas, Yashicas, Hasselblads, Mamiyas, Voigtlanders, and Minoltas off a chair and sat down. "Why do you need more when we finally found one you can operate?"

Mother stayed for a cup of tea. When she left, the One-Good-Photo went with her. After her departure, I felt impelled to examine each and every photo in the steamer trunk.

She had a point. There were no overly impressive pictures of her. But then, I noticed, there were none of me, either.

Ah . . . .

I think tomorrow I'll start a new routine. Visit Mom before she can visit me. I'll take a gift, of course.

Wonder how many of these image snappers I can unload before she masters the technique of portrait photography . . . .
Lens Perspective © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Good Hands Caught Red-Handed

The study of shorthand came to me late in life. I tried to learn it in high school but received a non-passing grade. The teacher couldn't read my "handwriting."

I've never understood why penmanship is referred to as handwriting. The hand is capable of many talents yet rarely does it submerge itself in ink and actually write.

It is conceivable to see a hand out rather than in, but for that matter, I've never seen an iron hand. I'm pretty sure in this day of modern technology such an item is possible except, surely, medical engineers would use some lighter-weight metal or plastic. Although: "He ruled with an aluminum hand", doesn't sound quite the same, does it?

It's difficult for me to see someone changing hands. How do they do that? Do they unscrew it at the wrist and substitute another? And if they are going to throw in their hand, do they retrieve it later and reattach it when time is more convenient?

Someone once requested that I lend him a hand. He seemed puzzled when I asked when he planned on returning it. If it was only for an hour or two, I could cope with that, but otherwise I'd feel quite lost without it.

I haven't seen too many dead man's hands, either. Is there some special museum where they are displayed? The thought of digging up a grave is much too macabre for me to consider -- just to view this oddity. And I rarely attend funerals.

I'm always suspicious when I go to church and the minister says: "We will all join hands, now." I find myself looking around for men carrying soldering guns and wonder, if later, our hands will come apart at the seams.

The trouble with hands is they're sometimes mistaken for something else. Like handkerchiefs. Kerchiefs reside on the head, not the hand, so why aren't they named for what they really are?

Handsome is another. It's totally misleading. A friend recently said: "Handsome, isn't he?" (She almost had a handfull of drool, but that's a different matter.) I looked around for this handsome man but the one's I could see only had two.

Someone being an old hand at some skill is entirely plausible. Trouble is folks are generally describing a teenager or some such younger person.

Well, before this gets out of hand, and in order to avoid all the confusion about these personal possessions, it's time to buckle down to my study of Gregg, and besides, a short hand can be quite handy.

Good Hands Caught Red-Handed © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Security Kills Economic Growth

If you've been following economic growth predictions in the news lately, you're probably as confused as the analysts.

Watching the daily reports is like elevator surfing with a man and a wife who are dueling over floor-selector controls. One day's uptick is the next day's downslide.

This kind of news causes an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your solar plexus as your stomach juices don't know whether they are slipping up or sloshing down. That is because they don't know whether they are coming or are going which means that the juices feel barricaded from going in any direction at all.

It is a known fact that has been verified by the Department of Statistics that the overuse of barricades slows down economic growth to a standstill.

How, you may ask, did it get to the point where barricades have the Dow bouncing like a vulcanized spheroid? And when did barricades multiply out of control?

Well, it started gradually. First, along the Mexican-American border; then the use of barricades escalated at an inverse ratio to the speed of light. They popped up everywhere.

After their first appearance, it became quite common to see them at construction sites where they marked a work area or road hazard such as the the 30-foot deep sinkhole in Los Angeles' Sun Valley area. We can all agree that barricades have some useful purposes.

Then, as with all such inventions, they were given a nickname. Crowd Stoppers. Which led to the increase of their usage. Now you see them at museums, Tibetan Temples, fairs, festivals, stadiums, arenas, convention centers and anywhere Bush's motorcade plans to travel.

Recently, Grandma Poppins was trying to cross the main street of her hometown. Grandma's not all-together the agile type. Her cane and bedroom slippers slow her down. Even so, she might have made it across, if the barricades hadn't stopped her.

As I walked up beside her, she looked at me in confusion and asked: "Why are these streets barricaded?"

"Well, Ma'am, I believe an article in this morning's paper stated that President Bush's cavalcade is planning to pass this way. Looks like the city officials thought they needed some Crowd Stoppers."

"Pshaw. They'll never need Crowd Stoppers for that man. Besides, he's in Europe right now. Why would they plan a motorcade for him here?"

Good question. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, but the point is, that barricade usage has gotten out of hand. There are over a 100 thousand miles of highways in America alone and all of them could be barricaded simultaneously if the Bush team and city officials got their wires crossed -- again! NOBODY'S grandma could get across any street in the whole USA if that happened.

The situation will only get worse if something isn't done about it.

Now the Spandau Ballet group, who saw this problem emerging years ago, are re-issuing their CD of "Through The Barricades" with additional, updated material about this serious problem. And demonstrators in Togo's Lome have mounted flaming barricades to protest further installations. Futhermore, pedestrians who were penned up in New York City started the Great Barricade and Jaywalking Controversy.

We cannot let these brave activists do all our work for us. We must get involved and call upon our government and city leaders to remove all midtown and interstate barricades, so we can make the streets and sidewalks safe for our dear old grandmothers.

The time to act is now. Your country's economic growth depends on it.
Security Kills Economic Growth © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Thorobred Ostrich Affair

March 11-13, 2005

Love adventure?
Want the ride of your life?
Have You considered how You are going to look your grandkids in the eye, explain You've lived life to the fullest, and then, (under great duress), have to admit You've never ridden an Ostrich?

Well, here's your chance! The great ( 17th Annual) Thorobred Chevrolet Ostrich Festival will be held in Chandler, Arizona, at Tumbleweek Park, March 11-13, 2005.

Scratchy Stuff

There's an old saying that a gift given to the wrong person, at the wrong time will produce poor grades. I believe that is true.

Take, for example, the subject of leaves. Now I have some deep and astute perceptions about leaves having had the opportunity to observe them all my life. Not everyone has had this opportunity, nor have they made much use of salient facts about folliage.

One cannot help but think of rakes when they think of leaves. Early childhood experience confirms the relationship of the two. A rake has its season, generally in the Fall. Not all objects have their own special season, for instance, one can experience a tree year-round. But a rake is best experienced in the Fall, if one must experience it at all.

If one avoids this experience and leaves the leaf unraked in Autumn, Spring chaos is sure to follow. And with all chaotic Spring situations comes the unsung hoe. ( It is a rare Ode, indeed, sung to a hoe.) Even so, the hoe is one of those heavy, clunky fellows who is lucky enough to have obtained a season all its own. Quite frankly, one never thinks of hoeing leaves in the Fall.

The discussion of seasons leads one quite naturally to consider color. Back in the early '50's, unless one was well traveled or a New Englander, the general populace was thoroughly convinced that leaves were green. Thus, if someone, a student, perhaps, presented a teacher with a bouquet of red leaves, the gift would be well received. Red roses are lovely, but a bouquet of red leaves? Ah! Extraordinaire!

For a scientific explanation of leaf color we have to consider genus. Acer genus produces maple syrup while the Fraxinus genus produces not the powdery substance left after wood has burned but rather trees used for timber and shade. The Quercus genus provides oak leaves which are useful in medicines and the Rhus Venenata produces leaves that "medicate" in quite a different fashion, altogether.

My sister, never a sophist, yet always quick to brown-nose, was horticulturally impaired. She wouldn't know a genus from a genius.

But she has a designer's eye for beauty. And that's what caused the problem. Rhus Venenata is beautiful in its proper season. There are seven to thirteen gorgeously red leaves per stem.

My sister, who has never been stingy, picked a WHOLE BOUQUET of these woodland beauties and presented the nosegay to her teacher. Have you ever noticed that dilatory students often have feather-headed teachers?

This teacher received the posy with open arms (sleeveless), hugged it to her chest ( low neck-line), and embraced the aroma as the leaves tickled her nose, before placing the posy in a vase on her desk. The teacher wasn't stingy, either. She invited the whole class to come admire these splendid leaves.

The result of my sister's generous gift was not good. It did not earn her the "A" she hoped to receive. Indeed, it sent the teacher and most of the class home for an extended stay while they dealt with a bad case of sumac poisoning.

Should you ever develop an interest in leaves, I would advise you to avoid Rhus Venenata. Perhaps, fruit would be a better intellectual pursuit. Certainly, if my sister had chosen a nice, juicy, red apple, she'd still be the teacher's pet.
Scratchy Stuff © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Heard It On The News

If you were in Vancouver, Canada, earlier this month you could have had fun playing at vandalism when the Vancouver agency, Rethink, sandwiched 3 million and 500 dollars between sheets of 3M Scotchshield glass and invited the public to break, enter, and make off with the cash.

The bet? That the new 3M product was unbreachable; couldn't be broken. Someone figured it out though. The aluminum frame came apart fairly easily. Boy, oh boy! Was that pseudo-gangster disappointed when he discovered that 3 million of the stash was play money.

Still, he walked away with $500 spendable dollars. Not bad for a few minutes work with a screw-driver.

On the lighter side:

USA Next, the agency that dreamt up the Swift Boat Scam, has 10-28 million dollars at their disposal which means their next smut campaign will be well-financed.

If you're a Democrat, hold onto your shirttails, for the next round is going to be low down and dirty. The folks at USA Next are going after all those in the House and Senate who oppose Bush's Private Investment Accounts.

So what's the gullibility factor? How many people are actually going to believe that all the Democrats suddenly sprouted horns and a devil's tail?

If history repeats itself, probably about 52 percent.
Chae

Sunday Morning III

We have been having unseasonably warm and radiant weather here in the Pacific Northwest this winter. It is totally AWESOME!

My innate Leo spirit executes a merry tapdance on the sunbeams as they speckle the land with gold and light. How can one not be joyous on such halcyon days?

I spread my arms wide and embrace this glorious day of sunshine with Thanksgiving. And greet everyone: "Isn't this a beautiful day!? What spectacular weather we are having!"

They, like spoiled children, answer with their complaints.

Some puff themselves up with a proclivity to portentous wisdom and speak of doom and draught for summer.

Others try to nod and give their head a negative shake at the same time. ( Have you ever watched folks try to perform this feat? In the Magician's Handbook, it's item #4528: "Confused Yo-Yo On Loose String" procedure.) Not sure they have mastered the technique, the vocal chords of these same people strain to reach sepulcher tones: "But it won't last."

There is another group of naysayers, here, in the northwest who are, perhaps, more honest than the first two groups. At least, they admit their objections are self-indulgent.

I was in the grocery store a few days ago and ran into a member of this club. As she walked up from behind me and spoke, I was predisposed to like her immediately. "Oh my," She said. "I thought you were a teenager. You are so young looking."

Now what nearly sixty-year-old wouldn't embrace a statement like that?

With a big grin, I thanked her for her kindness. And because I felt some additional comments were called for, replied: "Isn't it a glorious day?" ( Big Mistake! )

"No," She replied.

My steps did a double-take and started back-pedalling away.

(In all fairness to the weather, the skies were blue, the sun lent its cheerfulness, birds sang, and it was warm enough to shed those heavy and cumbersome winter coats.)

It behooves one to act cautiously at such moments and not allow another to snow on your St. Patrick's Day parade. Avoid their chill-inducing intrusion on your sunbubble by nodding politely, asking no questions, and exiting speedily. Yet, because of her compliment, this warning ruler gently slapping my knuckles went unheeded.

Tentatively I asked: "Why not?" as, with great stealth, I backed my cart down the grocery aisle, hoping she wouldn't notice me slipping away.

The lady pursued me diligently while she outlined her dilemma. She had spent a fortune this season, she said, on ski equipment and had not been able to use it once. For her, it wasn't a good winter at all.

I crept backwards. She hound-dogged my trail. Forced by her persistence to reply, I mumbled that I had heard from a reliable source that there was still good skiing in the Tetons and offered her the hospitality of one of my relatives. ( Cross your fingers, and pray that she doesn't mention me when she knocks on their door, prepared for an extended visit.)

Not many people back through the check-out lanes, pause long enough to pay for their purchases, then beat a hasty retreat, backwards, out the door with a plump, middle-aged lady wearing a ski mask in hot pursuit.

Perhaps, those watching will think it's a new game, catch the spirit of capriciouness, and allow their spirits to soar.

But for me, I couldn't help wonder, as I reached the safety of my Volkswagon: "Has everyone joined the Complaint Club of Dissatisfaction?"

Or are there yet some few remaining who still have the ability to say: Thank You God for Your lovely gifts. I appreciate them.
Chae

Encounter With Bell and Howl

Thank goodness there are only two cabinets in my kitchen. Any more than that and I'd have gone out of my mind.

Thank goodness there are only two cabinets in my kitchen. Any more than that and I'd have gone out of my mind.

Unfortunately, we have a kitchen door. I tried to hire a carpenter to have it removed, but he told me that it is an integral part of the wall structure. Both the door and the kitchen window have to stay.

I blame the TV, of course. It never should have been on at that hour. The programs aren't so bad, it's those sneaky ads that bamboozle naive viewers that did the damage. Ack! Phbbt! If only I had remembered to unplug the set.

Meet Bell and Howl. You'll never have a better introduction to them than I did early Thursday morning. Sometimes, it's better to be half asleep than fully awake. That way these guys can send you into orbit in a somnanbulistic state.

OK. So it's early, it's morning and it's cold. I sit down on the throne and am instantly bombarded by percussion cymbals, bleeting blats, and blasting whizzers which crescendo in one shrill monotonous whistle, guaranteed to shatter every Aunt Jemima bottle in the house.

Now, I've never spent much time measuring how high a body can hightail it off a can in inches and feet, but I felt my head hit the ceiling before I landed on my feet and peered into the bowl.

"What the . . . . ."

Found a white, mouse-shaped, plastic stick-on still vibrating little wimps and hollars on the underneath side of the seat.

Thems Bell and Howls are better than coffee any day of the week to get a body moving and all charged up.

Not in a lifetime would you believe how shell shocked I felt which is why I didn't pay attention as I opened the front door to retrieve the morning paper.

The minute the door opened a clanging and a bleeting blat, blasting whizzers AND a rakkety clack ricocheted off the porch columns. It's shrill warning was guaranteed to shatter glass, and set off all the neighborhood car alarms.

The muscle over my left eye started twitching and my fingers spazzed in nervous tension as they searched the doorframe and found -- a mouse-shaped object.

Coffee sets most folks nerves a-jitter but the thick black liquid brewed Louisiana-style calms mine down. Boy! Did I need a cuppa Java. In search of a cup, I headed for the kitchen and opened the cabinet door. Bell and Howl will never get invited to sing Kerokee. Their yowl bent my eardrum and spun the Cochlea's spiral into a straight line. It never knew what hit it.

The plastic mouse had struck again.

By day's end, they could-a carried me out in a basket and forgotten the case. Talk about being paranoid. I was afraid to move.

My neighbor, Percy, stopped in on his way home from work. He owns the house next door but most of the time he hangs out here.

At first, he didn't see me. My backbone had liquefied like jellyfish plasma and was pasted in the corner of the dining room wall.

He knew right off something was wrong. "What the heck are you doing cowering in the corner?"

"Ssssh! You'll set them off again."

"Set what off?"

"The howling mouses."

He hunkered down in the corner beside me, and using that voice one reserves for children and small dogs, said: "There, there now, tell me all about it."

"I don't know how they've gotten in but they've invaded the house. These little plastic monsters glue themselves to windows and doors and ah . . . " (I was going to tell him about the stool but decided that would be too embarrassing.)

Percy snickered. Then, chortled. It wouldn't be quite right to say he rolled on the floor with laughter but that would come close to describing it.

Temper has wonderful restorative powers for backbones. Standing, with hands on hips, I screeched: "Stop that! It is not funny."

He sobered instantly. "I was only trying to help."

"Help what?" I asked incredulously.

"Well, you said your grandkids were coming to visit."

"Not until tomorrow. But what does that have to do with this?"

"The stick-on alarms parent-proof a house. I saw it on TV. Bell and Howell Alarms. About 20 of them on sale for under 40 bucks."

"And . . . ."

"Well, you know, like for when a toddler is reaching for roach killer under the sink, you hear the alarm, and get there before he's laying on his back, glassy eyed, and stiffening up with rigor mortis. Figured this way, they could play while you holed-up in your office and wrote your novel. I would-a told you about it, but you were sleeping."

OK. OK. So Percy's not quite a jerk, just a blister. I'm embarrassed to admit that my temper flew in the storm's face as I grabbed a broom and chased Percy out of the house, all the while, calmly listing all the death benefits he'd receive if he ever returned.

It's not that I hate my neighbors, it's their accident plans I can't stand.

The next day when my daughter dropped off her teenaged sons, I offered the boys a bonus for every alarm they could find and disembowel.

Toddlers, indeed!
Encounter With Bell and Howl © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Brief Update

Yesterday's jaunt netted me two books I'd like to recommend.

First, I ought-a mention that I've never had a Reverse Dictionary before. It's hard enough to go forward through a regular dictionary without having to switch directions.

However, if you've never played around with a Reverse Dictionary, you've missed some wonderfully illustrated visuals of commonplace items which enables a humorist's imagination easy access to all kinds of ideas!

Another book which impressed me is: "The Associated Press Stylebook." It touts itself as being the industry's best-selling reference for 27 years, essential for journalists, editors and writers in all professions. Having thumbed through it a wee bit, I'd have to agree that it will make a valuable addition to my library.
Cheers
Chae

Shopping Spree

Unlike the average woman, I don't spend much money on shoes. There's only 37 pair stacked vertically along the north bedroom wall.

Nor do I spend much on clothing, though recently when I hired a subcontractor to extend the closet walls, he said: "Mrs. S, we've enlarged your closet three times this year. You sure you wouldn't rather just use your spare room as a closet? Or you could have a yard sale . . . ."

And I don't invest a lot in chocolates. Two boxes of Little Debbie's cakes will last me nearly a whole day.

But when it comes to bookstores, I can give an automated teller machine heart palpitations. I've never understood people who can walk out of a bookstore empty-handed.

There are so many choices! The average bookstore boasts 20, 000 CATEGORIES, with rows upon rows of publications. I ought-a warn you though, when you go searching for a first edition Elzevir, bring your own ladder so you can reach the books on the top shelves.

Just the titles alone encourage you to drop books in the cart without undue inspection. Who could pass up: "States for Sale, Cheap!", "Dead or Alive, Turkeys Can Fowl Up Your Life", and "The Art of Wine Snobbery"?

You meet the most interesting people in bookstores. Just today, in the Psychic Development section, I met this empty-suit who was so fascinated with the written word that he stood there writing his own posthumous novel. You'd never meet anyone like that at the Super Bowl.

I thought I should offer some reasonable explanation for why Part II of "Cash Or No Cigar" is not forthcoming tonight. My back went out while I was lugging the ladder and all those books home this afternoon, so I'm going to take it easy, put my feet up and read for a while.

And, oh yes, call and get the subcontractor back to work on that closet enlargement because the spare room is now a library.
Shopping Spree © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Cash Or No Cigar

Millions of years ago, gold washed down mountain streams and got deposited in creek beds at the foot of the hills. You may have heard the expression: "Thar's gold in them-thar hills." But it just ain't so. Gold bottoms out, in the creek beds, that is. After the '49ers rushed California, the Federal Reserve created the Gold Standard as the national monatary exchange. Over the years that has changed so that today we don't even know what our currancy standard is.

During the NHL time out to discuss contracts, shopping malls began to form and with the same uncertainty that the rest of us share about the value of the dollar bill, they inevitably developed the policy of accepting credit cards only. ( I dare you. Make a purchase and just try to pay for it with cash! )

Many card companies color code their plastic to confuse us, making it look like gold to lure us into false complacency and advertising "gold card" benefits.

Even so, Discover and the Diners Carte Blanche Club people aren't that well off. They have a major problem with discard rates. That happens when people skip willy-nilly from one company to another, discarding their current DNA-fingerprinted-credit-card before acquiring another. And folks at Discover can't rely on advertising lower interest rates to keep their customers, either.

Face it, if you've got a full house of weekend guests, 14 or so, and it's Saturday night at 8:45 when the ONE AND ONLY latrine goes belly-up, you're not going to care what the interest rates are on your credit purchase. Your main concern is getting to a store before closing and preferably one which will accept the card you carry.

There comes the rub. All credit cards are not created equal. Even though they say their card is welcomed everywhere, many are not. But how does a guy figure out, which ones are accepted universally?

It was Suzy, my friend's wife, who developed a foolproof plan to test the market usability of each card. The only hitch was - she never told Joe, her husband.

Soon, he'll discover the brilliance of her market research and when he does that trick muscle along his jawbone will trigger that blank, helpless expression one gets which rather resembles that of a dandelion's just before you hydrochloroformate it with Raid.

Just joking. The muscle alongside his jawbone spazzed out years ago, when he was a newly-wed. Now he looks at these things with passive-aggressive calmness.

Suzy shoved CITI Bank Cards, Visa Cards MasterCharge Cards, Sears, American Express, Speedway Gas Credit Cards, and a slew of others, all of which had come in the mail from people they didn't even know, into her purse, and began the noble pursuit known as shopping which she approached scientifically by starting with the 24 business categories listed in the "A"s and not stopping until the final 21,803rd category when she was within earshot of zippers.

Her lightweight purse was easy to carry. Nethertheless, the credit cards gained weight (as inanimate objects tend to do when carried long distances) and at day's end weighed so much she had to drag the Naugahyde bag behind her by its thong.

At each of the one hundred-and-thirty-five thousand, three hundred-and-sixty shops she visited, she spread two acres of credit cards on the counter, and asked the proprietor to choose which ones he accepted, before she made her purchase.

Meanwhile, unsuspecting Joe accepted the home deliveries. He stored them in the living room, the dining room, the spare room, the attic, the basement, the garage, the utility shed, the driveway, and just before dark overtook him he was at the neighbors renting storage space.

The conversation between this blissfully wedded couple when Suzy returned after the stores closed sounded like:

"What the h_ _ _ is all this?" Joe tried to wave his arm around to encompass everything but there wasn't room for an arm sweep.

"Now calm down, Joe. I was just doing a little scientific market research on credit card acceptance."

Joe (incredulously ): "You bought all this with credit cards?"

"You don't have to shout, Joe. I merely showed the credit cards to see how many were accepted where."

"Er . . . if you didn't use the credit cards, what did you pay with?"

"I was very practical, Joe. You should be proud of me. Everything was paid for with cash to save us from paying interest rates."

Like a hyperactive calculator, Joe's fevered brain tallied the total expenditure. "How'd you get that much cash?"

"Well, I . . . ."

A light socket exploded in his cranium. "You mortgaged the house!"

"Yes, but you're missing the point, Joe. Now I have enough information for an article about credit card spending which the Economist has promised to publish."

Joe's voice was dangerously quiet. "They pay what? Thirty-four bucks per article?"

Suzy quickly added, "And I contacted Huppin, Huppins and Wetzell Auctioneers who will be here tomorrow to sell everything." Her bottom lip quivered and a tear escaped her eye. "They're very successful auctioneers and they promised to get it all sold, one way or another, before Sunday."

Joe, who was a sucker when it came to Suzy's tears, put his arm around her and later, they fell asleep wedged between boxes of Schotthauser's Ammunition Reloaders and Toufflotte's Molded Plastics Assembly Kits.

The following Monday after Joe liquidated the mortgage loan and walked out of the bank, he shrugged philosophically and thought: It could have been worse. If Suzy had been working on an article about Bush's financial strategy, we'd be * 7,671,700,332,790 dollars and 18 cents* in debt. A mere 96 dollar deficit isn't so bad compared to that.

Joe, whistling a jaunty hip-hop tune, walked blithely down the street and considered himself a lucky man.

Cash Or No Cigar © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan
Note: * $ 7, 671,700,332,790.18 * is actually our current national debt on 2/16/05
Source: publicdebt.treas.gov

Dark Ages Revisited

A slamming door has power. The sound alone raises every vertebra I own 50 centimeters, then slaps each bone hard against my spinal cord with mach force. If you've ever had a back ache, you know what I mean.

Attitudes about slamming doors tend to depend on whether you are standing inside or outside. If the door is slammed in your face, you have an attitude about that. But if you are the perpetrator, you feel differently. Probably, satisfaction is uppermost in your mind.

There's something insidious about a silently slammed door. We expect our nerves to jangle, our eardrums to vibrate, and our backbone to dance the hootchi-kootchi when wood or metal slams against a resisting force. But a -- silently -- slammed door? It gives neither party any satisfaction.

The federal appeals court's decision in Washington today was just such an affair. It ruled unanimously to remove one more American freedom. The decision silently slammed the door on the freedom of the press which allowed groundbreaking news to reach Americans at their barbecues in their back yard. The court's decision returns us to the dark ages when only people in positions of power had access to the facts.

In case you missed the cast, the key players in this drama are Matthew Cooper, Time magazine reporter, and Judith Miller of the New York Times.

It's the last name, Judith Miller, whose current situation tightens the gut muscles and clangs the cymbals of alarm in my ears.

She was sentenced to 18 months in prison. Her crime? She thought, let me repeat that in case you missed it, she only thought about writing a story. She researched the story and then, as women will, she changed her mind. The story never went to press. It was never published.

It's like coming home from work and there's no supper on the table. So you say to your wife: "Hey love, what's for supper?"

She replies, "Well, I started to cook supper and had it halfway done, then changed my mind, so there is none."

Still hoping to rescue the situation (foolishly) you ask: "What were the ingredients?"

She gives you that look reserved for obtuse husbands and says, "There aren't any ingredients. And if there were, I wouldn't tell you anyway. They're Grandma's trade secret. No woman worth her culinary degree ever shares family recipes. Besides, we're eating out tonight at that new restuarant which opened last week on top of the Sheridan. They say the whole top floor revolves, so we can watch different views of the city as we eat."

Well, Judith Miller's case is a bit like that. She changed her mind halfway through the story and canned it. She's received an 18-month prison sentence because she thought about writing a story and now won't share Grandma's special ingredients.

OK. So journalists are prohibited from using every source available to them to bring us the news. We heard that last month and not an eyelid fluttered.

But now, we can be jailed for what we merely think about doing. Now, we can be imprisoned for our thoughts !

A door slammed today. How many of you heard it close?
Dark Ages Revisited © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Current Epistolary

Thank you for your comments, Mr. Booo, from Anonymous.

What an unusual name you have! With such a moniker, you must receive quite a bit of ribbing during the Holloween season!

To address your concern, Mr. Booo. You are being unneccessarily sensitive about a small joke. Do not be alarmed. Yesterday's column on Tolerance was only written because it was Sunday and one must speak to the nobler instincts of mankind on a Holy day.

But now, it is Monday and I can quite agree with your point of view. Intolerance is just the ticket. We should all acknowledge our baser qualities ( And intolerance is certainly one of those! ) and applaud ourselves that we stood up, manfully, and made our declaration: "I, Booo, from Anonymous, promote and substantiate that Intolerance is the only quality necessary to successfully navigate life's course." (At least, i think, that is what your elegant and flowery comments, crisp with clarity, indicated.)

My hat is off to you for your bravery, Booo. It isn't every day that people will come forth and declare who they are and exactly that for which they stand.

Bravo, Mr. Booo.

In closing, may i wish you all the best intolerance,
Chae

Purblind Distractions

For those of You who looked forward to today's column on Flying Frogs with great anticipation, let me apologize in advance for your disappointment, but other items have taken precedence and needed an immediate response. The Flying Frogs are temporarily grounded until the runway-fog has cleared.

As You can see from the above post, i felt it was absolutely necessary to address Mr. Booo's concerns about Sunday's post. The poor fellow was so upset he was almost speechless!

Even in his wordiness, however, he managed to elegantly convey that he's opposed to Tolerance.

Now, we all have our little aberrations.

Even so, there are certain values that i cherish and one of those is not exposing my nose to draughty breezes by keeping it tucked firmly under my eyelids where it belongs and never, never allowing it to go exploring into others' business as it is sometimes wont to do.

If that were not the case, we, dear readers, might have explored further exactly where Mr. Booo's Intolerance begins and ends.

For instance:
Is he Intolerant of toothpaste? ( If he is that would explain his monosyllabic statements. He's afraid to open his mouth. I've heard it from a reliable source that green-moss-mouth is not in fashion this season.)

Or is he Intolerant of grass seed? ( Figures, perhaps, if he sprinkles it on his yard; hybred-grass will grow; and he'll have to cull the dissenting blades. )

Or is he merely Intolerant of the Wasted-Clock-Syndrome? (Let's face it: some folks will never see another's point of view no matter how much time they spend trying.)

I am quite sure he has GOOD REASONS for his Intolerance. But since my nose is too short to poke into his affairs, it is highly unlikely that those reasons will ever see the light of day.

And so, dear readers, I admonish You to demonstrate forbearance for Mr. Booo's Plea for Intolerance and whatever distressing situations he may encounter in the pursuit of his resolution.

Obviously, he is in dire straits and needs our unprejudiced support.
Chae

Sunday Morning II

Sidewalks are not a farmer's problem. That state of affairs is the concern of city slickers who choose to decorate their urban environment with concrete.

Now i'm not making any disparaging comments about sidewalks, here. I think they're nice. In fact, I prefer walking on concrete paths to romping in mud and puddles. Paved footpaths keep the house cleaner when you enter after a stroll in the rain.

And by the way, have you ever wondered why it was named a sidewalk? Why not a trackrun? Or a skippath? A stroll way would sound more romantic, wouldn't it?

Most paved foot boulevards are flat. Oh, they go uphill and downhill and occassionally tilt to one side or the other, but, generally, the surface is flat regardless of the direction they transverse. Asphalt stride-sides are a bit like life which can take any direction it chooses, merely go around a block or walk itself downtown, has its ups and its downs, and sometimes tilts precariously to one side or the other. If folks thought about life as being a sidewalk it would be much easier to get around.

Have you noticed that sidewalks avoid traffic injuries? They stop at each corner and let the next fellow [ section 214617 CB 203, LOT 1485A ] take the weight of pedestrians after they cross the street. They have a strict code of ethics about that -- not infringing on other's rights. That way, they don't overburden themselves with the moral issues of the whole city. They pay attention, solely, to their small block and that's it.

Come to think about it: Have you ever heard a sidewalk complain about who is walking on it? I'm sure, a paved footpath, being what it is, has a great passion about this issue. If one could communicate in cement linguistics, they might catch a whisper or two that sounded like: "Oh, my aching back. Tony Heviwaite gained 24 pounds this week which puts him well over the 300-pound mark. He walked over me not once, not twice, but 15 times today." You might hear something like that. I doubt though, we'd hear a crack about "Moral degenerates. How dare they walk this way."

Sidewalks do cut corners, sometimes. I've seen it happen in those cul de sacs. We all know that a cul de sac looks like a wide U-turn and takes the walker back the way he's already come. It kind-a forces you to retrace your footsteps and figure out how you got into this blind alley which has only one outlet. For those who want to go around in circles, cul de sacs are OK.

But to enjoy unrestricted travel opportunities, pedestrians must be encouraged to explore all avenues. Sidewalks are generally like that. They travel in all directions and allow you to choose your destination without interference.

I rather imagine if life were a sidewalk there would be more tolerance for another's point of view.

But then, farmer's don't worry about sidewalks. They merely plant seeds and allow them to grow. If city slickers and farmers could get together, the farmer's wisdom about the environment might whistle us past some of our more cemented-in concepts.

For the farmer knows that God's sunlight shines on both the beneficial and the poisonous plants -- equally.
Chae

Weighty Words

While researching today found the "W"s in some old Webster's dictionary. I've never paid much attention to "W"s. I don't know why. Since they are nearly last in the alphabet's order, they always seemed something to be "got around to" -- eventually. Yet, they draw a plethora of visual images not to be missed.

For instance, imagine: A waddler waddling in the wading pool, wadding in one hand and a stack of wadset papers in the other. He wabbles to and fro while he studies the wadsets. He isn't normally wabbly. Indeed, this condition rarely occurs except when he wavers in indecision while wading in water where small waves lick his feet while he intently watches the wording of the wadsets.

He wags his head at his pet wagati who is wailing under the Wagenboom, nearby. It could be a Weeping Willow, but it is not. It is a Wagenboom. He wonders briefly whether a weasel wouldn't have made a better pet than a wagati, then discards the idea, quite satisfied with his wisdom of wresting the wagati away from the wicked wheezy widow who whipped the wagati unmercifully.

A waeg's wings whir near the Wagenboom and remind our wabbly wadsetter that he is wet and weary. So he wobbles to his wingchair placed conveniently near the window box, wagers with the wily waiter and wins a waiver of the fee for a wineglass of waahoo and a wafer or two.

He orders a wonton and while he waits his wits go woolgathering wistfully wishing he were not a wadsetter but rather a womanizer. Rather woozy by now from the wineglass of waahoo, he sets out to woo the wheezy widow who is the only woman he knows.

In short order, a wonderful wedding with witnesses a-plenty occurs during which he realizes he was wrought-up when he considered winning a wife. Rather than be wretched, he wrings his hands, withdraws his pledge and wiggles out of the wedding.

The hapless widow wilts but not before she watches him wince when she attacks his wigless head.

A williwaw swoops down and whisks our woeful wadsetter into its whorls with great force before depositing him once more in his wicker wing chair.

His wontons are delivered after which he indulges a whiskey and a game of whist with some Walloons who happen by.

Lest you think this account is a wacky whopper, let me assure you that every word is true.

Weighty Words © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Holmes

Holmes has been working lately. Of course, the weather is warmer than usual, so his productivity has increased. For that short stretch when it was bitterly cold, he didn't show up for work at all, or only after much coaxing. He is the most tempermental of fellows, Old Holmes is.

Holmes fits in well in this household. All of the inhabitants here indulge erratic behaviorial habits. So his were to be expected, I guess, as a natural consequence of life. Thus, it seems perfectly normal to have an electric heater, Holmes, which will only ignite and warm during the Dog Days of Summer, then refuse to report for duty in the winter.
Chae

As Good Cooks Go

Botulism can't kill you, right? Or is it merely a painful reminder to be grateful that Mother's sabbatical is over and she'll be arriving home shortly?

Mom must have been out of her mind when she appointed Dad as head chef in her absence. Before she left, she calmly assured us that his cooking is better than it tastes, but I truly believe that whatever your age, you can whittle it down by several years if you eat Dad's concoctions.

The first meal he cooked while Mom was gone was indicative of the rest. Thankfully, the nuns gave me early leave from school that day with the strictest orders to help him with the preparations for supper. I know, now, how strongly they believed in family preservation.

I didn't tiptoe, exactly, as I entered the house, but I did walk softly. It was important to have most of the meal cooked before Dad had a chance to start tampering with the foodstuffs. My footsteps were brought up short, however, by the sight of Dad perched gingerly on the piano bench, a fishing net clasped tightly in his hands.

Instead of being in its rightful place, the bench was in front of our aquarium and it was obvious that instead of walking five miles to the pond, Dad intended to catch supper closer to home.

"Dad ! Those fish are too small to feed the entire family," I said rather sharply.

The net swirled through the air as he spun around and managed to wrap itself around him. Guilt was not one of Dad's qualities. He scorned any man who indulged it. Without a word, he stalked towards the kitchen, fish-webbing trailing his posterior until it snagged on the corner of an end table and he was free of it. I followed meekly behind.

At the scullery door he made his stand and adamently insisted that it was time for me to go play or study or whatever it was that children were supposed to do. There's nothing more exasperating than a man who can't cook but insists on doing so.

It usually takes Dad more than three weeks to prepare a good impromptu meal so we were surprised when he announced supper early. As we sat down and bowed our heads in prayer, there wasn't a one of us who didn't know that the grace would taste better than the food.

In all fairness to Dad the soup was better than the mutton and spuds. But then, it's difficult to mess up Campbells straight from the can. Though it might have tasted better if it had seen a pan before it saw the soup bowl. Cold, undiluted coq-au-vin chowder misses the mark of savory delight.

Ah ! I hear the front door opening now. Believe me when I tell you, the heart knows no greater joy than a Mother's embrace and the love she bestows as she cooks each meal.

Unfortunately, while she was away, self-preservation forced me to consider a simple diet. Main course? Celery! Since I've lost thirteen pounds, I think I'll stick with it. Sure beats the South Beach Diet for losing weight.
As Good Cooks Go © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Generation X

The new Dove Hairspray ad features the late great Jane Jetson. Questions, like a well-passed bowl of noodles, flow around our dining room table.

"Hey! Jane Jetson and Burma Shave, aren't they the same generation?"
"Naw, she's a Flintstone. Who would-a guessed she'd be featured as an inamorata?"
"Sex symbol ! Her? You've gotta be kidding."
"What's up with advertizing these days? Getting cartoon characters to shill for them. That's low, man."
"Yeah, but that Dove ad pulled a whopping 67% approval rating."
"Well, I think it's wrong to make a cartoon into a sex symbol. Isn't that wrong?"

The conversation broke up as the table was cleared and dishes were stacked into the dishwasher. ' Holy Cow,' I thought. ' Thank goodness no one asked for my opinion. Who the heck is Jane Jetson, anyway? I don't remember her at all.'

If the kids had gotten wind of this, a collective sigh would have followed and in unified voice, they all would have said: "Oh Mom, you're so out of it !"

Heck. If advertizers are going to go straight for the jugular of the aging Gen X set, I wish they'd pick a more recognizable character. Someone like Hedy Lamarr or Claudette Colbert or . . . .
Generation X © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Classy Cabs

Skeptics who doubt our economic health should have been in Jacksonville Super Bowl weekend. The gold standard was alive and well. If you don't believe it, check out the limousine business.

Those nightclubs-on-wheels stretched from the south city limits clear north to the Nassau River with mood lights ablazing, flat screen TV's bouncing with Super Bowl frenzy and surround-sound like I haven't heard since neighborhood kids set off fireworks under my bedroom window.

It only took one stretch Bentley limo to cover that distance. The rest of the limos had to wait in line. It was easier for a hippo to go through Jersey traffic circles than it was for those yearlong limos to enter the Super Bowl parking lot. They should have been able to bend in the middle like a Slinky.

Most of the chauffeurs were in the hospital Monday after the game for repairs. The doctors made a fortune from Rubber-Necking Injuries.

In answer to one doctor's question: "How'd you get this disjointed condition?", Old Chauffy from Toppers Limo said: "Trying to keep an eye on traffic and simultaneously whip my head around to see what was going on in the back. The strobe lights interfere with the view. Sex is OK in a back seat, everybody knows that, but if the cops catch one of those celebrities doin' drugs, they confiscate the limo. Ain't going to risk a $135,000 rig for something like that."
The other chauffeurs agreed. Driving tizzied lounge lizards hungry for raw football is like a toothless tiger with a raw steak -- he can't chew but he sure can roar.

Rates on the premium rental models went for three hundred dollars an hour with a thirty-hour minimum plus a ten percent surcharge for the service fee. Let's see now, that's 30 times 300 equals $9000 times 10 percent times all the extra-dry Martinis (not counting the olives), not to mention parking lot fees and hotel accommodations plus the Super Bowl tickets . . . ah heck, you get my point. It's more than the $21 million Hewlett Packard just paid recently-dumped CEO Carly Fiorina in her termination package.

No Siree, those Classy Cabs don't come cheap, but they're packed jam full of gold-digger delights. So if you stayed home to watch the Patriots whup the Eagles on TV, you may have saved your bankroll, but you missed the ride of your life.
Classy Cabs © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Just For Men

Fencing lessons were part of the repertoire in my teenage years. Rather enjoyed the sport. Fancy I could still heft a lethal blade. So, am I to believe, from the Just For Men ad that men's ability to fence diminishes when they see a few gray hairs? Hmmm.....

Heard It On the News

When our current President Bush was running for Congress, he predicted - then - that Social Security would be broke in 1988.

Sunday Morning

The small "i"'s are intentional - not a grammar error. The capital You's mid-sentence are intentional, too. A passage read years ago, shared that English is the only language so egotistical that it capitalizes the "I" wherever it is found.

Guess i figure six days out of the week, i'll try to be so-phis-ti-cated, write about current, hep topics, hopefully with humor, satire, parody -- any tool that brings, at the very least, a smile to whomever these posts land upon.
But the seventh day, well ... it did occur to me, to say: Thank YOU, God for all the Blessings YOU have given me.
Here is the premise: We are all ultimately talking to God.
Whatever we conceive Him to be, our dialogues, or if you will, our monologues, are directed outwards to the Universe and the Universe is God. All of it.
And, perhaps, that is where humor springs from, for it has come across my consciousness - that God is Joy. Some would go a step further and say Blissful Joy, but i would have trouble with the Blissful part. Joy, i have experienced.

It's always "iffy" to talk about God in public. For each person holds their own opinions dear. They seem to think if you mention your belief system, you are contradicting theirs. Years ago, folks weren't so hesitant to share.

Something happened a couple of weeks ago. When morning dawned bright, warm and sunny ( a rare occurrence in mid-winter close to the Canadian border), my mood matched the weather. Bright, warm and sunny. Expansive, if You will. Thems are the days my sense of humor usually shines. So the day promised to be full of fun.

Read the NY Times, first thing, as i usually do. Then, answered emails. One of the first ones asked me, personally, how she could write an article about rock formation without mentioning the fact that rocks evolve over a period of years, layer upon layer. She didn't believe in evolution, she said, and refused to write any article which gave a hint that anything could have "evolved". She believes that God created everything.

My first thought was: Why Oh Why Didn't You Address This Question To Someone Else? Almost chickened out and didn't answer the email at all. There's so many handy excuses why one didn't answer an email. Didn't receive it. Received it but thought it was a spammer. Received so many emails, it got lost in the shuffle.

But no. Something in my psyche chose to answer. My own personal belief system kicked in.

If God is All, (which i believe He Is ) then He created everything. Like You know -- everything! Since "evolution" is SOMETHING, and the part is a segment of the whole, it is included in EVERYTHING. Therefore: God Created Evolution. It's quite simple, really. And i can see no reason for the great conflab that one has to choose between Evolution and Creationalism. God Created Evolution. Period.

Not only was she not buying into that premise, she hasn't spoken to me since!

Ah yes, well, so much for answering emails on bright, warm, sunshiny mid-winter days. If You want a much more limited point of view, send your emails on snowy, blistery days when it's hard to see past the front yard, let alone glean a perspective on the unlimited world in which we live.
Chae

Discretionary Dollars

An article in the Wall Street Journal recently stated that Americans are not spending their discretionary dollars in the fashion and apparel industry. I went straight to my dictionary. Discretionary dollars? Who do they think they're kidding? I haven't had a discretionary dollar since the year 2000.

Thumbing my way through a dictionary is almost as confusing as Bushenomics. You know, those economics that hide in the bushes and jump out at various times to distress farmers and them's others in agri-related businesses. Bushenomics is really hitting the Red States hard. That's loyalty for you.

Winding our way through discretionary definitions, we came by discretion, then discreet, and thus to prudent. Ah Ha! Now we're getting somewhere -- Prudent!

Prudent spending in the fashion industry? Why didn't they just say so!

Guess because New York's fashion week opened yesterday and they didn't want to put a damper on all those folks buying Dior, LaCroix, Gaultier and Chanel.

By the way, the fashion designers are touting blues and browns as this Fall's choice colors. You spoze these designers color code occupations? Um.... Let's see now: farmer, soil, brown. You've gotta give 'em credit for knowing in advance that by Fall our Agriculture Cultivators will be singing the blues . . . . Wonder if someone at the Department of Health and Human Services paid them a gratuity? Now that's discretionary dollars!
Discretionary Dollars © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Wardrobe Malfunction

I can't even imagine a wardrobe malfunctioning but evidently the Super Bowl promoters can. They'll be happy to know one of the new Fall fashion colors is flesh-colored brown.

After the J.J. Brouhala at halftime last year, they're a bit nervous. Like mega-nervous. So they're taking their cue from Airport Security Maneuvers and screening Paul McCartney right down to his BVD's.

Even though he promised not to sing: Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, it is reported that a sextet of vetters, (as if scrutinizing the lyrics with the Hubble Telescope wasn't enough), have sang every word of the songs on McCartney's proposed list out loud. One of the sextet sang the lyrics to a ragtime rhythm, two of the vetters sang the words with a jazzy beat, one of the sextet thought he was a symphonist and the remaining two sang off-key. All sounded like plucked strings. Liverpool never heard it so good.

Evidently, they were not hunting for WMD's, but were searching for Indecent Exposure.

The six-member Vetting Team Choir also performed similar musical renditions of songs that will be performed by the Black Eyed Peas, Gretchen Wilson and the Charlie Daniels Band.
Wardrobe Malfunction©2005 Chaeli Sullivan

My Dawg and me

Phoney Stuff

Once upon a time, when the phone rang, one knew the call would be of utmost importance. A break-your-leg tripping-over-the-misplaced-stool-but-answer -that- phone-before-it-stops-ringing type of importance. No one called just to chitchat.
Using a phone in a small town was a community affair. Everyone on the party-line listened in, just in case they could help, you know, with whatever emergency caused the call.
Back then, there were local operators and, by and large, they were most helpful. "Are you trying to reach Jackie S? Or the Mister? . . . Jackie, eh? . . .Well, you've missed her by 10 minutes. She had to go to the dentist. Won't be back 'til around 3pm. But, I don't spoze she'll feel like talkin' much then. Going to have a molar pulled."
Back then, a collect call meant someone was dying. Or gravely injured. One always accepted a collect call. Or lived with the forever-after guilt of rejecting a loved one in time of need.
Last night, while the history-making State of the Union speech was in progress ( I was hanging on every word . . . ), the phone rang. Loath to lose even one word of this momentous occasion, the thought crossed my mind to let the answering machine take the call. Still, the pre-conditioning of the aforementioned Telephone Protocol, caused me to pick up the receiver.
A metallic sound voiced the question: Will You Accept a Collect Call From Lynn?
Had my attention not been otherwise distracted I might have quizzed the metalloidurgist a bit, but as it was, I was missing out on crucial news. "No," I mumbled almost inaudibly and quickly dropped the phone back onto its cradle before my conscience could take hold and cause me to change my mind.
Darn it! I sure do wish we still had personalized phone service like in the old days. If we did, I could have called the operator back and asked her if "Lynn" was some family member of mine that I've accidently forgotten.
But heck, with my luck, the operator would have been watching the State of the Union, too, and I'd have gotten her answering machine!
Phoney Stuff © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan