It Takes A Village of the Damned

Yes, as you might have expected, and probably dreaded, my wife and I watched the opening night of the Democratic National Convention.

"Well hon," I said, "you're witnessing political theater at its finest. I don't know why people are so down on politicians. They're paid to entertain us, just like Hollywood celebrities, rap artists, and professional athletes."

Shellie looked up from her crocheting, "The only reason I'm watching is because of Elizabeth Warren."

"I'd go back to British rule if she could be the Queen. Besides, I want to hear what the junior Senator from the great and important State of Vermont has to say," I said. "Oh, no offense to their maple syrup."

"I didn't know you were a Bernie or buster," Shellie said.

"Sure, but I voted for Buster," I pointed out.

We watched a few inspirational speeches, and during a pause I asked Shellie, "What do you think of Hillary naming that old guy from the Republican party as her running mate?"

"What are you talking about?" she said.

"You know," I continued, "the guy that ran for president a few years back with that crazy lady from Alaska. McCain, wasn't it?"

"Hon, Hillary chose Tim Kaine, the Democratic senator from Virginia. He's a centrist party hack."

They came back from commercials to the comedy stylings of stand-up congressman Al Franken. Even these bon mots of the Beltway did not prepare me for the remarks by elder stateswoman and political philosopher Sarah Silverman.

The few minutes of unexpected ad libbing required to fill time before the next act was ready, felt like I was being forced to watch the awkward first date of a biological-clock-ticking Jewish couple at a Catskills honeymoon lodge.

After a brief eternity, they were given the signal to introduce the legendary Paul Simon. I wondered why they were wheeling the deceased former Illinois senator out on stage. True, he was a Democrat, but still. Imagine my astonishment when the dead body of Senator Simon began to sing the old 60s folk classic, "Bridge Over Troubled Waters."

I sputtered out, "Dead guy... singing..."

"What are you talking about!" she exclaimed.

"P... P... P... Paul Simon... Senator... dead guy..." I stammered.

"Hon! That's not Senator Paul Simon. That's the SINGER Paul Simon," she huffed.

"D... D... Dead guy," I said pointing at the apparition on the screen, not shaken in my belief.

Fortunately, the horror was short-lived, and the mood was inspired with the soaring rhetoric of the former child actor from the late 70s sitcom, "Diff'rent Strokes."

"You know, he's a lot taller, and somewhat better looking, than he appeared on TV," I observed.

"Again," my wife said wearily, "what are you talking about?"

"Cory Bookman, that funny, little, black kid that was adopted by the rich, white dude," I tried to jog her memory.

"Sweetie, I love you dearly, but you're either going to drive me to drink, drive me to murder, or drive me home to mother. The child actor was Gary Coleman. After the TV show went off the air, he did a few guest appearances, then faded away. He had a rough life and died in his early 40s of natural causes. This is Cory Booker, the junior United States Senator from New Jersey. He's 47 years old, and he's a rising star in the Democratic Party."

"Well, whoever he is, I love him!" I said. "I actually would like to have his illegitimate political lovechild, but why isn't he the nominee?"

"Cuz Hillary wants her turn," my wife said in a snarky voice. "I was a faithful party girl, while that... upstart... got to live in MY house for the last eight years. I wanna be president now. You promised, and I'm going to hold my breath till everyone plays 'yes, madame president' with me."

"Okay, here come the heavy hitters anyway," I said.

The First Lady took the stage, and I was struck with her poise, her grace, her dignity, her bearing, her beauty. I must have been, because I don't remember much of the speech, except that she played the pride of country card, the pride of family card, and the pride of husband card. Spoken like a true doormat.

And forget about those pesky emails, stolen by those pesky Russians, and leaked by that pesky foreign guy who looks like Andy Warhol. I just don't want my mother, daughters, aunts, cousins, girlfriends, neighbors, and coworkers (okay, maybe some of my coworkers) to be repeatedly abused at the hands of Trump and his Mad Max hordes of slavering white male trash.

The smooth-as-silk finish was greeted with thunderous applause, as yet another Kennedy family scion (what would a Democratic Convention be without a token Kennedy?) introduced the next speaker - his former law professor, now US senator from Massachusetts, and our legislature's most outspoken crusader against Wall Street, Elizabeth Warren.

Yep, these were the  rock stars of the Democratic Party.

I said, "Hon, I keep hearing references about a glass seagull. Do you know what glass seagull they're talking about? Isn't there a big glass seagull outside the aquarium?"

"No, it's a bill regulating big banks and Wall Street. It expired in 1999. The Democrats want to bring it back, the Republicans don't."

Then, when I least expected it, Warren started talking about the TP and how it was on the floor. "Why's she talking about TP? If there's some on the floor, the janitor should clean it up. Oh, I get it. Asking the janitor might be offensive to the illegal immigrant community."

Finally the man himself took the stage. No, I don't mean Morgan Freeman. I mean Senator Bernie "Don't Start the Revolution Without Me" Sanders. Raucous (there's no other word for it) cheering engulfed the auditorium. The cameras panned in on young women, tears streaming down their cheeks as they beheld their savior - another Jewish guy. When Sanders whipped out a guitar, and I recognized the first few chords of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," I knew I'd come full circle.

I switched off the TV. "I know Trump is the Anti-Christ, but in terms of pure entertainment value, his reality show presidency would probably get higher ratings."

Shellie added, "And if the pesky US populace doesn't shape up, he'll simply turn to America and say, 'You're fired.'"

We settled down a bit, and Shellie said, "Before I turn off the light, do you have any last observations?"

"Well, I couldn't help but notice, Bill's looking pretty good. I think I'll apply for an internship."

Close Encounter of the Avian Kind

Ostriches are the largest living species of bird in the world, reaching from seven to nine feet in height. Females average about one-hundred-and-fifty pounds, while males can top the scales at over three hundred pounds. Ostriches are also the fastest birds on land, galloping at forty-five miles per hour.

Ostrich bills, like all bird beaks, are made of bone, covered by a layer of skin, which secretes a gooey protein, that hardens into the same substance as fingernails, animal hooves, and rhinoceros horn. Ostrich bills are flat and broad, with a rounded tip. The bill measures between four-and-a-half inches to five-and-a-half inches in length.

Although ostriches are primarily vegetarians, they eat small animals and insects. To help ingest these nutritious goodies, the inside of the bill has a set of very sharp teeth.

The old man had driven the station wagon cross country. We were spending the day at Lion Country Safari, on our way from our grandparents' apartment in LA to San Diego. My sisters were in the backseat, and Bunce and I were wedged in back with the luggage, up against the tailgate.

We slowly rolled through the savannah as a clip-on radio device narrated our tour. The namesake lions mostly slept in the scant shade of palm trees, flicking their ears and swishing their tails in an effort to shoo away the swarms of flies that surrounded them. Through the car windows, the animals seemed even more removed than at the zoo.

Still active though, was the flock of ostriches that surrounded our car and began to peck at the windows. The voice told us that ostriches liked watching themselves in the glass, and reminded us to keep the windows up at all times.

As the flock roamed around the car and stared in at me and Bunce, the old man thought it would be great fun to lower the tailgate window. Bunce and I pulled back, but were boxed in by the suitcases. The ostriches ventured their bald, gray heads into the aperture and began to peck at us.

The forays were tentative, not aggressive, but being prey animals, ostriches can be fierce fighters when cornered, kicking with their powerful legs, and attacking with their bills.

Ostrich eyes are said to be the largest of any land vertebrate. I looked into the black, two-inch diameter orbs, which helped them to see predators in the distance. I can tell you that up close and personal, these mean-looking cousins to the grilled boneless, skinless, chicken breast on your plate are scary.

The ostriches bumped us a few times on our arms and chests, but the gestures seemed playful, at least to them, and really didn't hurt.

Eventually they lost interest, as did the old man, who had been laughing like a baboon every time me and Bunce yelled for him to roll up the window.

Mankind never existed alongside the dinosaurs, but if they had, they couldn't have encountered a more prehistoric visage.

Meet Hot, Horny, Sex-Starved Politicians In Your Area

What happened to the good old days when my email spam folder was filled with offers to meet hot, horny, Russian virgins; hot, horny, sex-starved housewives; and hot, horny cougars in my area?

Now my spam folder is full of PR (public relations, not Puerto Ricans) from right-wing political action committees attacking Hillary; and left-wing political action committees attacking Trump. Now that stuff's obscene.

The First Storyteller

God puts his arm around Moses' shoulder. "Look, Moe, in the beginning I created the heaven and the earth. Are you getting this?"

Moses dutifully writes (or carves, or chisels, or whatever), In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. He looks up and says, "Wow God, that is the catchiest opening line ever written. If that doesn't hook 'em, nothing will."

God replies, "Moe, you think that's good, wait till I get to the part about a man and a woman walking around naked in a garden. You got a classic love triangle, a villain with pure symbolic power, a brutal murder, and countless generations of begetting."

Moses exclaims, "Good God, God. This will be a runaway best-seller."

God looks sad for a moment. "Actually, I'm working on a new book - it's a historical fiction kind of thing. Lots of swordplay, political intrigue, chariot races, and the ultimate sacrifice. I predict it will be the greatest story ever told."

Feel the Churn

Today is National Ice Cream Day. Which is actually sort of a let down because I thought EVERY day was National Ice Cream Day.

As Google points out, "National Ice Cream Day was designated to take place on the third Sunday in July by President Ronald Reagan in 1984. Many ice cream businesses and restaurants hold specials to observe the day."

I can eat as much ice cream as is placed in front of me. (As a diabetic, this may be a dubious distinction.) An ice cream shoppe monstrosity with ten scoops, a banana, pineapple, three different sauces, nuts, a mountain of whipped cream, and a maraschino cherry (where if you finish it, you get another one free), is no problem for me.

In fact, I have directed in my will that the following words be inscribed on my headstone:

Here Lies Steve

He Did Many Favors

But What Did Him In

Was Thirty-One Flavors

Ice cream refers to the hard-packed constellation of flavors available at grocery stores and retail outlets. Add to these choices the variety of toppings on the market and any gathering becomes an ice cream social.

Ice cream socials hearken back to a simpler time, when summer evenings centered around band concerts in the gazebo and picnic blankets spread out on the village green.

Ice cream takes the shape of floats, shakes, malts, cones, sundaes, parfaits, splits, cakes, pies and novelties. Purchase several flavors of syrups, chopped nuts, a can of crushed pineapple, whipped cream, which now comes in regular and chocolate, and a jar of Maraschino cherries.

And don't forget, for pure ice cream flavor, you can't beat homemade. Purchase any good hand-cranked or electric ice cream churn and follow manufacturers instructions and recipes. (If you remember hand-cranked churns, you'll get this. For many years, I avoided home made ice cream because the instructions called for 2 to 3 pounds of rock salt. Then I realized that the salt did not go in the ice cream.)

Ice cream, also, to mankind's great fortune, includes soft-serve. Or as I like to call it - ice cream that's had air pumped up its skirt. As a kid, I always much preferred our local soft-serve truck, for some reason named "Mr. Mustard," to the Good Humor man. Wahoo Bars just didn't do it for me.

When we bought a house, our sole criteria was it be located within 5 miles of the Dairy Joy restaurant. Dairy Joy is a local landmark, famous since the 1950s for their soft serve ice cream. My wife and I have been going there since we first started dating, and while they were growing up, we would often load our boys into the car for a drive out on a fine summer's evening.

Most recently we were there with our grandkids, and I got to watch the one-year-old take his first taste, smile from ear to ear, and open his mouth for more.

And as I get older, I see God's wisdom, in the fact that even if you lose all your teeth, you can still eat ice cream.

Never Fear, Morgan's Here

On the recommendation of my friend Cara, we rented the movie London Has Fallen this weekend.

The plot was simplistic and trite. They trotted out every cliche in the genre. The characters were shallow and one-dimensional, except for the venerable Morgan Freeman, who could have phoned his performance in. The one distinguishing acting job goes to the ruthless and diabolical (though disturbingly justified) villain, who seems to continually threaten the West by falling asleep. The outcome was predictable before the opening credits rolled.

The film used pyrotechnics as if they were going out of style. London Bridge falling down is the least of England's troubles. The over the top gun play bordered on parody, the star single-handedly dispatched two-hundred heavily armed mercenaries and terrorists (none of whom have apparently heard of Kevlar) in non-stop gun battles, knife fights, and hand-to-hand combat.

(Special note to movie thugs: You're never going to win if you can't hit the broad side of a barn while spraying automatic fire, and the hero makes head shots with every bullet.)

The standard car chase used the textbook action movie moves: power slides, reverse 180s, and driving backward, shooting automatic weapons, while hanging out the open doors. The film even managed to squeeze in the ubiquitous helicopter crash.

Essentially, London Has Fallen is an excuse for two hours of gratuitous violence.

We watched it twice, and enjoyed every minute of it. A must see for action fans.

Trailer: youtube.com/watch?v=o2I7QOnCP9o

I wish Pokémon would Go already!

A special shout-out to Portugal on their Euro 2016 Football Championship!

I Need To Make A Kwik Stop, Just In Casey's, and I'll Be In & Out

Happy National Convenience Store Day, July 11th - 7/11. We'll be celebrating with a dinner of super-sized slushies and microwave burritos, followed by a dessert of Twix candy bars in a Red Bull and coffee reduction.

We've rented a Ford pickup truck, so we can ride around town with the windows down while we eat. To enhance the theme, we listen to country radio, and throw empty beer cans out the windows (we save them all year for this occasion).

We made streamers out of losing Mega Millions tickets and crumpled receipts that have been stuffed in my wallet for the last two-and-a-half years to hang from the antenna.

One of my favorite traditions is parking in a secluded spot and asking my wife if I can have change for a dollar. She slides closer to me on the bench seat and says, "Not unless you buy something."

That's my cue to arch an eyebrow, and say in an East Indian accent, "Come again."

True Love

My wife and I have the perfect marriage. She thinks I'm the greatest guy in the world, and I think I'm the greatest guy in the world. A match made in heaven.

Colonel Go For Laugh, No Get

Well, all's well that ends well. Nearly a week into the month, we were finally able to get our new license plate sticker. We went to our small area DMV which was over-flowing with people there for the same reason. Everyone in line commiserated with each other as they griped about the Secretary of State not sending out renewal notices.

I rolled my way over to an officious looking civil servant, and motioned him to lean down so he could hear me above the din. "You've got a lot of disgruntled people here," I said.

"Sir," he replied, "I can't be responsible for anyone's gruntlement."

I nodded, and whispered conspiratorially, "I'll tell you what. If you think this crowd is about to get out of control, let me know so I can go out there and try to egg them on."

Neither the officious civil servant, the arresting officer, the booking sergeant, the state's attorney, nor the bond judge thought it was funny either.

The 5th of July

We had an excellent 4th of July. The first thing we did in the morning was trim the tree and open presents. We then went to our local pub and had a pint of Guinness and corned beef for brunch. Once we got home, we queued up our favorite 4th of July movie, The Ten Commandments. The film ended just in time for us to go trick or treating (although we didn't seem to get as much candy as last 4th). The festivities continued with a dinner of enchiladas and margaritas, which were topped off by a freshly baked pumpkin pie. Our celebration concluded with a glass of champagne at midnight.

Strangely, there was nothing in the news today about the apparent mortar exchange last night between our neighboring towns of Earlville and Sandwich. The shelling intensified at dusk, and ended abruptly at 10:00 when it sounded like they threw everything they had at each other. We could see the shell bursts and hear the reports from here. And I can't be sure, but I swear I heard Tchaikovsky floating on the breeze.

I can't wait for the next holiday, Labor Day, when we honor all the women giving birth.

Piotr Ilich Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture (Finale)

youtube.com/watch?v=u2W1Wi2U9sQ