It’s early morning. I awoke to find the first real snowfall of the year. I’ll have to put away the rake and get out the shovel. Of course, that process will have to be reversed in a day or two when the temperature here is in the 70s. I’m not complaining about the weather, it just caught me by surprise. The coffee is not even started. I have an indescribable feeling of uneasiness. I can’t decide what is causing it, so I’ll just find a proxy matter to get pissed off about and use it as a scapegoat for what probably is the result of the Thai hot peppers in last night’s stir-fry.

Here we go. I’m going to list some words and phrases that I really don’t ever want to hear again. Most, if not all, are relatively new to the lexicon, but all have crept into usage since I learned to speak. I hate these words and phrases, and will continue, as best I can, to avoid their use and to chastise those who use them in my presence. I present them not in any particular order, but I admit that those at the top of the list must be the most annoying to me or they wouldn’t come to mind so quickly:

1) Empower – I absolutely despise this word. Every damned thing in the world now empowers every somebody to do something. I think Oprah started this one, since most of her guests are empowering someone to do something or other. If you ever say empower in my presence, it’s likely that I will feel empowered to bite your head off of your shoulders, leaving your neck empowered to find a new purpose in life.
2) Tarmac – I think this one came up when some airliner was hijacked somewhere in the Middle East in the 1980s. What used to be a “runway” suddenly became a tarmac because some self-worshipping journalist decided to try to sound more worldly, empowering the onrush of lemmings to charge down the tarmac after him and jump into the sea.
3) 24/7 – I absolutely despise 24/7. What used to be “always” is now 24/7. What used to be “conscientious dedication” is now working 24/7. What used to be “vigilance” is now being alert 24/7. I hate this phrase at any time of day or night, in any month, in any year. Always. I suppose that means that I hate this phrase 24/7. So be it.
4) Joe Six-Pack - Who is this asshole anyway? From what I gather, the beer-guzzling, recliner-sitting, TV-watching, no-reading, no-thinking, brain-atrophied moron who lived next door and beat his wife on an at least weekly basis is suddenly an American hero. Now what used to be a person whom your parents tried to ensure you never became is a cultural icon who is placed on a pedestal, asked his opinion, and catered to by anyone seeking public office. Thank you, Television. Thank you, Madison Avenue. Just keep this Neanderthal idiot away from me and don’t mention his name in my presence.
5) Baby Bump – This is a recent one, and I guess the only reason I even know of it is that I still use AOL for my e-mail address (refer to a previous post). In order to do that, one must go to the AOL home page to access the mail. There, among other inanities, one will find a woman’s pregnant  body being described as having a baby bump, as in “Is J-Lo putting on weight or is she sporting another baby bump?” Of all the juvenile, tee-hee-pee-pee-doo-doo-humor phrases inspired by the current downward spiral of the collective national intellect, none goes to the point of embodying this sad phenomenon like baby bump. It’s really close to being a guaranteed verbal emetic.
6) Family values – Whose family? What values? This one really gets my blood boiling, because it is code for blind compliance masquerading as a worthy aspiration. There are a myriad of cultures in this world, a 10,000-year history of human genetic and cultural evolution, and yet some American dufus decided that his political and social agenda are so perfect and correct that he simply had to give them a label and use them as a club to beat down any dissenting opinions and lifestyles. The redeeming aspect of the emergence of this phrase is that most people (usually pandering politicians) who use it to garner admiration have lives and histories that are antithetical to its very definition. Once again, American exceptionalism rears its stupid head with pride.
7a) Wall Street/Main Street – It’s hard to pin the blame for this on anyone in particular, because everyone is using it. It is universal to the entire political spectrum. From the neo-Nazis to the Commie pinkos and everyone in between who seeks public office or supports someone who does, all are concerned with the attention paid to Wall Street at the expense of compassion for Main Street. I suppose the first time the phrase was uttered, the soul who conceived it was justifiably proud of his or her cleverness. It is rather memorable on first hearing and I don’t really object to the idea of juxtaposing two existing terms to illustrate a polarization that has recently become so apparent. It’s just that now it seems that as soon as a politician sees a microphone, Wall Street/Main Street comes bellowing forth from his mouth, accompanied by a look of self-satisfaction, as if he had just conceived the paradox himself. How about Wall Street/Pulaski Boulevard? 7b) Energizing the base – Look, this is brand new. It is a term usually referring to Mrs. Moose. I know what they mean by it, but that still leaves the question: WHAT IN THE HELL DOES IT REALLY MEAN?!?! Let me take a stab at it. It means that you have a bunch of disgruntled, self-righteous religious zealots who don’t like your political candidate because he doesn’t toe the sacred party line, so you bring in some Gucci-accessorized, Maybelline-caked airheaded bimbo from the Yukon who says the right idiotic things in the properly codified speech patterns. That way, all the “Christian” demagogues can feel temporarily reassured that nobody will have an abortion, thus guaranteeing ongoing reproduction of fresh eighteen-year-old bodies to sacrifice in future overseas “freedom operations” to ensure American consumers a steady supply of Chinese crap delivered using cheap foreign fuel purchased with the blood of innocents. ENERGIZE THIS HERE!!

I feel much better now. I’m ready for some morning coffee. The bile has receded after raging through its appropriate ducts, and my personal substitute for Transcendental Meditation has had its intended soothing effect. Hey, the snow that was just minutes ago an impediment is now beautiful as it clings to the tree branches and frosts the mountains. One more thing. If you run into me anytime, 24/7, whether I’m on the tarmac or on Main Street, whether I’m alone or walking with Joe Six Pack, and I use one of these phrases, I would like you to feel empowered to (as Darnell would say) go opside my head with your family values and energize my base. Even if it does leave a baby bump. Ugh.

My father, Martin Sajdak, will celebrate his 96th birthday just over a day from now, on October 19. That’s right, 96. He has some of the usual health problems that seniors have, like aching joints, a little heart trouble, and an occasional bout of memory lapse (like son, like father). All in all though, he is in incredible shape. He’s lucid, mobile, interesting, interested and vital. He is online, very concerned and informed about the upcoming election and always ready for a good game of cribbage or a good healthy argument about politics. He and his youthful bride, my mother Dorothy, who turned 86 this past spring (yeah, Marty likes ‘em young), have shared 66 years together. They claim that their endurance and longevity is the result of abundant love, clean living, and moderation in all things. I can’t argue. They’ve raised three children (I’m the youngest), and have a total of seven grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren.

Marty was born in 1912, just 6 years after the Wright Brothers’ flight. To give you some idea of what has transpired in the time since his birth, I will list some things that did not exist when Marty was born, things that he has seen developed in his lifetime: commercial aviation, jet propulsion, many, if not most surgical procedures, organ transplants, artificial Hearts, artificial sweeteners, fat-free anything, black and white as well as color television, main-frame computers, personal computers, reel-to-reel tape decks, hi-fidelity audio, stereophonic sound, 45s, LPs, cassette tapes, CDs, DVDs, video recorders, video players, digital electronics, digital cameras, digital sound and video recording, rocket ships, space travel, moon landings, satellites, the Hubble telescope, instant communication, LEDs, cordless telephones, cell phones, DAT recorders, voting machines, carpet cleaners, headphones, all the advances in automobiles, phone message machines, copiers, scanners, microchips, micro technology of any kind, wind turbines, plastic of all kinds, super tankers, Super Bowls, nuclear energy, nuclear bombs, electric refrigerators, washing machines and dryers, hair dryers, butane lighters, solar panels, fluorescent lighting, e-mail, amplifiers, electric musical instruments, exercise machines, hot tubs, blenders, mixers, MRIs, CAT scans, laser beams, ultra sound, bullet trains, SSTs, the NFL, electronic scoreboards, designated hitters, designated drivers, ultra-suede, Ultra Slim, Hostess Ho-Hos, and the Home Shopping Network. That is a very incomplete and poorly organized list, off the top of my head. I’m sure there are many things I’ve omitted. If anyone can think of more, please list them in a comment.

Here’s the point: I am in total awe, both of my father and of the resiliency and flexibility of the human mind and spirit. How else could a person adjust to so many changes and still remain relevant and timely in this world? I believe time is an illusion anyway, that everything is happening at the same time but our limited human faculties simply aren’t capable or developed enough to truly perceive this. It’s just something to wonder about and something to wonder at.

All that aside, here’s the real point. Happy Birthday, Dad.  Give him a big kiss from all of us, Mom. We all love you and are grateful for what you have given us and for the fact that you are both still with us. It’s been a long ride, and you have steered the vehicle well. The love you two have poured forth has generated more human beings and even more love. It’s all a damned miracle. May all of our lives be as magnificent and productive as both of yours have been.

We have since 9/11 dutifully waged what we have termed a “War on Terror”. Prompted by the shocking events in New York in 2001, we have thrown massive resources at a unified effort to eliminate the possibility of repeat attacks against our nation. While there have been divergent opinions on the implications of implementing some of these policies, I doubt that anyone would dispute the need for a response of some kind.

There have been various components to our national program: overseas military engagement, domestic surveillance, homeland security measures, etc. On the surface, the collective response appears to be comprehensive. However, I reluctantly must raise the specter of a threat which I feel has been ignored. This policy component must be addressed by whomever is the next occupant of the White House. I am speaking about donuts.

Donuts, or the more grammatically correct doughnuts, represent a substantial portion of America’s morning menu. From the carts that wheel the deep-fried delights to our office workers, to the drive-through windows at the donut chains throughout our urban areas, there is no escaping the presence of these peripatetic pastries. The engine of national industry is literally jump-started by the carbohydrates contained in this curious centerless circle we call the donut. But what used to be a homegrown production apparatus has been gradually ceded to a group from what may be one of our most insidious enemies: Pakistan.

I am not one to embrace racial profiling, but the facts speak for themselves. When was the last time you ordered a glazed raised or a blueberry cake donut from someone who didn’t greet you with “Gooed mordning, sewer!” ? I am not suggesting that every Dunkin Donut owner/operator is a national security threat, but why let down our guard when dealing with a people who have pursued donut shop franchises as vigorously as they have pursued nuclear weapons?

Why should we dunkers worry about a largely hypothetical threat to our nation’s safety? In addition to the national health concerns swirling around in a bubbling pool of hydrogenated fats, there is a much more sinister issue to confront. While they may be aggressively pursuing the American dream, the foreign nationals that now dominate the donut disbursement industry most likely maintain an umbilical connection to their native land. In a time of crisis, their nationalistic tendencies could cause them to align with their Asian homeland’s political agenda. One well-placed secret phone call from an operative in Islamabad could result in the sudden and immediate closure of every donut retailer in America. The subsequent donut dearth would almost certainly bring law enforcement to its knees. Imagine armies of urban policemen holding steaming cups of coffee in one hand while their other hand is effectively emptied. At a time when we need a two-fisted approach to maintaining order in our cities, this is a frightening scenario.

I urge you to call your representatives and demand that they immediately oversee an increase in security and attention to the true “Dirty Dozens.” While we concentrate all of our efforts in preventing nuclear weapons from slipping into the hands of terrorists, we lay open to vulnerability the soft, jelly-filled underbelly of our great Republic.

Glasses and lipstick
Adorn the well-armed maiden
Creme rinse clogs her brain

I found an interesting story yesterday. It concerns a campaign stop made by the Republican candidate for the White House, John McCain. At a stump stop (gee, that sounds like a job for Joe the Plumber) in rural Colorado, a man stopped the senator in the street and asked him a direct question. The man identified himself as Ken Wiczenhucznerski, a musician and resident of the area. His question to Mr. McCain was this: “I am a musician, and I’m thinking about buying a van to travel to gigs I plan on getting. What are your economic policies going to do for me if I pursue my dream?” Mr. McCain’s reply, and I quote, was this: “Well, you know that under my plan, if you earn more than $21,000 a year from these gigs, you would have to pay 15% of your actual take to an agent, as well as an extra 3% to the Musician’s Union, not to mention your share of FICA and self-employment taxes. I would strongly urge you to forget about the gigs and get a real job. In this new economic era, we need to spread the gigs around.”

I’m no economist, nor am I a particularly astute political pundit, but Mr. McCain’s response rings hollow to me. My friends, I don’t think America became the great nation it is by musicians getting “real jobs” and by the “spreading the gigs around” style of governance. America became a great nation because it created new gigs and continued to allow existing musicians to pursue the slothful and self-indulgent lifestyles to which they had become accustomed. The proliferation of traveling musicians and gigs in the post-Beatles era gave rise to whole new sectors of the American economy, for example, the fan magazine trades as well as the rehabilitation industry. David Crosby alone has been responsible for creating more than 987 job opportunities during his ongoing musical career, including 58 positions at three new detox centers, not to mention the resultant expansion of the National Liver Council. With the possible exception of Betty Ford, no single celebrity did more to bring the term “rehab” into the lexicon and to convince fellow troubadours that they needed the services of the subsequently burgeoning field.

Having traveled with a few bands myself in the 70s and 80s, I can tell you that the excesses and abuses which have been the modus operandi for “gigging” performers have resulted in opportunities not only in the obvious fields of musical instrument, amplifier, and microphone stand production, but in the seemingly unrelated fields of herbal farming, food production and preparation, spirit distillery, and pizza delivery. Already established corporations found that musicians’ demands gave birth to whole new divisions of their companies, for example, Ford Motor Company’s hugely successful and profitable Econoline Van assembly plants.

I personally resent the suggestion that if musicians “get a real job” they can help an industry already plagued by massive nightclub closures and under-sponsored festivals. If anything, such a policy would serve to deter seasoned traveling musicians from pursuing the Great American Pipe Dream, while at the same time encouraging more locally-based ego-deluded dilettantes, convinced that their “art” had merit and purpose. That, my friends, is nothing short of socialism.

Editor’s Note: A follow-up of the “Ken the Musician” story revealed that Mr. Wiczenhucznerski not only has not procured or performed at a gig in more than eight months, but he has also neglected to pay his union dues for more than six years.

While minding my own business (barely), I came across this link, which you’ll need to copy and paste:

It is a short video clip featuring a farmer in Ohio who recently carved out a maze in his cornfield which presents an image of Sarah Palin when viewed from above. When informed about this work of election-year art, Governor Palin took some time off from helping her running mate fold up shop in nearby Michigan and helicoptered to the farm where this a-maize-ing creation was stirring both curiosity and controversy.

What began as an unannounced side-trip took a turn for the bizarre when the governor suddenly began firing a high-powered rifle from the hovering aircraft. Apparently, Ms. Palin mistook a herd of cows in the field below for Arctic wolves and busted a cap in several bovine butts before her handlers could inform her of her error. When the owner of the cattle objected in an angry phone call to the Lucas County Republican headquarters, the governor sent an apology and arranged for the farmer to receive several moose hides and a case of Klondike Bars as compensation for his loss. The Alaskan governor was quoted as remarking to the local news channel reporter on the scene, “Golly,  ya know when ya see those darn cows from above, it’s kinda hard ta tell exackly what in the heck they are! I did notice they were movin’ kinda slow, though, don’tcha know.” The Ohio GOP has also agreed to purchase the beef from the cattle carcasses at current market prices, after which it will be held for a McCain/Palin barbecue/tailgate party/campaign rally preceding the October 13 Monday night football game between the Cleveland Browns and New York Giants.

Reaction from the Obama camp was swift. The Democratic candidate denounced the incident and asserted that the farmer should have been notified about Governor Palin’s impending visit. When questioned about the shooting and his opponent’s comments, Senator McCain praised his running mate’s marksmanship and added with more than a hint of condescension, “You don’t tell people in advansh that you’re going to crossh a shtate border and raid their liveshtock, you jusht do it and let the cowchipsh fall where they may. My opponent shtill doeshn’t sheem to undershtand that.”

A brand new branch of science:

Palintology - The study of the dynamic interaction between dinosaurs and their human neighbors some 10,000 years ago.

I saw Joe Six-Pack yesterday, standing and staring at a TV in an appliance store window. I think it must have been TV Land he was watching because they were airing a rerun of Maverick. He was waiting for his wife, Fannie, who was supposed to pick up the kids from soccer practice before she came for him. She was running a little late because she first had to get the van from the family mechanic. They were having car trouble and the mechanic had told her that in spite of their Toyota economy van’s engine being fundamentally strong, a gasket was leaking and the cooling system was taking on big oil.  She decided that she would get another opinion, as there had lately been a surge of complaints about this particular garage. Joe normally handled all car related matters, but his wife was a strong woman and he had virtually no experience in dealing with foreign cars.

I had driven downtown on some business and had parked my car at a meter on Main Street. I reached into my pocket and discovered that all I had was a commemorative coin, which was of no use in the meter. I approached Joe and asked him for some real change. Joe told me he would like to help me, but he had a special interest in keeping every dime he had in his pocket. He said his family was having something of a financial crisis, and all the money he had with him he had earmarked for the pork that he was going to buy for dinner when he stopped at the open market with his wife on the way home.

I have known Joe and Fannie for years, and my son is a good friend of their son, Freddy. As a result, I knew their family values the chance to help out a neighbor in need. When Joe explained why he refused to help me, I questioned his judgment. I told him that if his family was having money trouble, he should reconsider the idea of buying meat for dinner, as it has become so expensive. He sheepishly agreed, and finally gave me some change for the meter. He just shrugged his shoulders and mused, “Now Fannie may have to make Freddy mac’n'cheese for dinner instead.”  I was very grateful that Joe bailed me out of my predicament. I thanked him and reminded him of our plan to meet and go fishing next month with our good buddy, Stanley Stremplewski. I waved goodbye and told him I would see him at the Pole’s in November.

Damn! All these years I thought Fannie Mae was a candy company and Freddie Mac was Jimmy’s brother. Live and learn.