America – Life In A Word

Fill ‘er Up

Several years ago at a banquet, I stood at the podium to introduce the evening’s guest speaker. After sharing some of her background and accomplishments, I went with the expected, “So without further ado, please welcome”…, and then I paused. And paused some more. I’d forgotten the speaker’s name. The silence, as the saying goes, was deafening. Eventually I found her name in my notes, but not without an uncomfortable gap in my speech. Perhaps a filler word would’ve smoothed things over.

Do you use filler words? Actually, let’s make that question a statement. You use filler words. Every now and then in conversation you’ll throw in the occasional “uh”, “like”, or “so”. Filler words do exactly what their label implies: they fill up the awkward gap of silence created by a pause. Every one of us can recall an experience where we’ve left out filler words in a vain attempt to keep the polish on our speech, but it’s a no-win situation. If you go with the pause your audience looks at each other with one of those Is he okay? glances. If you go with a filler word you’re hinting you’re not completely on top of your material.

The parade of filler words is much longer than the commoners I mentioned above. The filler “uh” comes from its own family, including “um”, “oh”, “er”, and “ah”; tiny signs of reluctance to say whatever comes next. And speaking of next, how about “very”, “really”, and “highly”? These three are fillers disguised as words of emphasis, but are usually superfluous. Then we have “You know…” and “You see…”, which seem to politely draw the listener into the conversation. But sorry, they’re also fillers, allowing a pause at the start of a thought. Finally (as if there’s an end to this parade), let’s add “I guess” and “I suppose”, both designed to soften a response when what you should go with instead is a confident “yes” or “no”.

I deliberately skipped one filler here because it deserves it’s own parade. “Like” sprinted to front and center of casual English in the last couple of generations, taking up a lot of the spaces “uh” and his pals used to fill. Some people use “like” so often it starts to feel like every other word they’re saying. But make no mistake – every “like” is simply a mini-pause to allow the speaker to reboot their thoughts.

Watch out, because filler words can be contagious. I used to work for a company where it seemed every one of my teammates couldn’t start a sentence without the word “So”. Somehow “so” sounds a little smoother than “uh” but it’s basically the same filler. Before I knew it I caught myself also using “so”, as if it was the only way to start a sentence. And “so” has a built-in bonus: you can drag it out for drama. So-o-o-o-o…

Filler words somehow sound better with a foreign accent. The Irish “um” sounds like the more pleasing ehm. Even throwing in a bunch of “you knows” in the Irish accent seems to work. And speaking of accents, Hollywood (or maybe just Los Angeles) brought us Valley Girl talk, which includes a weird form of attitude along with its own set of meaningless filler words like “totally”, “whatever”, and “as if” (think Cher from Clueless). Valley Girl talk has had a remarkable run considering it roots were in the 1980s. You still hear the words today.

The next time you call out a friend with Hello? Is anybody home? for not paying attention, consider perhaps they’re trying to avoid filler words by simply not saying anything. That’s harder to do than it sounds. Try speaking for a few minutes without filler words. It’s so difficult it’s birthed a string of funny videos on TikTok. As for me, I’ll keep using my fillers wherever I need them. Especially when I forget the name of a guest speaker.

Some content sourced from the CNN Health article, “Should you stop saying ‘um’? Here’s what the experts said”.

Swimming Upstream

I can think of a dozen name brands I gotten hooked on for years, only to see them suddenly disappear from the shelves, never to return. Breakfast cereals. Hair spray. Cars. And what do we do when this happens? Simply find another brand and get used to it – easy-peasy. But when your streaming television service drops an essential channel, you can’t just jump to the next provider. Try that and you’ll hit your head on the cage they have you securely locked into.

Even if you’re not a sports fan, you’re probably tuned into my topic today. YouTube TV – which provides me the five channels of streaming television I care about (and 95 forgettable others), dropped ESPN from its lineup. It wasn’t like they warned us months ago they were renegotiating with Disney (ESPN’s parent), and that these talks weren’t going so well. Instead they alerted us last Thursday just before midnight – with an email coyly titled “An update on our partnership with Disney”. Then, the following morning, ESPN was gone. On Halloween. How fitting.

Without going into the weeds on why ESPN was dropped, let’s just call it the proverbial contract dispute. Disney wants one number. YouTube TV wants another. A stalemate akin to what we’re seeing in Washington right now. Yes, what D.C. is blocking is so much more important than a television sports channel. But when you’re a die-hard college football fan you can relate to losing an “essential service”.

Getting my ESPN back is not like choosing another breakfast cereal. If only it were that easy. Instead, we have to shift to an entirely different grocery aisle. Make that an entirely different supermarket. As soon as YouTube TV dropped ESPN, Disney was only too happy to promote its own streaming service. Sign up for Disney+, including ESPN and Hulu!!! Only $29.95 per month – a savings of $5/month!!! Only twelve months of subscription required!!!

All those exclamation points are a ruse, as if this is a service I can’t live without. Disney Channel? Not my thing. Hulu? I’m already getting enough entertainment on Netflix. I just want ESPN please. And apparently I should be happy to pay a minimum of $360 for it, in addition to my monthly $80 for YouTube TV.

Bless our tech-savvy children. We turn to them for all things electronic. I checked in with one of my sons – who is every bit the college football fanatic I am – and he came to my rescue. Fubo – a streaming service looking like a twin to YouTube TV – offers a free one-week trial that includes ESPN. It’s kind of like Congress signing a stopgap spending bill to keep the government open. Now I have another seven days to figure out what to do.

YouTube TV promises a credit if the lack of negotiations with Disney continues long enough (sorry, the same does not apply to our government). But I can’t necessarily wait for that credit. In one week I’ve got to decide if I’m a YouTube TV guy or a Fubo one. Can’t have both (at least, according to my budget).

Of course, it feels almost inevitable that Fubo will run into a contract dispute with Disney as well. So even if I go that route I could lose ESPN again. Maybe I’m getting forced into a Disney+ subscription after all? But another $360/year? No way. I’d sooner get on a plane and go watch my college football games in person. Er, assuming the FAA doesn’t cancel my flights. Swimming upstream indeed. Sigh…

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LEGO Trevi Fountain – Update #3

(Read about the start of this build in Brick Wall Waterfall)

We resumed our fountain build this week with more confidence than the last, accompanied by the merriment of Paganini’s Violin Concerto No. 1. Bags 6 and 7 – of 15 bags of pieces – were filled with tiny, tiny finger-numbing LEGOs, and at times I wondered just what the heck I was putting together. Didn’t look like the makings of a fountain to me.

According to LEGO, water is white and blue. I suppose the white is meant to be rushing water (as in “waterfall”) while the blue is calm water (as in “pool”). We shall see. But check out the look of the fountain in the final photo. Anyone else see a monster’s mouth with white teeth?

Since this is my fifth LEGO model, it’s high time I make the following proclamation: LEGO never leaves out a piece. Never. I still have moments where I’m searching through a pile of pieces in vain for the one I need. I almost get to the feeling of “it’s not here”. But suddenly there the little guy is, staring up at me as if to say, “What took you so long?” Some day I’d love to see how LEGO pulls this off. Thousands of pieces in every box, not a single one of them left out. That’s some logistical magic going on there.

I’m proud to say I made zero mistakes on the build this time around, a dramatic improvement from a week ago. Okay, that’s not entirely accurate. I left a piece off the back of the fountain, but immediately discovered my error when I added a section and realized there was nothing to support it. Fixed in a jiffy, but the merry instruments on Paganini’s violin concerto sounded even more gleeful as they saw my confidence take a hit.

Running build time: 2 hrs. 27 min.

Total leftover pieces: 13

Horses on Circular Courses

In 1972, Billy Preston topped the Billboard Hot 100 chart with the catchy “Will It Go Round In Circles”. A year later, The Spinners spent five weeks at #1 on Billboard’s R&B chart with “I’ll Be Around”. More recently, Kacey Musgraves’ debut single “Merry Go ‘Round” won the Grammy Award for Best Country Song. All of which is to say, if I’m asked to celebrate “National Carousel Day” I have a great choice of theme songs for the occasion… played on endless loop, of course.

National Merry-Go-Round Day (I prefer “Carousel”) was this past July 25th, as it has been every year since 2014. Did you skip it like I did? The holiday claims to “celebrate the carousel’s history and joy, particularly marking the first U.S. patent by William Schneider in 1871.” And to celebrate, we’re meant to visit a local carousel, go for a spin, and post pictures of ourselves doing so online. So we drop everything we’re doing on July 25th and climb on a wooden horse? National M-G-R Day doesn’t even rate as a Hallmark holiday (and don’t waste your time trying to find a card to prove me wrong).

Contrary to my opinion about M-G-R Day, I think carousels are charming and a bit of innocent fun (other than those brass rings, which we’ll get to in a second). Carousels inspired memorable scenes in Mary Poppins and Big. Carousel was the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical that Time magazine deemed “the best of the 20th century”. The “Carousel of Progress” was (and still is) one of the more unique attractions at Disneyland. And of course, carousels led to those pipe and metal spinners we all played on at the park when we were kids.

Carousel is derived from the French word for “little battle”, which hints at why we’re riding them at all today. In 17th century Europe, equestrian tournaments included “ring jousting”, where the rider attempts to spear a ring-on-a-string with his joust as he flies by. To practice this sport without wearing out the horses, a clever soul invented the carousel, complete with wooden horses on poles and a real horse to pull the device in circles. Eventually carousels made their way into carnivals, and then to the prominent locations where you find them today.

Now you also understand why early carousels had ring dispensers. They were a nod to ring jousting! The dispensers were filled with iron rings along with a few brass ones. If you were lucky enough to ride an outside horse and grab a brass ring (which is harder than it sounds as your horse goes up and down), you could exchange the ring for a prize or another loop on the carousel. For good reasons – safety being one – ring dispensers have been removed from most carousels today.

The people who came up with National M-G-R Day should’ve probably gone with “International”, because many of the world’s most distinguished carousels spin outside of the United States. The Carousel El Dorado in Tokyo, Japan, built in 1907, is the oldest amusement park ride still in operation in the country. The Lakeside Park Carousel in Ontario, Canada (1905) includes a self-playing organ that uses rolled sheets of music, rewinding one while playing the next. The Letná Carousel in Prague, Czechia (1892!) is one of the oldest in Europe, remodeled in 2022 but still housed in its original wooden pavilion.

America has its share of prominent “gallopers” as well. The Looff Carousel in Santa Cruz, CA is one of the few remaining with a ring dispenser, and entertains with the music of three organs. The Over-The-Jumps Carousel in Little Rock, AR (1924) simulates the natural movement of a horse instead of just going up and down on a pole. And the Flying Horse Carousel in Westerly, Rhode Island (1876!) is exactly as advertised. The horses are attached to the center spindle instead of the wooden platform, creating a better sensation of flying through the air.

Okay, I have a confession. I had the perfect opportunity to celebrate National M-G-R Day just days after it happened this year. My wife and I traveled to San Diego with our children and grandchildren for a beach vacation and found ourselves in Balboa Park, home of the Dorothea Laub Carousel (brass ring dispenser!) If we hadn’t already worn out the little ones on a long walk through the Japanese Friendship Garden we might’ve made it to the wooden horses. But I’m not losing sleep about it. After all, National M-G-R Day will come ’round again next year.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Ellen Makes Her Move

When we moved into our current house (and even the one before it), we made the classic mistake of saying, “We’re never moving again”. After all, picking up and going from one place to the next can be a real pain in the you-know-what, especially with pets and vehicles to relocate on top of the furniture and clothes. But at least we’re only talking about moving houses. What if you had to move an entire town?

If you live in an RV or a tiny home, you’d think nothing of pulling up stakes and going somewhere else. You have the wheels or the flatbed to make it happen. But moving an entire town means a population of people and a collection of structures. it sounds like something that could only happen on a Hollywood movie set. Unless you’re the U.S. government with its sights set on Ellenton, South Carolina.

Ellenton first appeared on a map the way a lot of small towns did back in the day. The railroad was interested in running new tracks through the farms of the area and a deal was made to acquire the land, including a plot for the train station. In Ellenton’s case, the railroad developer was smitten with the primary landowner’s daughter (Ellen). The relationship never blossomed but he did name the budding town after her. Thus we have “Ellen’s Town”, shortened to “Ellenton”.

Ellenton grew quickly in the late 1800s, from a host of agricultural productions to a working, living community of 600 residents. Eventually you’d find churches, schools, a post office, a general store, a dairy, and even a milling company and a cotton gin. But what nobody saw coming was the potential of the area for the construction of a massive facility know as the Savannah River Site (SRS). In the 1950’s in Cold War America, the U.S. government decided Ellenton and its surrounds were the perfect riverside location for plutonium and tritium production, for the development of the hydrogen bomb. Ellenton “won the lottery” over a hundred other locations.

I can’t imagine sitting in Ellenton’s town hall back when the announcement was made. Someone who drew a very short straw had to stand in front of the residents and say, “Sorry folks, we’re going to tear down your town so we need you to find somewhere else to live”. Then the government wrote checks for the properties and businesses and simply walked away. Eminent domain in capital letters.

I’ll admit I thought the government really did move Ellenton to another location. I pictured a cartoon image of the world’s largest spatula, sliding under Ellenton’s streets and buildings like an entire sheet cake, then dropping the whole mess several miles away. But I really thought the government moved Ellenton because we live right down the street from a town called New Ellenton. Turns out, New Ellenton is simply where a good chunk of the original residents chose to call home. The government had nothing to do with it.

Maybe the government didn’t move the living but the law required they move the dead. By the time Ellenton and several other small towns were acquired and shut down, the SRS property encompassed 310 square miles. That meant the relocation of 130 cemeteries, amounting to over 6,000 grave sites. They didn’t get every last one, so it’s fair to say old Ellenton still has a few residents.

The black-and-white photos I share here – from the Ellenton website – give the town a charming, old-timey feel. The few residents alive today hold reunions to share the memories of a place they can no longer see or even visit. Some of Ellenton’s stories make it sound very cozy. I wish I could say the same about New Ellenton, which is nothing more than a couple miles of highway with gas stations and bars scattered on either side. Frankly, the only reason you drive through New Ellenton is because you’re on your way to somewhere else.

I wouldn’t be nostalgic for Ellenton if the government didn’t make it disappear. Kind of reminds me of Brigadoon, the Scottish village that magically appeared out of the mist every hundred years. Maybe Ellenton will appear out of a nuclear winter on the hundredth anniversary of it’s own demise. In the meantime, a songwriter captured the story of the town in a rather sad ballad. “The Death of Ellenton” was never a big hit, but the town it celebrates sure took one.

Some content sourced from the WJBF website article, “Hometown History: The Forgotten Town of Ellenton”; the Ellenton SC website (including all photographs); and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Only In Iowa

If you’ve ever made graham crackers from scratch (which are miles better than the store-bought ones), there’s a step in the recipe where you have to get your hands dirty. Take a stick of butter, cut it into very small pieces, dump the pieces into the mixture of dry ingredients, and dive on in with your fingers until the dough starts to clump together. It may be the only time butter and my hands ever come in contact with each other. Which is also to say, I won’t be sculpting a butter cow any time soon.

Creating art out of food seems like an inevitable destination. I mean, back in Michelangelo’s day everyone was taking a block of marble and seeing what they could do with it. Then all but one of them quickly realized there was only one Michelangelo. The others probably turned to an easier material to work with like wood or clay. 1,000 years on, we’re sculpting food. Chocolate is a popular medium. Cakes are shaped into just about everything imaginable. But a cow made out of butter – what’s that all about?

We turn to Iowa to learn more about this oddity. Most people prefer to fly over Iowa but since you’re reading and not flying, let me enlighten you. On the list of 10 Things to Know About Iowa, there is no butter and there is no cow. There are a lot of pigs (the most of any state) and millions of acres of corn (also “the most”), and Iowa’s “Hawkeye” nickname is a reference to the birth of the red delicious apple (who knew?). But none of this gets us to butter and cows.

The “10 Things…” list does mention the Iowa State Fair, and it is here that we find real cows by the hundreds… and a life-sized one made out of butter. The Fair, whose 2025 edition wrapped up three weeks ago, has been making “buttered cows” since 1911, thanks to five Iowans who’ve passed the butter baton down over the years. The latest, Sarah Pratt, has been making the cows for the last nineteen years, and only after apprenticing with the last sculptor fifteen years before that. Some people blog; others make cows out of butter.

Like papier-mâché, a butter cow is created on top of a frame built from wood, wire, and/or metal. Then we heap on some fun statistics. 600 lbs. of “low moisture, pure cream, Iowa butter” is applied to create a cow that’s five-and-a-half feet tall and eight feet long. The sculptor’s “studio” is a walk-in cooler set to 40ºF. After the cow is displayed at the fair, all that butter is recycled for use on the next ten years of cows. Unless you’d rather use it for toast, which would butter 19,200 slices.

Michelangelo didn’t stop sculpting after his famous David, of course, and neither does Sarah Pratt with her butter cows. Also following tradition, she creates a “companion sculpture” to keep the cow company. Sometimes the companion is an homage to Iowa, such as a John Deere tractor. Most years the companion is a random anniversary, like the 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon (totally random because Neil wasn’t born in Iowa). This year the sculpture featured the characters from “Toy Story”, denoting the movie’s 30th anniversary. You get the feeling Sarah enjoys sculpting butter so much that a life-sized cow just isn’t enough.

For all of my research, I can’t figure out why a cow made out of butter and Iowa belong in the same sentence. Nearby Wisconsin and Michigan are better known for dairy cows. California tops the list of the five states producing the most butter (and Iowa isn’t one of the other four). No matter, this tradition isn’t stopping anytime soon. The butter cow even has a place in the Smithsonian Institution (thankfully, as a replica that will never melt).

I love butter, but more on top of baked goods and in graham cracker recipes than in the shape of a cow. I will admit to buying my butter by the brick instead of by the stick. But now that I know about Iowa’s annual creations, I’ll never look at my morning toast again without thinking, mooooooooo.

Some content sourced from the Iowa State Fair website, the U.S. News article, “10 Things to Know About Iowa”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Ten Days to “Ben-Yays”

I’ve never met a French baked good I didn’t want to devour at first sight. Macarons have called my name ever since my wife and I tried them in a little shop in Strasbourg. I’ve made a surprisingly good Croquet Madame (disguised as a three-cheese breakfast pizza) considering my limited skills in the kitchen. And croissants, well, croissants speak for themselves don’t they? So when a neighbor challenged my wife and I to make beignets ten days ago, I confidently replied, “oui!”

Technically we’re not talking about a baked good today. Beignets are fried in oil, like doughnuts. In fact, they’re exactly like sugar doughnuts, just not as sweet. Think Krispy Kreme’s Original Glazed without the glaze. Small, chewy pillows of heaven.

So why would a neighbor request beignets? Because she invited us to a college football game watch (Clemson vs. Louisiana State) and she’s one of those who turns a basic entertainment into a full-on festivity. Louisiana State is in Baton Rouge so her menu was start-to-finish Cajun. Étouffée. Muffuletta. Red Beans and Rice. Chantilly Cake. I mean, if she’s going to make all of that how could I say non to beignets?

Thankfully, I found an “Easy Beignets Recipe” online (note: whenever a recipe starts with “easy”, it’s anything but). At least I already had the ingredients in my pantry. But beignets start out like a high school science experiment. Heat the water to exactly 105°. Add yeast and a little sugar, because yeast “feeds” on sugar. Then watch it all foam. If it doesn’t foam, you killed the yeast and you have to start over. (No pressure Dave, little lives are at stake here.)

My yeast foamed (it lives!) so I was then allowed to proceed with the more traditional ingredients. Shortening, sugar, milk, and egg whites all mixed together, to which you add boiling water. When the temp is exactly 105°-110° (again with the science experiment) add the foamy yeast, flour and salt, and into the refrigerator it all goes, to rise for an hour or more.

Did my foamy-yeast-shortening-and-other-stuff concoction really rise? I have no idea. It looked the same as it did an hour before. But I threw caution to the wind and proceeded. At this point my wife had to get involved, because (as the recipe warns in capital letters), THIS IS A TWO-PERSON JOB. Maybe a three-person. One of you slaves over a pot of boiling oil (my wife), another gently transfers the beignets to paper towels to “oil off” (me), and the third suffocates them in powdered sugar (me again).

That last sentence happens very quickly. You can’t get the timing wrong on any step or the beignets won’t taste right. They fry for a minute or so on each side, rest for a minute on the paper towel, and don their coat of powdered sugar with just enough oil remaining to serve as the glue.

When beignets are done correctly, they’re light and flaky. The shortening and yeast create an air pocket inside. But you’re not really sure if this science happens until you rescue them from the boiling oil. Remarkably, ours really did rise. Doused in powdered sugar they really were pretty good (then my wife mixed a little cinnamon and vanilla into the dough and they were even better).

There’s a reason why beignets are so much better at the famous Cafe du Monde in New Orleans than in Dave’s kitchen. You need to eat them as soon as they’re powdered with sugar, and wash them down with a top-shelf cup of coffee. You see, beignets, sadly, have the shortest life of any baked good I know. If you don’t eat them warm, minutes after they’re fried, they’ll shed their light and airy consistency. An hour later they’re as cold and chewy as day-old doughnuts at 7-Eleven. And God forbid you leave them overnight on the counter. The next morning you’ll have nothing but rocks.

So, you ask, were our beignets a hit at our neighbor’s game watch? Well, let’s just say the other guests were being polite by declaring, “very good!”, especially when they ate more of our frosted sugar cookies instead (our backup dessert). Hey, our kitchen is no Cafe du Monde. I never said it was. It’s the reason I’m never making étoufée. At least I have a neighbor who will be happy to do it for me.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Where The Buffalo Roam

In southwestern Alberta, Canada, there’s a historical landmark curiously named “Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump”. It’s the former location of a vast communal bison trap. Thousands of years ago native hunters would drive herds of the roaming animals over the plains and then right over the adjacent cliffs, in what is described as “the single greatest food-gathering method ever developed in human history.” The buffalo aren’t running in this part of Canada anymore. They’re no longer running in Boulder, Colorado either.

In case you missed it, the American college football season kicked off last Saturday… in Dublin, Ireland. Kansas State played Iowa State in a converted rugby stadium in front of a sell-out Guinness-filled crowd. A roving reporter took to the streets to ask locals what they knew about the American game and the answers were wonderfully ignorant. How many points is a touchdown? (“4?”) Name any American college football team (“Yankees?” “Dodgers?”) And then my favorite: What is Kansas State’s mascot? (“A tractor?”) Not a bad answer if you ask me. I’d guess there are more tractors than wildcats in Kansas.

Speaking of wild things, let’s get back to Boulder. The University of Colorado (CU) boasts one of the few live animal mascots in college football: a full-grown snortin’ stompin’ buffalo named Ralphie. Before each half of the home games Ralphie is released from her trailer on the sidelines (yes, Ralphie is a “her”) to run a horseshoe lap around the field at full speed, before her five handlers corral her back into the trailer. It’s the stuff of rodeos, and more than a few handlers have eaten dirt in the process (but at least they earn a varsity letter for their efforts).

Ralphie is actually the sixth live buffalo to represent CU since the mascot was selected in 1934. But Ralphie VI – aka “Ember” – has a singular distinction. She’s just not into the run. Whereas her five predecessors ran for at least ten seasons each, Ember decided to call it quits after just three. The University officially called it “indifference to running” and cut Ember from the team so she could spend the rest of her days roaming in pastures. Maybe Ember’s thinking she’s going to go over a cliff every time she runs. Can you blame her for hanging it up? No word on whether Ralphie VII is up for the task.

At least CU has a ferocious mascot, one a fan would associate with the Colorado surrounds. Like Texas’s Longhorn or Florida’s ‘Gator, you want a mascot that speaks to your particular locale and does so with a confident puff of the chest. But instead, a lot of America’s college football mascots have you thinking either lightweight or what the heck is THAT?

Cases in point. If I pull up this year’s top college football teams, I guarantee I’ll find several to underscore my point. And I am right. Ohio State’s mascot is a buckeye (which is a tree, and not a very ferocious one at that). Georgia’s is a bulldog, described as “loyal, gentle, and affectionate”. Oregon’s is a duck (A duck!) Alabama is known as “the Crimson Tide”, which was a reporter’s colorful spin on a long-ago game played in the mud (and not a mascot at all). Finally, Arizona State’s is a Sun Devil, which better belongs on Saturday morning cartoons than Saturday afternoon football fields.

On the other hand, you have the Penn State Nittany (Mountain) Lions, the Michigan Wolverines (don’t mess with wolverines), the South Carolina Gamecocks (don’t mess with those either), and the Miami Hurricanes (not an animal, but points for ferociousness and local flavor). Any one of those deserves to stand side-by-side with a live buffalo.

As much as I’d like leave this topic with Ember the Buffalo and her chest-thumping buddies, I sheepishly include one more: my beloved alma mater Notre Dame. We at Notre Dame are the Fightin’ Irish, because our football teams (at least those from the early 1900s) showed “the grit, determination, and tenacity characteristic of Irish immigrants”) That all sounds great until you see our mascot: a leprechaun who looks like he’s taking a break from the Lucky Charms cereal box. Is there anything less ferocious and less “state of Indiana” than that?

If it were up to me, Notre Dame’s mascot would be an open-wheeled, open-cockpit IndyCar (VROOM! VROOM!), the kind they race every year at the Indianapolis 500 just four hours south of campus. An IndyCar toughs out a jigging leprechaun by a mile, not to mention an indifferent buffalo who’d rather roam than run. I still say, good on you for choosing to head out to pasture, Ember. I wish the Notre Dame leprechaun would tag along.

Some content sourced from the Athabasca University Press article, “Imagining Head-Smashed-In”, the CUBuffs.com article, “Ralphie VI retires”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

I’m All About Paul

Before another Independence Day celebration completely fades into the July of last week, I want to visit a story from early early American history. In 1973 I began middle school at Palisades-Brentwood Junior High, so named because it straddled the limits of both towns just outside of Los Angeles. But I never knew it as “Palisades-Brentwood”. A year after opening in 1955 it was rebranded Paul Revere Junior High. So Paul and I have a little something in common. It’s like we’re compatriots, only separated by two and a half centuries.

If you know nothing else about Paul Revere, you’ll recall his courageous “midnight ride”. In the months leading up to the Revolutionary War in 1775 Revere took to his horse outside of Boston to alert “minutemen” of the approaching British troops. Minutemen were residents of the American colonies trained to defend “at a minute’s notice”. Revere himself was the notice, at least for what would become the early battles at Lexington and Concord.

Were it not for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow a hundred years later, Revere’s legacy would’ve faded as quickly as last Friday’s fireworks. Instead we have the poet’s “Paul Revere’s Ride” as the chronicle, with these well-known opening lines:

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive…

Thanks to Longfellow’s poetic license (lots of it), we have a skewed version of what Revere did and did not do in April, 1775. For starters, he was one of three riders spreading the news that “The British are coming! The British are coming!” (so why didn’t the other two riders get any poetic love?) Further, Revere never said the words “The British are coming!” but rather some disguised version of the warning to fool the Redcoats already hiding in the countryside. And the famous “one-if-by-land, two-if-by-sea” lanterns were put in place by Revere, not for him.

Revere didn’t even own a horse. He had to borrow a neighbor’s steed (named “Brown Beauty”) to make the ride. And instead of galloping all the way to Concord as the poem suggests, Revere and his horse were captured by British troops somewhere along the way. Lucky for Paul, the capture turned into a release when the Brits realized they were about to be overwhelmed by the locals. So they took Paul’s horse and fled instead.

Enough of the history lesson (real or poetic). Why a West Coast middle school would go with “Paul Revere” is beyond me, but the campus culture certainly embraced the name. A select number of boys (including me) were the “Minutemen” who raised and lowered the American flag each day. A select number of girls – “Colonial Belles” – were responsible for some similar task. The school yearbook was known as the “Patriot”, while the newspaper was labeled the “Town Crier”. And students called “Silversmiths” did something-or-other, but it certainly wasn’t casting fine products in Metal Shop.

Our school even plagiarized Longfellow (and not very well), as in:

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
of the growing pride of Paul Revere.
On the twelfth of September in Fifty-Five
Our middle school began to thrive.

If all I can point to is my middle school’s name, it’s a weak argument to claim Paul Revere and I have something in common. We have nothing in common. Revere was a ~~Jack~~ Paul of all trades, dabbling in roles from military leader to dentist, artist, and silversmith, before finally settling on copper caster. Revere became the best caster of church bells in all of young America before his midnight ride became his signature accomplishment.

You’d be better off saying Revere and I were polar opposites. I never served in the military. I’ve only been the patient of a dentist (too often at that), I have zero art skills, I don’t make the silver (I just polish it), and the only casters I’m familiar with are the ones under a couple of my rolling chairs.

Thanks to the church bell thing, Revere Copper Company became a successful business which still exists to this day. You may remember their “Revere Ware” products, most of which are considered collectibles today. Maybe I should collect a few pieces myself. They’d remind me of the guy I seem to think I have something in common with. Or at least, they’d remind me of junior high school.

Some content sourced from the Paul Revere Charter Middle School website, the History Channel article, “9 Things You May Not Know About Paul Revere”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Here’s What’s Bugging Me

In the years we raised our family in Colorado we made a lot of friends and acquaintances… but none of them were bugs. Actually that’s not true; every now and then a spider would introduce itself; somehow enduring the region’s high altitude and low oxygen. But the other 99.9% of the world’s insect population flew south for the winter… and stayed there. Or rather, here. Right here on the property where we now live. On that not-so-exaggerated claim let’s you and I make a deal. I’ll happily take all of your cicadas, wasps, and fire ants in exchange for my countless gnats.

A gnat may be the most annoying living thing you’ll ever encounter, (including every last one of your family members). Anyone who’s experienced an out-of-nowhere cloud of these little dive-bombers knows what I’m talking about. Gnats are so tiny instead of “now you see ’em, now you don’t” you just say no-see-um. Gnats are so whiny you’ll swear your ears are being perforated by dozens of microscopic dentist drills. Finally, gnats have such a sense of smell that once you give off your particular scent (i.e. sweat) they’ll happily follow you to the ends of the earth.

Here’s what a gnat looks like (blown up a million, billion times). I’m not surprised to see they’re a relatively simple-looking creature. After all, there can’t be much to something beyond microscopic. In all fairness, a gnat’s virtual invisibility has to do with a preference for shade, nighttime hours and things that grow. At least that’s my experience. I’m out there walking the dog on a humid summer evening and it’s as quiet as the “g” in gnat. Suddenly the little air force shows up out of nowhere and for the rest of the walk you’re swatting your head every time you hear a dentist drill. And it’s not like you kill gnats with your swats (or maybe you do but they’re so small you have no idea if you did, so why bother?)

Entering this third summer of my newfound cloud of Southern friends, I decided it was time to go on the offensive. My wife bought a stack of human-head sized mosquito nets. These nets work great in that you’ll no longer feel that slightest of sensations when a gnat lands on your ear. But the little sand grains still knock-knock-knock on the net with their dentist-drill buzzes. You still swat and you still no-see-um. Not to mention, a sweaty mosquito net is really uncomfortable.

A month or so ago we were at our local farm supply and came across this product at check-out. The cashier was all about it, so I figured I’d give it a try. Gnats don’t like particular botanicals: citronella, lemongrass, rosemary, and geranium, and No Natz has them all in a nice little spray cocktail. Darned if the stuff doesn’t work! You put it on like sunscreen, you smell like an entire can of Lemon Pledge, but the gnats keep their distance. For a little while anyway. Eventually you sweat off the No Natz and then it’s “mo natz” all over again.

I might have to try a batch of pyrethrins instead (my new favorite word). Pyrethrins are compounds found in chrysanthemums which, conveniently, target the nervous system of a gnat. Gets at ’em from the inside out. The idea of a gnat spiraling out of control like a wounded helicopter is entirely appealing in my present state of mind.

Per Wikipedia, there is “no scientific consensus on what constitutes a gnat”. Whichever ones are my new best friends here are harmless because they just buzz around your eyes and ears making their dentist-drill noises. Other varieties prefer biting and blood so I guess I should be grateful. Doesn’t make “Gnatus South Carolinus” any less annoying.

Maybe subscribing to the alleged origin of “no-see-um” will put me out of my misery. The word is rooted in skeptical theism. That is, if a human (me) thinks hard enough about a given thing (gnat) and can’t come up with a single God-justifying reason for permitting such an organism (nope, not one), AND considering said organism can’t be seen (they’re invisible!) then perhaps I should entertain the notion that a gnat doesn’t really exist.

Yes, let’s go with skeptical theism. There aren’t any gnats in South Carolina after all (hooray!) Ignore the previous 500+ words of this post. My countless friends were all in my head. Or uh, around my head? Whatever.. guess I’m just hearing things.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Licking My Lips

I wouldn’t normally be drawn to a company whose products target women. I’m pretty well stocked when it comes to lip balms, lotions, and shaving cream. But here comes EOS (“Evolution of Smooth”), a newish company using organic ingredients and bright, colorful packaging to entice its buyers. Now I’m enticed too because EOS just came out with an orange product. Or should I say, a product in an orange. You could say it’s something that only comes ’round once in a blue moon.

Evolution of Smooth may be trying to target men as well. Why else would they concoct a lip balm that tastes like Blue Moon? If you haven’t had so much as a sniff of beer, Blue Moon is an everyday man’s brew produced by the Canadian-American conglomerate Molson Coors. It’s a Belgian-style wheat beer: high on the wheat but not so much on the malted barley. And now it’s a flavor of EOS lip balm inside of a plastic orange.

If you order a Blue Moon off the menu, the bottle or glass should arrive garnished with an orange slice. It’s a nod to the orange peel component of the beer; an ingredient giving the witbier its subtle citrus flavor. I should know because I’ve had more Blue Moons than any other beer out there. When you live in Colorado as long as I did (almost 30 years) sooner or later you’ll tour the Molson Coors facility in Golden, just west of Denver. They bus you around town first (a quaint holdover from the era of the Pikes Peak Gold Rush) before depositing you at the doors of the rather industrial-looking facility.

When you get down to touring – walking through the massive brewery, seeing the step-by-step production process, and sort-of-but-not-really believing the beer’s water content flows straight from the nearby Colorado Rockies – you’ll get a better appreciation of just how much effort goes into a single bottle. But like most breweries a beer fan anticipates the final stop – the tasting room – where you’re offered brands and flavors not yet released to the public. It was here I discovered Blue Moon, back in 1995 when it was just a concept beer.

Fancy homes boast of well-stocked, temp-regulated walk-in wine cellars with dozens of the finest bottles on display. I boast of a 24″x 24″x 36″ below-counter drink cooler, purchased on sale at The Home Depot for $225. I may not have dozens of the finest bottles on display, but in my house you’ll always find a half-dozen bottles of Blue Moon at the ready.

To be clear, I’m any occasional beer drinker at best. I can make a six-pack last a month. The only time a beer really appeals to me is after an afternoon of hard, sweaty, gnat-filled yard work. I’ll come back into the house after hours of that kind of fun and Blue Moon beckons. And even if I consumed more than a half-dozen bottles a month I certainly wouldn’t be put off by the price. A six runs you $11.99 at Target.

I do know how good a beer can really taste. Make your way to Dublin, Ireland sometime, tour the downtown Guinness Storehouse brewery (which trumps the Molson Coors experience in every way imaginable), and have a fresh pint in the top floor tasting room as you gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the fairy-tale surroundings below. You’ll never want to leave. You’ll also realize that Guinness you’ve been having in America doesn’t measure up to the one you can have on Irish soil.

Any beer connoisseur reading this post is laughing at my reverence to Blue Moon. It’s a product whose color, strength, and lack of history bears little resemblance to the storied lagers of the world. It’s like the cosmopolitan offerings among the “real” alcoholic drinks on the bar menu. Light on ingredients and better meant for women.

No, Blue Moon isn’t necessarily meant for women (I hope), but maybe EOS’ latest lip balm is a clever way to get them interested. It certainly got my attention, and the thought of the taste of Blue Moon on my lips the entire time I’m working outside sounds amazing. No bottle or glass to juggle while I run the lawn mower. No garnish of an orange slice necessary. $4.99 instead of $11.99. Good call, EOS. I’m in.

Some content sourced from the CNN Business article, “Blue Moon… is being turned into a lip balm”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.