Holy Holidays!

Look around your neighborhood the next time you’re out driving around. Know what you’ll see? The gray ghosts of Halloween past. Long gone is the day when little ghouls and goblins flood the streets, entranced by a devilish spell of a chocoholic binge. Today, sticky strands of fake spider webs fill the trees. Pumpkin guts spill onto the sidewalks. And creepy zombie creatures still dangle from wire nooses like hanged desperadoes. But now comes a much scarier specter.

It’s almost Thanksgiving. And that can only mean one thing. It’s time to go holiday shopping. Just the thought of buying all those presents fills your tormented soul with raw terror. What will you get Aunt Shirley? She hates everything. And don’t get me started on Uncle Fred. Heck, you don’t even like your Nephew Artie -- he’s a coal-worthy mole if ever there was one. And your sister Mary, she got you an aerobics tape last year. Hint, hint, fatty. It’s time to plot sweet holiday revenge! As you can see, holiday gift shoppers have a lot on their demented minds.

My wife Trina and I are already finished shopping! Eat your heart out. Yessiree, we’re way ahead of the curve. But in this economy, we probably paid way more than the rest of you will. Unsold gifts are piling up on store shelves. And unless people suddenly start buying like banshees, retailers are going to be chopping prices like the guy with the axe in one of those Halloween horror flicks.

This brings us to a truly macabre aspect of holiday shopping. It’s not trying to figure out what to buy for all those people. It’s not even trying to pay for all that junk. It’s Made In America. With so many Americans out of work, wouldn’t you really like to buy something that was actually produced in the states? Sure you would. Just try.

Here’s how we made out:

* Electronics – made in Korea.
* We bought a fancy crystal bracelet from Thailand. It has a warranty card that says “not applicable in the USA”. I’m not kidding. You can’t make this stuff up.
* Clothing - from India, Thailand and China.
* Disney’s Winnie-the-Pooh toy phone - China.
* The George Foreman Grill - made in China.
* Hasbro’s Iron Man toy with Repulsor Power - China. (I didn’t have the guts to even look at the Captain America toys.)
* And the kick in the gut? The gift tags to put on our gifts - you guessed it, made in China.

Trina and I really tried hard to buy American. Really. We bought some zesty Barbecue Spices from a company based in Illinois. Of course, that company’s name is Xcell International Corp. Hmmm. Out of all the gifts we purchased, we found some bath gel (you know, over-priced soap) that says it’s made in the USA and some homegrown cat nip for our cats, Barney & Bailey. As if those crazy beasts need to get stoned again? The last time they shredded the curtains and part of my leg. But we’ll save that screed for another day.

I was so upset with the results of our holiday shopping spree I came home, went to the fridge, and grabbed a cool, refreshing, All-American bottle of Budweiser. Then I remembered that Anheuser-Busch was just bought out by a liquor conglomerate based in Belgium. Sigh. Next year I’m giving everybody a gift that for now at least is still Made In America. Cash.

Copyright 2008

All rights reserved

No part can be reprinted or reused in any way without express written permission from the author

Something Old, Something New

I Do!

Over the weekend I traveled to Western Pennsylvania to attend a wedding. The bride is the daughter of an old college buddy, Brad, and his wife Deb. You realize what this means? No amount of Grecian Formula can hide it. I am Old. My friends and I have aged to the point where we don’t just have kids. Our kids are getting married and they’re having kids. My friends are still in their 40’s. Don’t you have to be, like, 78 before you can be a grandparent??

The Ceremony!

I search a crowded church. It’s a gray sea of familiar Old faces. I see the Finalles, the Millers, the Balls, the Murrays, the Kriners, Brad Anderson, Ken States, and the Hoffers. All of my Old friends fill the pews. And once again, Old is the operative word. Look at those wrinkled faces, receding hairlines, and ever-expanding bellies. The playmates of my youth now look like a casting call for a Metamucil commercial. I am saved from this horrifying realization by the first strains of the Wedding March.

The ceremony starts promptly at 5:00pm. The bride, Kacie Jo, is radiant in white. The groom, Daniel, is dashing and debonair. They are sooo young. They are clearly overcome with thoughts of matrimonial bliss. The entire bridal party seems strangely unaware that it is surrounded by the Depends crowd. I don’t remember hearing any promises to Honor and Obey. Only us Old fogies said things like that. There isn't a dry eye in the house. It is a beautiful, moving ceremony. In other words, it is short. We are back on the street in 35 minutes. It is time for,

The Reception!

Two words. Open bar! This is the gold standard for any wedding. If you can get the parents to pay for an open bar, you are a rock star! The families being joined together live in a small town where everybody knows just about everyone. It’s the kind of town where wedding receptions are always held at fire halls and community centers. Dinner is buffet-style. The chow is very good but never too fancy. No Veal ala Especiales in Vichy Brandy Glaze. And thanks to that open bar, the cuisine, the atmosphere, and even the air, tastes better and better as the night wears on. The wedding cake is served. Delicious. I feel my own belly expanding in wrinkled excitement.

In towns like this, musical entertainment is always provided by some DJ known to all as “Magic Mel the Music Man”. Mel is cranking ‘em out. The kids go first. It’s the classic Chicken Dance! Then everyone starts line-dancing. The music is different. But the steps look familiar to my ever-aging brain. It is The Macarena.

I call to the flower girl, Madee. She is a darling. A bright-eyed nymph with ultra-blond ringlets cascading down her shoulders. This innocent child looks up at me, a wheezing, aging Old man. And then, she runs for her life.

Slowly. Very slowly. The geriatrics hit the dance floor. Mel blasts out “Shout!” that immortal "Oldie" from the Animal House movie.

Say that you love me
Say that you need me

We’re all out there, lurching around like a pack of crazed senior citizens whacked out on Geritol.

You know you make me wanna Shout!
Kick my heels up and Shout!

With each chorus of “Shout”, my buddy Dean and I throw up our arms.

Don’t forget to say-ay-ay-ay-ay

Say you will

Say it right now baby

Say you will

Shout! Shout! Shout! We fall to the ground with our hands and feet flailing skyward and wriggle around on our backs just like John Belushi did in the movie. My friends’ children laugh nervously. Maybe these old geezers are having seizures? Maybe somebody should dial 911? Dean and I hobble away. My hernia is acting up. Dean reveals plans for a total knee replacement. Yes, he is balding too.

I look around the dance floor. Now, it’s wall-to-wall teenagers, stomping through a haze of hormones. It is amazing. I was there when these children were born. I used to tickle them and chase them around, giggling as their diapers drooped. Suddenly, they are nearly grown up. I see young women brimming with poise and promise. Their fathers are filled with pride. And terror. Those fathers undoubtedly would like to lock their daughters in a closet until they're 35. Teenage boys are getting too close for comfort. And worse, the girls seem to enjoy it.

The mother of the bride takes over for the bartender. My beer is suddenly filled with foam. Somebody knocks over a candle at the bridal table and the centerpiece bursts into flame. I heroically sacrifice my over-sudsy brew and douse the inferno. The bride and groom are safe.

The End!

My wife Trina and I are among the last to leave. But the teenagers are still reveling in their near adulthood. We leave them still dancing. Their parents sitting. Watching. Gasping for breath. For the record, I would never lock a teenage daughter in the closet. The garage is probably a more secure spot.

Copyright 2008

All rights reserved

No part can be reprinted or reused in any way without express written permission from the author

Photos Courtesy Trina Bauer Photography

Riding The E-Coli Express

Here’s a news flash for you. I just saw a story about the dangers of grocery store shopping carts. No, the carts themselves aren’t dangerous. Unless you’re a parked car. The focus of this news report is about a danger that’s in the carts. We’re talking about kids. Very little, yet to grow up, toddler types. Those little germ factories with runny noses, and diapers full of baby guano. Which reminds me, the quality of the produce in most local supermarkets is disappointing, to say the least. But that’s a screed for another day. So this story (featured on NBC News) is about germs that wind up on the cart where you carry your food. The problem, it seems is that parents put their little kids in those little seats in the carts. And the toddlers do what comes naturally. They leave behind loads of (family warning here) fecal matter and who knows what else. So think about it. Kids & Their Poop. You & Your Food. Perfect together. You see where this is going. They take samples from the carts and send ‘em off to the lab. And sure enough, they find enough WMD’s to take out the Fighting 88^th Division. We’re talking biological warfare. And it’s in that cart you’re pushing around and loading up with stuff you’re gonna put in your mouth. So, there are a couple of solutions. One, parents can bring their own portable baby seat—and hopefully when they leave the grocery, they take the baby and all of those deadly germs with ‘em. Or, customers (that’s you) can bring a portable Hazmat team. Or, you, Joe Customer can scrub down the whole cart with some of those sanitizing wipes. And the bonus there is your hands get that pleasing lemony-ammonia smell. To defuse that smell you really will need a Hazmat squad. So that’s the story. Bring sanitizing wipes to the grocery or risk your family’s health. Oh sure, those kids are cute. But who knows WHERE that baby’s been. OR where it’s going. And that’s where NBC dropped the ball. They forgot the big picture. There are baby’s everywhere. Touching stuff. Your stuff.

Maybe this is what took down the Roman Empire. Little Ceasar’s backside… Sarah Palin has like, what, two dozen kids. Look what happened to the Republicans. Coincidence? And how many Moms have you seen take their kids out of those shopping carts and plop them down on the counter when they’re checking out? That’s where the real danger lies, or in this case, sits. Mom, that kid’s caboose is a toxic time bomb. I’m begging you. Get him off the counter before we’re all toast. Me? I’ll be out in the parking suiting up with the Hazmat guys.

Copyright 2008

All rights reserved

No part can be reprinted or reused in any way without express written permission from the author