Ken, David and Shelby

This September will mark the 18th anniversary of the premiere of Ken Burns’ documentary masterpiece, The Civil War. If the “war between the states” was an interest of yours, everything you had ever read led up to this event. If your exposure to the subject was a chapter in a high school history book, then this was a real education. I had the pleasure of meeting Ken Burns two years ago at a media event in New York City. It was very hard not to act like Ethel Mertz when she met John Wayne. We spoke for about fifteen minutes and I was honored to be able to give him my thoughts on his contributions to history, education and the fulfillment of television's original promise.

My current viewing of this series was started by a piece I had read on Gettysburg. I wanted to see the episode of The Civil War that covered this historic battle, but I found it impossible not to start at the beginning. This was the first time I had watched the series since the death of Shelby Foote (1916-2005). Foote, a novelist and historian, played a major role in the documentary. Now, I saw what I had not noticed before, the structure of the narration. Ken Burns had brought together the perfect broadcast team to present this historic “sporting event”.

Author and historian David McCullough as narrator played the part of the play-by-play man, giving a detailed account of the events and the people we were seeing and learning about. Foote filled the position of the color commentator, sharing with the viewer the insights and stories that made these “ancient” names and events current and ever so human.

Each of these men has a distinct voice, a sound and a style that very quickly becomes familiar to the listener. After one episode you are so in tuned with their inflections that a change in tone sends your heart beating faster as you wait for the next story that will change your view on this pivotal moment in our nation’s history.

Normally I would use this topic to discuss the historic importance of this event or that. Today I just want to give you a different view of a fabulous resource. It harkens back to the dawn of civilization when our histories were passed down to the next generation orally. One can only imagine the storyteller possessing both a strong memory and a commanding voice. Burns's use of still photography took the place of cave paintings. The only real movement and life they had was with the accompanying words.

Last fall I sat in a lecture hall to hear David McCullough talk about Franco-American relations. I sat with my eyes closed. The voice of this story teller supplied the rest.

Watch the series again. Listen to the series again. Pay attention to this “historical tag-team” as they breakdown the battles, politics and humanity of the re-creation of the United Sates. And if you happen to run into Ken Burns, tell him Mr. Moose says, "Thanks again."

That's freakin' huge!

My oldest is not a morning person. So when she starts a conversation in the car at 7 a.m., I jump right on board.

“That new Target?”

“Yeah?”

“The last time I was there it was a hole in the ground, they had just started building.”

“It has been open, a couple months. “

“I pulled up and like WOW! It’s ginormous!”

“Ginormous?”

"It’s a combination of gigantic and enormous."

"Which is bigger?"

"It is gigantic, then enormous, then ginormous."

"So ginormous is the biggest?"

"Yeah."

"What about 'titanic'?"

She thought for a moment, and then said:

"Titanic is bigger than both gigantic and enormous, but not ginormous."

"So why wouldn’t you use a combination of titanic and enormous, 'tinormus.'"

"Because that sounds stupid, besides it is a building not a ship. Titanic works only for boats."

"Ah, so ginormous is simply a land measurement."

"Yes."


I left her at the bus stop and she went to work. I ran directly to the source. In generations past, the source could have been a religious leader, a parent, a teacher even a librarian. For me the source is Google.

I entered "ginormous."

Here is what I found. At http://www.unwords.com/unword/ginormous.html, the Unword Dictionary says:

Definition of ginormous :.
(jī-nôr'm s)
1. 1. (adj.) Used to describe something so large that it is additively gigantic and enormous.

Origins: The contraction of gigantic or giant and enormous. This word is very close to acceptance into today's vocabulary.

Example: "Millicent, that 32 pound cat of yours is ginormous!" "That's freakin' huge! That's ginormous!"

Freakin’! I know what freakin’ means but I needed the Unword Dictionary’s definition.

And guess what? They don’t have one. How can you use a word in a definition that doesn’t exist in your own dictionary? I found myself slowly slipping into the pit of confusion that makes up most of my waking hours. So I left the Unword Dictionary and returned to the Google home page where I once again saw my search for Ginormus, Where a second glance revealed this:

http://www.usatoday.com/life/books/2007-07-10-dictionary-new-words_N.htm

It seems that in 2007, Merriam-Webster, added Ginormus to their collegiate dictionary.

And the here is where my head started pounding.

gi·nor·mous
\jī-nor-ms\
Function: adjective
Etymology: gigantic + enormous
Date: circa 1948
: extremely large : humongous


1948? 1948! Come on! And what about humongous? How is ginormus bigger than humongous?

These are now the tasks infront of me.

1. Find the 1948 birthplace of ginormous;
2. Find humongous’ place in the “big word” list;
3. Find a dictionary that has "freakin’"

because Merriam Webster did not have it either. It did have freaking and I'm sure its the same thing! But still I need freakin'!

The worst thing about this is that when my daughter checks in to this blog, she will say, "See, I told ya."

The Fault and The Solution

Self-help sometimes needs an outside influence, here is mine.

I had friend who lost 100 pounds and successfully kept it off.

Her story is always amazing to me. When she finally decided to help herself, she attacked weight loss with a vengeance. Complete and total control and a motivation to succeed that was inspirational to everyone she met. When she was down 70 pounds, she stopped losing weight. Weeks went by and not another ounce. Her counselors were baffled. Every week they would come up with a list of suggestions, check and re-check her weekly intact. Nothing. It was not natural, she was as rigid with her diet and exercise as she had been all along. No one could figure it out.

She and only she knew why. She was an alcoholic. Neither her husband nor children not friends had a clue. She drank herself into a stupor during the day when no one else was around. Then she would pull it together, put dinner on the table and nobody was any the wiser.

So, of course, the last 30 pounds were calories from alcohol that she wasn’t figuring into the equation. Her cover was blown one day when her car broke down and she had to call her daughter for help. After the initial family shock, she agreed to go to AA. She attacked the fight against alcoholism with the same fervor that she had her weight loss. Once she beat the drinking, she lost the last 30 pounds.

And just like that, neither the weight and the drinking ever took control her life again. Even when she was dying of cancer, she never let anything break the stride of who she was and what she had accomplished.

I once asked her why it took so long to face up to what was happening. She told me, “I was an alcoholic long before I was fat. Losing weight was nothing compared to stopping drinking. Plus it was tougher to face the problem nobody saw.”

But I always think about those weeks where she wasn’t losing. What was going on in her head? Had she really convinced herself that she didn't know? That’s my guess.

And when I find myself with a problem and I'm backed into a corner, I stop my first thought, which is "how did this happen?" I force myself to review and nine time out of ten the reason as well as the answer comes to me.

It has helped to be able to point the finger at myself when there is a problem. Because if I am the fault, I can also be the solution.

Moose Droppings: Election, Part I

Senior senator from Arizona, John McCain, vs. junior senator from Illinois, Barack Obama.

An e-mail from an American friend living abroad came today, asking about U.S. senators who were also presidents.

I told him I would answer here; a classroom of one can be so boring.

Fifteen men held both offices. Andrew Johnson, being the only one to serve after his presidency, was elected senator from Tennessee in 1874, five years after leaving the White House.

Twelve men served as senators prior to their presidency, but were not holding that office when elected:

James Monroe
John Quincy Adams
Andrew Jackson
Martin Van Buren
William Henry Harrison
John Tyler
Franklin Pierce
James Buchanan
Benjamin Harrison
Harry Truman
Lyndon Johnson
Richard Nixon

Leaving two: Warren G. Harding and John F. Kennedy as the only two men to be elected president while serving as a U.S. senator.

A morbid note for the overly superstitious: neither Harding nor Kennedy finished his term of office.

And though not asked, but certainly thought about: congressmen?

In total, nineteen men have held both the presidency and a seat in the House of Representatives: Eighteen prior to becoming president and one, John Q. Adams, after leaving the White House.

The other eighteen are:

James Buchanan
George H. W. Bush
Millard Fillmore
Gerald Ford
James Garfield
William Harrison
Rutherford Hayes
Andrew Jackson
Andrew Johnson
Lyndon Johnson
John Kennedy
Abraham Lincoln
James Madison
Richard Nixon
William McKinley
Franklin Pierce
James Polk
John Tyler

Polk has the distinction of being the only Speaker of the House to later become president.

Also, Garfield is the sole sitting congressman to be elected president. He was also elected a U.S. senator during the same election. He opted for the presidency.

It should be noted that he too did not finish out his term.

"Please, make this nation remember how futures are built."

On July 16, 1984, I watched Mario Cuomo give the keynote address at the Democratic National Convention in San Francisco. His speech, which I believe is one of the best I’ve ever heard, made two things clear. The first was the there was no way Walter Mondale could win. Mondale, a fine public servant, had none of the fire or oratory that Cuomo had just used to electrify the Convention Center. The second was, "Is this all that is left of the convention process: the prospect of great speeches?"

In a system where candidates run for President for three years, while still “working" for their constituents back home. The primary system has morphed in to a hideous leviathan and the political parties are content to have the process settled in advance. This leaves us to watch toothless conventions, infomercials for a product we need, but may not want.

Now with that said, I always watch and will always watch…usually on C-SPAN, to avoid commentary. But this year I am not looking forward to this process at all.

Not looking forward to the speeches meant to rally the troops...a catch phrase appearing…the crowd picking up on it and chanting as they wave placards bearing the catch phrase. How can they be rallied when they know in advance what they are going to hear?

It is July 25. The Democrats start on August 25, followed a week later by the Republicans. I am hoping against hope for some hint of rhetoric or glimmer of inspiration.

Please. I don’t care which party it is, so long as I hear something that makes me say “Yes.”

It has been too many years since I said yes.

The Floor Factor

I’m an Italian Jew. We are a rare breed, vowel at the end of the name, yarmulke on the head. The two cultures are very similar in that they both revolve around food.

When I was growing up, it didn’t matter the occasion: my parents invited 75 people to the house and served food for 150. At the end of the day, we would send everyone home with leftovers and we still had enough for 30 to feed our family of five. Half the people would come back the next day and my mother would cook more so that there would be enough. And there always was. I know that this isn’t normal, but it seemed normal when I was a kid and honestly it still seems normal to me now.

Today, every time we are having company over, my wife and I have the same argument. I want there to be trays of food out when guests arrive, she wants the kitchen floor clean.

My way says, “Hello guests, you are welcome, you are family, let’s break bread.”
Her way says, “Hello guests, you are welcome, you are family, we are not slobs.”

Trust me, you can not prepare food and have a clean floor, simultaneously.

And this leads to a confession.

I know I’m in the minority but I hated the musical Les Mis.My wife hated it and our unborn child tried to claw her way out of my wife’s belly in an attempt to escape. I hated this show with such a passion that at intermission I left my extremely pregnant wife in the theater and ran across the street to steal a loaf of bread. My hope was to be arrested so I would not have to sit through the second act.
Anyway, the night we were prisoners at the Broadway Theater, the largest applause from the audience was for a scene change. A fabulous moment, the vertical slums of Paris spin in the air and become the horizontal barracks of the uprising. The audience went wild, including us. Note that I have a BFA in theater, and this is what I was taught (and I might be paraphrasing here): "If during a show the audience is paying attention to the scenery…YOU ARE SCREWED!"

Why tell you this? Because if you come to my house to eat, this is the conversation I hope you're having as you drive away.

“My God, have you ever had a better meal? Really restaurant quality. I couldn’t stop eating…They made enough for thirty.”

The conversation I pray is not happening

"My God, have you every seen such clean floors? Where should we go to eat?”

My wife’s family is British. They don’t know about food. The very reason the British built the greatest navy on earth was so they could go out and eat, because there is never anything to eat in England. But if they had food, you could eat it off their floors. Spotless!

Hello

Hello.

Since the advent of Caller ID, I have stopped saying "hello" when I answer the phone. That is if I know the caller. Depending on who is phoning I will do one of the following:

1. Continue a previous conversation in mid-sentence.
2. Attempt a foreign accent.
3. Say something stupid.

If the caller is not a familiar name, I will switch to the neutral "Yes," much in the manner of Lurch from the Addams Family

While my level of maturity has never been high, Caller ID has somehow helped my already low standards sink further into the abyss of idiocy.

On outgoing calls, I have always stuck with my main stay. Since I know who I’m calling and I remember every conversation I’ve ever had, I just:

Continue a previous conversation in mid-sentence.

Why I do this is hard to say. Maybe I think it's funny.

But after answering the phone like an idiot tonight and finding a frantic friend on the other end, I have decided to try "Hello" for a while.

There is a scene in the movie Say Anything, where Jason Gould, whose appearance is over the top, sees himself in the mirror. He is shocked. That is sort of how I feel tonight.

I will report back as to how this change is received.

Help in the Hospital Hallway

My first cathartic experience while reading a blog happened today. Here is the link.

In it, a young lady tells a story about a woman who comforted her outside of her mother's hospital room. I will not excerpt or paraphrase her story. You can read it.

The blog touched me, because I too had found help in a hospital hallway.

Five years ago, our middle child was in the hospital having been diagnosed with Type I diabetes. It was late one night/early one morning, we had been in the hospital for about 18 hours.

In an effort to reduce her blood sugar level, she was on an insulin drip and the nurses were testing her blood every hour. As soon as a nurse would come in to the room, I would rouse myself from the twilight sleep I was trying to fight off.

Finally, at 5 a.m., I heard through the haze of real sleep, a nurse saying "Dad, Dad" and then my daughter calling "Daddy, Daddy"

Sound asleep. I had let my guard down and had allowed the exhaustion to win. My daughter was only eleven and she wanted me awake for this test, it was a large amount of blood. When the vials were filled, she fell right back to sleep.

I left the room, which was at the end of the wing and started to walk. By the time I reached the middle of the hallway, where the nurse’s station stood, I had tears running down my face. I was letting the whole thing: the shock, the fear and the exhaustion get the upper hand. And I couldn't let this happen, because my daughter would be up again in an hour for another blood test and she would need me.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, I turned it was a nurse. She said,"Dad, it’s going to be alright," then gave me a hug.

I hugged back and said "thank you."

I continued walking to the end of the hall. I looked into each room seeing parents, sitting, sleeping, pacing. Children with casts, with breathing apparatus with shaved heads. All of a sudden I understood.

"Dad, it’s going to be alright."

The nurse could not say that to all these parents. In some of those rooms it would not be alright.

I turned at the end of the hallway and marched back. I wasn’t exhausted anymore. I wasn't afraid. I was ready, and when my daughter woke up for the next test, I would be there for her.

Many times since then my wife, my daughter and I have gone back to that same hospital hallway to help newly-diagnosed families come to terms with the shock. I tell them about the help in the hallway and I assure them it is going to be alright.

I feel that I owe it to them and I owe it to the other parents, the ones that will never be able to hear those words.

An Open Letter To My Editor

If this entry has unique spelling or bizarre punctuation the reason will soon become clear to you.

As I have mentioned in at least one other blog, before Mr. Moose’s Story Book hits the web it is “cleansed’’. The proof reader is a good friend and fellow blogger. Whether because of blogs, family issues, celebrity deaths or just a quick story- we communicate several times every day. Between phone calls, IMs, texts and emails, we are always in contact.

A couple of months ago his blog contained a story so amazing, so astonishing, so incredible, that I was amazed, astonished, and incredulous that I had never heard a word about the topic. The events, for which I have provided you the link, took place over an extended length of time. Yet, again, I knew nothing.

Upon reading his blog, I instantly called and asked quite peevishly why I knew nothing of this story. If you have linked over already, I think you will agree that this story would not just “slip your mind.”

The relationship had changed. I was now going to forever be like the new bride who marries the non- communicative husband: only ever able to find out things through the eyedropper method of communication.

My editor and friend, a resident of my old homestead suburban Washington D.C., often takes his family to Ocean City, Maryland. They tan and or burn depending on skin pigments. So when he said they were going away for a long weekend, pictures of fun in the sun popped into my mind.

Over the weekend, a mutual friend called with another story, and mentioned that he had just gotten off the phone, having told it to my editor.

“Oh, are they still in Ocean City?’

“Ocean City? They are in the Finger Lakes.”

“Huh?”

“Upstate New York.”

“I know where the Finger Lakes are.”


We hung up, and I dialed my editor. I was now a cross between the new bride and a petulant child.

“What are you doing in the Finger Lakes? I thought you were going to Ocean City?”

“We are here with friends.”

“You mean your real friends right?!”

In my own teenaged girl- like defense, it was not only that they passed us by in North Jersey to get there, it just seems that as with that blog entry, this should have come up when speaking to someone everyday.

So I asked. Now very much like a teenaged girl:

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the Finger Lakes?”

And then came the response that neither the girl, the bride, nor I ever wanted to hear, because some how we are at fault:

“You didn’t ask.”

To be honest I would have preferred "because it's none of your business", but I got...

"You didn't ask."

The problem is- my life is an open book, or, specifically an open Story Book. I just assume everyone wants to share every detail of their life all the time.

So to my friend and editor: I accept the blame and will try to work into our daily transmissions questions regarding Bull Frogs and the Finger Lakes.

I have been remiss, please forgive me. I’m a terrible friend. I will try to change.

But if I can’t- is there anyone interested in editing a blog site? Leave a comment below.

Other than a mastery of English grammar, the only requirement is a willingness to share stories of your life and occasionally have them posted over the internet.

The Noonan Conundrum

I get The Golf Channel. That is to say the cable package I have includes The Golf Channel.
I have never watched it until today, wasn’t even aware it was on my TV.

Here is a golf question. I don’t play, so I am asking for some clarification from golfers.

Ready?

There are two teams of two players playing a round and with all four players on the 18th green; the score is tied. Team A’s first player putts out in two and Team A’s second player sinks his first putt. Team B’s first player putts out in two and Team B’s second player sinks his first putt.

The match is still even, right? If the answer is yes, and I can’t see how it wouldn’t be, will someone please explain the end of the movie Caddyshack?

Judge Smails and Doctor Beeper are tied with Ty Webb and Danny Noonan. They are all on the green when Lou announces the match is even. The Doctor two-putts. The Judge sinks his shot with "Ole Billy Barou." Ty two-putts, then says to Danny “if you miss it, we lose.”

This is, of course, correct. But if he makes it, they would only be tied. Once Ty two-putts there was no way they could win, only tie, Ty. Forget explosions, forget gophers. The end of the movie is wrong.
Or maybe it’s me. Somebody help me with this.

And another thing, can someone explain to me why on the Saturday morning of the British Open, The Golf Channel was showing Caddyshack two times, back-to-back?

It is of course easier to understand why I watched it both times.

Still, once this is settled, I need to start working on Roy Hobbs walk off homer in Chicago.

It's A Morale Builder, Isn't It?

Jeanine: Oh, no! I told them once, I told them a hundred times, put "Spinal Tap" first and "Puppet Show" last.

Derek: It's a morale builder, isn't it?

Jeanine: We've got a big dressing room, though.

David: What?

Jeanine: Got a big dressing room here...

David: Oh, we've got a bigger dressing room than the puppets? Oh, that's refreshing..

This Is Spinal Tap

Let me start at the end. The line up for Wingstock 2008 is as follows.

Mini Kiss will open...

...followed by Kansas...

...and then the headliner: Peter Frampton.

Now I want to go back twenty-four hours before this line up was finalized, when I found the above ad in free paper in central Jersey. And my head started hurting.

No offense to Kansas, but I was less shocked by seeing them in the third slot than I was by seeing Peter Wolf in the second. Not that he should be headlining, but warm up for a band to be named later. That has got to be rock-and-roll hell. As both a solo artist and front man for The J. Geils Band, Wolf has had his share of hits. As a club DJ in the early '80s, I can tell you he was hot. I hated him, couldn't stand J. Geils. But my opinion is just that, mine.

How do Mr. Wolf or his handlers agree to take the number two spot at a concert without knowing who was number one?

This question will now rise to the top of unresolved rock questions in my mind. It surpassed the following:

Has Keith Moon really been dead for 30 years?
What happened between Bruce Springsteen and Julianne Phillips?
Why did Paul Weller break up The Jam?
How is it possible that Keith Richards is still alive?

For twenty-four hours this had me crazy. I was deperate to say to Mr. Wolf, “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.”

Then the miracle. Peter Frampton was announced. Mr. Wolf was gone, Kansas had moved up and somehow, someway Wingstock was able to get Mini Kiss. What luck that they were free!

So now the question in my mind had changed. Why had Peter Wolf dropped out? Was Frampton too big for him? Was he hoping he was going to move into the number one spot? What was he thinking? He hasn’t had a hit in years! He should have been thrilled with the gig. My head was hurting again.

And I thought about how none of this really mattered since I would not be attending Wingstock.

But if anyone can contact Mr. Wolf, I would sleep easier.

As for "the ad," it takes alot of spunk to print that.

And to quote Lou Grant, "I hate spunk!"

Men Don't Normally

stereo·type (ster′ē ə tīp′, stir′-)
noun
a fixed or conventional notion or conception, as of a person, group, idea, etc., held by a number of people, and allowing for no individuality, critical judgment, etc.

My son broke his toe. Doesn’t sound too bad? Imagine these five lines represent the toes of a foot:

I I I I __

On a human foot when one of the toes is perpendicular to the other four, there is a problem. My wife and I each took a look at the foot; as we were unable to decide who would vomit first, we jumped into the car and went to the ER.

A woman from registration came into the waiting room and asked, “Can I have the mommy, please?” My wife, who was in comfort mode, handed me the insurance card and asked, “Will you go?”

I followed the nurse out; she glanced over her shoulder and stopped short. “I’d prefer the mommy.”

“Well I’m the daddy.”

“Yeah, well, I prefer the mommy; they know all the information.”

The rush of adrenaline I had been feeling since the toe started pointing east was rapidly being replaced with anger.

“Look, I know everything you will need.”

She was not convinced, but seeing as I was about to explode, we continued into her office. She logged onto the computer.

“Has he been here before?”

"Yes."

“Is Mitchell his name?”

“Mitchell?! No, I just gave you his insurance card.”

"Well who is Mitchell?"

“Dear, I have no idea who Mitchell is…Have you found my son in the system?”

“Yes, birthdate?”

“September 7, 1993.”

"Nope! Should I ask the mommy?"

I now exploded.

“What do you mean 'nope,' This is my son! He was born on September 7, 1993. I was there!”

"The computer says January 7th, let me check with the mommy. This is why I prefer the mommies. They know these things. Daddies just don’t know. "

I then proceeded to list the following dates:

My birthday
My wife’s birthday
The day we met
The day we got engaged
The day we got married
Our oldest's birthday
Our middle’s birthday
My parents' birthdays and anniversary

“So why does the computer say January 7th?”

“Maybe because the last time the person who registered my son made a mistake. By the way, it was a woman who checked us in!”

Now it was her turn to be mad. “We have men who do this job, too!”

“Well of all the times I have been here, a man has never registered us. So I guess a mommy made the mistake.”

It was over.

She asked a series of questions I answered them all.

Then just when I thought we were done. She asked “Your mother-in-law’s birthday?”

“Is that really on the form?”

“No, I've just got to know.”

“April 11, 1935.”

(Shaking her head) “I'm sorry, men don’t normally know these things.”

Everyone with whom I've shared this story to has had the same reaction. “She was rude, but she was right. Men don’t normally know.”

I'm not sure how this started. Was it women thinking men don't care? Was it men believing women handle “these things?" I don’t know, but it’s wrong.

Is it possible that I am not a normal man? I hope not.

One thing is for certain: my mother-in-law is very happy with me.

A Whole Nation

On July 15th, 1870, Georgia was readmitted to the union. It was the last of the eleven Confederate states to meet the requirements for re-admittance. The nation was whole again.

Georgia had seceded on January 2, 1861. Kansas, West Virginia, Nevada and Nebraska had all joined the union in the nine years Georgia was gone.

It would be another seven years until the end of reconstruction, and the Southern states would be free of their Northern administrators.

It took over five years after the Civil War had ended for re-admittance, and almost twelve years until the occupying forces would be gone. All of this happened in a land where democracy was historically the rule of law.

Why the powers-that-be expect governments to be formed in lands that have had no basis for free choice boggles the mind. Why the powers-that-be expect a people to take control of their lives and their own futures while armies patrol their streets is yet another question.

Why the powers-that-be don't consider history when planning and committing this country to war is inexcusable.

Why we, the people, allow this to continue is sad.

Congratulations, Georgia on the 138th anniversary of your return to the United States of America. The experiment continues.

You Can't Pick Your Family But You Can Pick Your Category

I know the calendar shows the middle of July, but I have begun my Thanksgiving preparation. Not for the meal, not for the guest list. For the quiz. The Fourth Annual Harvest Home Cornucopia of Knowledge Bowl, to be specific. This is a tradition older then the name implies. And it has not been limited to Thanksgiving Day, either. Another event that has had a quiz as part of its celebration is that other American day of gluttony known as Super Bowl Sunday. We have played The Super Bowl Day Super Bowl of Super Knowledge Bowl, Bowl. (God, I'm annoying)

Still, it is on Thanksgiving Day that the quiz is mandatory. In years past, it took the form of a Jeopardy!-like game with daily doubles and a final question. Last year we moved to a PowerPoint format on a laptop connected to our TV, with the teams having to fill in a written test. For those asking, "Does this Moose not have anything better to do?" or "Do you have too much time on your hands?" The answers are, respectively, no and yes.

The reason for the format change is a simple one. My baby brother—and when I call him that, it is only coincidence that he is the youngest of the siblings—acts like a total infant when we play this game. Or any game, for that matter.

He finds fault with every question, every answer, every teammate, every competitor. He makes the playing of the game such torture that people try quitting in mid-question. For years, he insisted that we buy an electronic buzzing system because he was being cheated. When my kids were smaller, he would be admonished that he was "acting like a child." Now, the kids find this statement insulting to them. At the end of last year’s game, the family and quite a few guests voted to keep him out of future contests. This movement was led by his own wife. Whether or not it can be enforced remains to be seen.

But perhaps I've said too much. And since he is a regular reader of this blog, I'm sure he will tell me if I've said too much. Though after all of this venting, I can honestly say he is not the reason I need to start working in July on a late November event. It was a guest.

Now before I tell you what happened and you ask, "Is this Moose too thin-skinned?" let me state my case. I shop for and cook the Thanksgiving meal. I try to make sure that every special dish request has been met. This can include three different homemade cranberry sauces, two different stuffings, three different potatoes, etc. Yet, with all this on my plate, I make sure the quiz is ready, historical, accurate, entertaining, fair and fun for everyone.

Under the new format, many "issues" were resolved. I said to my wife, "This year there will be no trouble." She laughed, shook her head, and walked away mumbling, "You're dreaming."

She was, of course, right. Though everyone agreed all the problems had been dealt with, my brother still made a scene.

Then in mid-quiz, a guest said, "I see that the background for all your slides are identical, that shows a lack of creativity, doesn't it?"

Was she really questioning the aesthetics of a test? Did she not take issue with the content, the format, the accuracy? Was her complaint really about the color of the backgrounds? Sadly, yes. And then she ate my food.

So this is why I'm working on the quiz in July. I have already dealt with all the inequities of the quiz, so now I'm going to make sure that each slide is an individual masterpiece. This year, there will be no problems. I guarantee.

As for my brother, he is on notice: When I'm done with the “Sistine Chapel" of PowerPoints, I'm going to start on the guest list. He has just over four months to prove he's changed.

As for the other guest, Hungry Man makes a nice turkey dinner.

The Thrill of Victory and the Amazement at the Feat!

MLB Fanfest Update: Saturday

As I explained in My Daughter Asked, my oldest and I are volunteers at the MLB Fanfest in New York this week. We had chosen to work in the section designated for the “youngest fans,” called the Rookie League.

There are various activities here. Batting, pitching, racing and math.

For those who read fast, I want to make sure you do not pass this over: "and math."

As noted in the earlier piece, I am not that crazy about baseball. Still, I am less inclined toward mathematics. Yet we went to help out at the Math Challenge. The company in charge has a line of Major League flash cards, a variation of the same tool that schoolchildren and their parents have been using for generations, with the exception of team logos in the corners.

The cards are not being sold at the booth. The cards are not being displayed at the booth. There is no sports figure in the booth.

With that understanding, for the five hours we worked there, the line was always filled with young kids voluntarily waiting to take a math test in the middle of summer break!

Each child in turn stands on home plate and answers as many math questions as he or she can in sixty seconds. Everyone wins two small giveaways. And every kid was thrilled for the experience and every parent proud to see their child try.

Across from us, I watched kids trying to hit balls off of batting tees, frustrated when they missed, and parents explaining what they were doing wrong and how to correct their swing. At the Math Challenge, there was neither a tear nor a tantrum. Nothing but smiles.

Tucked away among all of these ahletics was this little corner of mental exercise. And when each new kid stepped up to the plate, the crowd tensed with the anticipation of seeing a new rookie hero.

We go back in three hours. Though I am thrilled not to have to take the Math Challenge, I can’t wait to see the action in that small classroom right behind home plate.

A President or a Duke?

In my mid-twenties I drove cross-country with one of my best friends. Before the overglorified image of two young bucks in a convertible on a Westbound vision quest forms in your mind's eye, here are the facts.

We left Washington, D.C., in a 14’ rental truck loaded with my friend's furniture. At the end of our first night, we slept at a friend’s apartment in Chicago. The second day we left Illinois and stopped in West Branch, Iowa at the birth place of President Herbert Hoover. I know, I know, but if you’ve followed this blog you're already aware that history is a love of mine. We continued until Kearney, Nebraska where we stayed for our second night.

Our third stopover was in Crescent Junction, Utah. Having braved the Rocky Mountain overpass in the dark, we found ourselves running low on gas in an area of Utah that was running low on civilization. So we spent the night in our truck outside a gas station waiting for the sun to rise. In the morning, we had breakfast at the diner part of the gas station (The diner part of the gas station?) and drove to Las Vegas, where our final night was spent at the $2.99 all-you-can-eat buffet at the Circus Circus Casino.

The next day we drove to his new apartment in L.A.

You now have a core understanding of our trip. You also now know ten times more about our trip then the friend I went with.

No memory at all.

If you quizzed him on the trip, he would tell you we stayed in Chicago and then Circus Circus. He recalls nothing about the 1750 miles in between. I don’t get it. I remember every detail, he doesn’t remember Herbert Hoover. I ask you: how do you not remember being forced to stop at a presidential birthplace?! For years I feared he was going to write a book. The Pitfalls of Travel With Mr. Moose. Chapter 1: Avoid Presidential birthplaces.

Write a book? Luckily for me he doesn't remember ever reading a book.

Recently, I confessed to feeling guilty about that stop in Iowa, but insisted that the things I learned there have remained a part of my education. He stared at me with a blank expression.

“What are you talking about?”

“Hoover’s birthplace.”

“Who?”

“Herbert Hoover.”

“The vacuum guy?”

“Vacuum?…NO! President Herbert Hoover, West Branch, Iowa!”

Nothing. Nothing at all, not even a flicker of recognition. It was as if he hadn't been there with me. It is important to point out that there are no drugs involved here. We both tend to be fairly straight-laced. So no "trips" that would have wiped out his memory, or no chemicals that would have caused me to hallucinate Hoover’s hometown.

It is just the miraculous way the portion of the human brain that controls memory works. His problem is he retains nearly nothing long term. My problem is I retain nearly everything. Including all my messes, missteps and mistakes. Well, I guess every gift does have a downside.

Recently while reviewing the highlights of our trip with him, I got to the morning in Utah where we had breakfast in the diner part of the gas station.

Finally, after all these years, a light bulb went off and his own recollection of the two days in between Chicago and Las Vegas surfaced. And he said “Yeah, yeah I remember, the waitress was wearing Daisy Duke shorts.”
Well, I guess every downside does have a gift.

Poor Herbert. He could never catch a break.

The Self-Doubt of Self-Publication

The process for my blog entries takes four stages.

1. Write
2. Edit and proofing (usually done by a good friend and fellow blogger)
3. My final review
4. Posting

The note that is sent along with my entry in Step 2 reads like this: “When you can, this is ready for edit, proof, opinions.”

When it is returned to me, the note reads “Edited.” Usually.

I usually will send a quick follow up IM. “Thanks, opinions?”

And the answer always is “Very nice.”

It has taken me a while to understand very nice is good.

Yesterday I finished an entry that I thought was a great piece.
So my Step 2 IM read like this: “I have written my 'GONE WITH THE WIND,' please look it over.”

After some time, an IM popped up. “Run it by someone else.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe it's me, but I think it's one of those 'you-had-to-have-been-there' stories."

To say I was stunned would be putting it mildly. So I asked point blank: “Why”

Then my phone rang. What followed was a line-by-line dissection of the entry. Each word, image and reference was stripped bare for me to see.

I proceeded to tell him the story aloud pointing out along the way its humor.

He said “It's funny, but only because I can hear it. Coming from you. Get another opinion on the written version before you post.”

So this was the alternative to “very nice."

The call ended and I began to read it through his eyes. The first time I still thought it was great. The seventeenth time I was so sick to my stomach that I shut down my computer and went to bed.

That entry now sits in the draft section of my Blogger dashboard page. It may never be posted. I will run it by someone else. But I will never enjoy it again.

It is not my friend's doing, it is mine. The piece would have made up one entry of a growing, living work. The blog would not have ended because of a bad entry. Still this is why we write, for the feedback, to see if we informed, if we touched, if we entertained.

Or if we got it wrong.

My Daughter Asked

Our middle child has little or no interest in watching sports of any kind. Correction: no interest whatsoever. To say "a little" would be a big lie. Though a great athlete, this kid cannot sit by and just watch.

One year, we signed her up for baseball in between soccer seasons. As her team was leaving the field between innings, she approached the fence near where my wife was sitting. Like a prisoner so close to freedom yet still incarcerated, her fingers tightly gripping the chain links, she said with all the anger, frustration and desperation an eight-year-old could muster, "Never sign me up for this ever again. All I do is stand around!" To her credit, she did find a four leaf clover while playing centerfield.

My daughter's opinion about the boredom of playing baseball is exactly the same as mine for watching baseball. The only baseball games I ever enjoyed took place in the movies Bull Durham and Major League. World Cup soccer is my sports passion.

On the other hand, our oldest is such a rabid Yankees fan that if she is sitting behind you at a ball game, you might think George Steinbrenner had moved down to the cheap seats. A student in the city of Boston, this young lady has no issues wearing full Yankee regalia, even to Fenway Park.

And that is how I find myself enlisted as a volunteer at MLB's Fanfest this weekend in New York. Fanfest is just what it sounds like, a festival for Major League Baseball fans in the city that is hosting the playoff game. This year of course the game is be played in the soon-to-be-replaced "House that Ruth Built."

There will be players, there will be media, there will be rabid baseball fans. There will be a lot of little kids with whom we'll be working. And each and every one will have only one thing on their minds...America's Bore-time. So why go?

I'm going for three reasons.

1. I will not have to watch baseball.

2. I will not have to play baseball.

3. My daughter asked me if I wanted to volunteer with her.

You see, when you are a father and your 20-year-old daughter asks if you want to do something with her, you do it. You're so thrilled to be asked; you say "Yes!" before you even hear the subject of the question.

"Dad, on the 12th and 13th do you want to go with me to..."

"Yes!"

I've gone for sushi.
I've gone for pedicures (no comments necessary).
I've waited outside job interviews.

Any of these three would be a fabulous alternative to this Fanfest thing. But anytime I get to spend with my daughter is a festival for me. We laugh, we tell stories and we come home with a renewed appreciation for each other.

Now isn't that what baseball is all about, bringing families together?

I'm sure this was not my point when I started. I just got so bored thinking about baseball that I lost track.

ITALIA !ITALIA! ITALIA!

Mr. Yunioshi

I have a friend who has been earning his living as an actor in Hollywood for 25 years. He was born in Southeast Asia, moved to France, and then finally to the United States. Currently he has a recurring role on a hit network television show.

This friend is one of the nicest people I have ever had the pleasure to know. Nothing upsets him, nothing ruffles his feathers and he never has a bad word to say about anyone. Still there is one topic that makes him crazy: non-Asians playing Asians on the stage, screen or on the tube.

This sore point was revealed to me one day in the midst of a coast-to-coast webcam conversation. We were discussing one of our mutual obsessions, television. Unwittingly, I sailed into an underwater mine by bringing up Kung Fu.

“David Carradine?! Was there no Asian actor who could have played the role!?”

I quickly stopping myself from saying "I thought David Carradine was Asian." Instead I chose to right the ship and steer it into calmer waters. So I brought up a detective show that was on in 1975, Khan! It was set in San Francisco and was about a Chinese police detective. It only ran for four episodes. It starred Khigh Dheigh, who had also played Wo-Fat on Hawaii Five-O. I had unknowingly rammed the ship into an iceberg.

I soon got an education on Khan himself. It seems Khigh Dheigh (pronounced Kye Dee) wasn’t Asian, either. Though Dheigh spent most of his career playing Asians, he was in fact born Kenneth Dickerson in Spring Lake, N.J., of Anglo-Egyptian-Sudanese descent.

Thank God for George Takei. My friend, like myself, is a Star Trek fanatic and I knew for certain that Takei is a Japanese American. So we talked trek until his blood pressure dropped.

Who knew this was an issue?

My friend insists the worse example, the "unforgivable of unforgivables” is Mickey Rooney as Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Oddly enough, John Wayne as Genghis Khan in The Conqueror does not upset him nearly as much.

Honestly, I have a similar issue. It has to do with British actors playing Americans. I am not referring to this practice on BBC programming. But when Hollywood movies do it, that drives me nuts. My most hated example is Primary Colors, in which two of the three lead actors were British. Adrian Lester does a wonderful job as Henry Burton. But are there no young African American actors in this country? As for Emma Thompson, a woman I have great passion for both as a writer and as an actress, the inconsistency in her accent is noticeable. While her performance is wonderful, you can hardly help hearing her try.

Seeing as everyone in the world either openly or secretly wants to be an actor, it seems that Hollywood should be able to cast parts according to what the role demands.

Every once in awhile I will say to my friend over the webcam "Khigh Dhiegh" just to hear his screams. Still, karma is unavoidable. At 3:30 Saturday morning, while battling one of my famous bouts of insomnia, I saw that Anna and the King of Siam was starting. I believed it was the Jodie Foster/Yun-Fat Chow version, which I have never seen. I very quickly sat transfixed as the credits revealed that Anna was being played by Irene Dunne and the King of Siam was Rex Harrison. Rex Harrison? And the king's prime minister was Lee J. Cobb! I was now crazed. This was unimaginable to me. The next day I established my membership into ANAPAS, the Anti-Non-Asians Playing Asians Society.

My friend simply repeated the motto of the organization. "Mickey Rooney as Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffiany’s.”

We are getting T-shirts printed.

Stolidus Opus

Spock: "Don't grieve, Admiral. It is logical. The needs of the many outweigh..."
Kirk: "...the needs of the few."
Spock: "...Or the one."

Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan

Two weeks ago when I wrote Does this Make Cents?, I had written a history of the U.S. penny to be included in that post. But based on the context of that piece, I thought it would be better served as a seperate entry. After two weeks of fighting my obsession with a need for a complete history and the OCD that it manifests, I have realized the only person really interested in a complete history of the U.S. penny is me. For everyone else it would have been a Stolidus Opus, a dull work. So I put it to rest.




I am a coin collector. My first purchase was at 13 years old, it was an 1826 large head Liberty one cent piece.
The cost was $8.00. I was amazed that something so old was so relatively inexpensive. The dealer explained many of the reasons that make up a coins value. The metal content has a lot to do with its total price. Pennies, which were made of copper, tended to be the least expensive coins to acquire. This seemed like a great place to start. Years later when the Hunt brothers played their games with the silver market, many people including my parents sold the old silver coins that they had stashed in safes and shoe boxes. These coins, that helped mark the great mining strikes in the late 19th century, were melted away for the base metal value. History was being destroyed, and that drove me crazy. I was so glad to be a collector of pennies because their value historically would always outweigh their elemental worth.

History had been the reason I had bought that 1826 one cent piece in the first place. The idea that people unknown to me--some famous, some infamous, most probably average, but all certainly dead--had held the coin was magic to me. I am holding that very coin in my hand while I blog and it still thrills me. The power of numismatics.

So I guess that becomes my thought for today, that coins are a part of our history, that their value--monetary, metallic and historic--all change based on the economy, on the world market and the understanding of who we were, who we are and who we might become.

I would never forgive myself for totally removing the historical spin, so let me leave you with these quick notes.

The current design of the U.S. penny with Abraham Lincoln on its obverse was first minted in 1909 to mark the 100th anniversay of Lincoln's birth. U.S. coins had been minted since 1792, yet this was the first time a president's image appeared on a coin. 50 years later, the reverse of that coin was changed to include an image of the Lincoln Memorial, which did not exist in 1909. Next year will mark the 100th anniversary of the Lincoln one cent and the 200th anniversay of the birth of our 16th president. In commeration, four new Lincoln head pennies will be minted. I hope by not forcing the loyal readers of this blog to sit through the first 117 years of the U.S. penny, I have, like Mr. Spock, considered the needs of the many above the needs of one.

And speaking of one, here is one more thing: the U.S. Mint refers to the penny as a cent. Why we call it a penny, I will leave for another post...Damn, I did it again!

Born on the Fourth of July

For anyone who knows me personally or was a regular reader of my last foray into the Internet, or has stumbled upon the crypt where my archives forever reside like a zombie--neither dead nor alive--this topic may seem better suited for that old experiment.

The Fourth of July is just days away, and we celebrate it full force in our house.

I am always in awe of the machinations that went on in Philadelphia in summer of 1776. There is nothing harder then trying the untried. Still, the colonies had sent forth their best and brightest, and these men chose to set sail on uncharted seas.
Nothing was easy about this time; not the economics, the cultural differences in the colonies, or communication from city to city. But in Philadelphia that summer, these men convened to try and resolve a problem and instead became resolved to invent something that was totally new.

Though the documents that are the cornerstone of our "faith" in the United States evoke a supreme being, they are not religious tracts. They are secular pages which lay out the errors that were occurring at the time. Their writers suggested, established and began the groundwork for a unique idea of government.

I am not naive enough to accept the history of our creation from 1492 - 1789 with only glowing images of "upstanding people" rising above the crowd for the good of all. A simple review of this time will reveal the inconsistencies in our past. My favorites among these are that some of the earliest setlements in New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Connecticut were founded by people who had been banished from the Massachusetts colony for their religious practices. I know I don't need to underline the irony, but I will. The Massachusetts colony was founded when the pilgrims arrived looking for religious freedom.

The United States has always been an experiment from the earliest explorers searching, to the first settlers hoping, to the southern states seceding. All experimenting with the unknown and the untried. Sometimes we fail; quite often we succeed.

This November, we get a chance once again to do what millions wish they could. And that no one could before 1776. Voice their desires openly by casting a vote toward how they are governed.

This is as close as I will come to a political message. I don't care who you vote for, just make sure you vote. If you don't, you are forgetting the titanic accomplishments of that hot Philadelphia summer.

Having twice celebrated Independence Day in sweltering Philadelphia (during the age of air conditioning), our forefathers were not only bright. They were brave.

In late 1990, I sat with my wife in a doctor's office when he used his charts to tell us our second child would be born on June 30. I turned to my wife and said, "You'll wait four days, right honey?"

The doctor said, "Excuse me?!"

My wife turned to him. "He wants the baby to be born on the Fourth of July."

"You would want your wife to have to go around pregnant in the heat of the summer and for longer than she would have needed?" the doctor asked, shocked and disgusted.

"Uh, yeah!"

July 4th is my daughter's 17th birthday. Happy birthday, sweetheart!!

She was 10 before we could get her to understand the fireworks were not for her alone.

They are not for the United States alone either, they are for the world, as a reminder of possibilities.

Because that has always been the best part of the experiment, the possibilities.