Category Archives: Men

A Courtroom Stop on Our Nationwide Trek

15 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by in Men, Travel

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

Mockingbird pic

The courthouse in Monroeville, Alabama, which was recreated in “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

There are a lot of lawyer stories on television, and in movies. Most of them are not very flattering. I think of TV shows like “L.A. Law” and “The Good Wife.” Lawyers are often called upon to do the most unpleasant things for us. They sometimes have to act like monsters, so we don’t have to. It’s no wonder the public has such a poor perception of lawyers. And yet, the practice of law can be an honorable, even a noble, profession.

Exhibit A is a Southern lawyer with the unlikely name of Atticus Finch, the protagonist of Harper Lee’s book, “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Now, there is no nobler lawyer in American literature than Atticus Finch. His demeanor, intelligence and ethical values are what many lawyers aspire to, but seldom match.

Atticus doesn’t want his children to have guns and doesn’t have a gun in his house, but when a rabid dog needs to be put down, the police chief calls on “deadeye” Atticus to make the shot. He accepts payment from poor farmers in produce. He is known far and wide as a fair man. That reputation gets him appointed counsel for a client that no one else would represent – a poor black man in Depression-era Alabama, who is accused of raping a white girl.

If you’ve seen the marvelous 1962 movie starring Gregory Peck, no further explanation of the story is needed. If you haven’t, I envy you the thrill of meeting Atticus Finch for the first time.

A few years ago, my wife and I were touring the Southeast as part of our decade-long plan to visit every state in the nation. We learned that the courthouse in Monroeville, Alabama was the one that was recreated in Hollywood for the movie. That’s because Monroeville is the home, to this day, of Harper Lee. She grew up just a couple of blocks away.

As we headed South on I-65 from Montgomery on our way to New Orleans, we took a slight detour to visit the old Monroe County Courthouse. It’s now a museum, full of items that lawyers of Atticus Finch’s time would have used. The museum is nice, but the star attraction is the old courtroom itself. It looks exactly like the movie, since Henry Bumstead, the art director on the film, came there, and took pictures, and made drawings, so that he could reproduce it in Hollywood.

As you walk into the courtroom, you can just imagine yourself in a scene from the movie. Fortunately, it is possible to climb the stairs up to the balcony, where the less prominent citizens, including children, could watch the proceedings.

In the story, Jem and Scout (children of Atticus), and their friend Dill (who Harper Lee based on her childhood friend Truman Capote), sit on the floor of the balcony, dangling their legs through the wooden supports that make up the balcony railing. The accused’s family sits nearby, along with their minister. Pat at Mockingbird My wife and I were able to sit and get a Scout’s-eye view of the courtroom. It was a surprisingly moving experience.

But that’s the power of good storytelling.

And they do more than just have the setting for “To Kill a Mockingbird” in Monroeville. Every summer, they actually populate the courthouse with actors, and put on a play-version of the story. The audience gets to sit in the spectator portion of the courtroom, while the actors stage the trial. It’s the hottest ticket in Alabama.

In the story, Atticus puts on a splendid defense for his client, Tom Robinson, after which, with head held high, he packs up his briefcase and heads for the door. Tom Robinson’s family waits for Atticus to gather his things and stands in silence while he walks to the exit. In a show of the depth of the respect for Atticus in the community, the minister prods the Finch children to, “Stand up. Your father’s passing.”

Can you imagine a lawyer today being that beloved?

Want a Classy Name? Put an “E” on It

11 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by in Concepts, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , ,

Bob estates

BY BOB SMITH

The people who name residential and retail developments always pick names that sound classy – or at least that they think will sound classy to the rest of us. For instance, if there’s a stream of any kind flowing near the property, they include the term “brook” in the title. And if they really want to be fancy, they spell it “brooke.” They seem to think that the linguistic extravagance of having a useless, silent vowel at the ends of words screams opulence:

“Hey – we know there’s an extraneous ‘e’ there, but dammit, we can afford it.”

If there’s a bridge across the “brooke,” then the namer has two choices. The first is to coin a “bridge” word by pairing it with any descriptive, or other cool-sounding term (e.g., Woodbridge, Westbridge, Longbridge, Cambridge, Bumbridge, etc.). The beauty of “bridge” is that it comes with its own silent, trailing “e,” so it pairs well with the other pretentious words in the name.

Then couple your newly-minted, “bridge” word with another term that purports to describe the nature of the homes being offered for sale, such as “Estates,” “Manor,” or the highfalutin, “Mews.” I can see “Estates” and “Manor” evoking luxury, since both terms refer to pieces of real estate owned by feudal lords – although I doubt any self-respecting lord, feudal or otherwise, would stoop to live in a McMansion on a quarter-acre lot in New Jersey.

But “mews?” In British usage, the word means stables built around a small street, or a street having small apartments converted from such stables, neither of which seem like particularly enviable places to live, unless you’re a horse. On the other hand, it could make for a pleasant-sounding, vaguely evocative name:”Neighbridge Mews.”

The other option for naming a development, including any kind of bridge, is to pick an upscale term for “bridge,” and feature that up front: “The Crossings at _____.” You could even double down on the bridge theme, and construct a name like, “The Crossings at Neighbridge Mews.” Or throw in another extra “e” word for good measure: “The Crossings at Neighbridge Mews Pointe.” Fun, isn’t it?

The same basic rules apply to naming retail areas: “old” becomes “olde,” “center” is “centre,” and “town” becomes “towne.” They’re all pronounced the same as the lower-class versions, but because of the trailing “e,” they’re classier, and just plain better. And of course, if there are any stores in the center of this old town, they’re not “shops,” but “shoppes.”

Here’s the lineup the developers want you to expect, depending on the spelling:

Olde Brooke Towne Centre Shoppes: Tiffany jewelry store, yogalates studio, organic vegan wrap and smoothie bar, a full-menu Starbucks, and hand-crafted, boutique clothing by Zoe, tastefully presented in an exclusive, village-like cluster of gleaming mahogany and glass storefronts. All on the banks of a pristine stream filled with darting minnows, dotted with stepping stones, and spanned by a carved teak footbridge.

Old Brook Town Center Shops: a 1970s vintage strip mall featuring, Pawn It – We Buy Gold, a mani/pedi joint called Nail Me, deli/newsstand, 24-hour laundromat, and a concrete bunker with welded steel cages on the windows and the words, “Check Cashing / Payday Loans,” in five-foot-high letters dominating the entire side wall of the building.

The bail bondsman’s office is just around the corner, downstairs from the Happy Lucky Massage Parlor, and next door to the Amble Inn Bar. All bordered by a weedy trench, filled with sludgy goop sprouting a rusting refrigerator door, old sneakers, and puddles of fluorescent fluid, that in some alternate universe passes for water.

Where would you rather shoppe? Pointe taken.

Hold the Flowers. It Might Snow

10 Thursday Apr 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

flowers in snow

Springtime in New Jersey.

BY ANTHONY BUCCINO

When cherry blossoms bloom in Belleville Park, it’s time to put away the snow blower. Usually by this time of April, in Belleville and Nutley, we watch the falling cherry blossoms and think, oh, they’re like little pink snowflakes. But this year, things have changed. We predict snow falling just once more.

Can anyone blame us? It seems like we’ve endured the winter of “Dr. Zhivago” here in the Northeast. Don’t bother me with the old, “We’ve had worse winters with more snow.”

That’s all ancient history. What matters is right here, right now. Will it snow again before the May flowers bloom?

This was the winter we finally made up our mind that we were going to do it. Yup, this was going to be the year of the snow blower for us. Too bad we dallied when we should have dillied. We got hit with the first snow storm before we made it to the store. As soon as we recovered from shoveling, and clearing our driveway apron a few times, we headed to the nearby big box store.

It was easy to spot the snow blower section. It was the rows of empty racks with little picture cards of what snow blowers would look like if they had any in stock. Stealthily, we eavesdropped as the man in the orange apron explained to a befuddled snow-shoveler the subtle differences between the petite, sissy snow throwers, and the humongous, super-charged blowers that will toss snow over your rooftop onto the path of that annoying neighbor so he’ll think it’s still snowing.

As soon as that dolt shuffled off, it was our turn to be tutored. The man in the orange apron patiently went through the differences between the wimpy and the walloping snow movers.

You got your sizes: 21″, 24″, 28″, 30″. You got your stages: Single-stage, gas-quick, chute snow blower; two-stage, electric-start gas, and three-stage, electric-start gas. You got your accessories: heated handle, shear pin kit, clean-out spade tool, silicone lubricant, snow blower cover, engine additive – fuel stabilizer, oil – synthetic, gasoline, and a heavy-duty, floor-protective mat.

And while we actually began to understand what he was saying, in the end, there were none in the store. He suggested we order online.

We hadn’t been that excited tracking a delivery in 33 years. This time they delivered it to our door. The crates go to a local service shop for assembly, and then delivery to eager new parents, er, owners. We have to say the guy was thorough explaining everything from the forward speeds, reverse, chute direction, on-off switch, pump-primer, pull cord, and where the extra shear pins were for when our big blade tries to throw the ice block of our newspaper.

Dang. We couldn’t wait for it to snow. And so it snowed.

Dang. We couldn’t wait for it to stop snowing.

For years, whenever it snowed, we’d wait until our neighbor finished snow blowing his walks, then he’d hand it off, still running. He moved down the Shore last year, and we couldn’t really expect him to bring his snow blower up, and clear the snow for the new owner, now, could we? They were nice neighbors, but, apparently, not that nice.

The perception is that a snow blower makes clearing snow easy and fun. And you’ll be so popular with your neighbors when you do their walks because, no, you’re not a nice guy, you haven’t figured how to stop, and turn around, so you go all the way around the block.

The reality is that it’s more like plowing the south 40 acres behind an ornery mule. It’s great on a straight run, but try turning that baby, or backing up, or squeaking past the cars parked in the driveway. Not to mention the trudge across the deep snow to the storage shed to get out a shovel to clear out the doorway to get the snow blower out to start it. Yikes.

And don’t forget the fun clearing the driveway apron over and over with each pass of the town plow. We’re sure the plows carry an additive that makes apron snow heavier, colder and wetter than real snow anywhere else.

After several snow falls, we’d worn a path through the snow to the shed. Our technique in clearing apron snow has been nominated for an award for our precision directing the chute to toss across our cleared walk, and create a four-foot decorative berm on our lawn.

Sure, we’ve had worse winters. One winter started so early the autumn leaves weren’t cleared until March along with the wooden-stick deer and Santa ornaments on our lawn. That was then. This is now. When this last spring snow falls, we’ll be right over to do your walk. As soon as we remember how to start this thing. anthony snowblower

Weddings Today: Short on Ceremony, Long on Food Stations

07 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by in Concepts, Men

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Frank wedding cake

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

I had an interesting cultural experience recently when I attended a wedding of two friends of my daughter. Since these were not relatives, and in fact were people I hardly knew, I was able to sit back and take a dispassionate look at the state of wedding culture today. Being over 60 gives me the perspective of a parent, and the fact that I still have an unmarried daughter adds some relevance to the matter.

You should know up front that this was an Italian wedding, though not the Italian Football Wedding Pat Cooper spoofed 50 years ago. This was a classy affair in a high-rent-district wedding facility. But years ago, this would have been the site of just the reception after a church wedding. Now, it housed both the wedding and the reception. That’s because many young people no longer want to jump through the hoops required by the Catholic Church to receive the sacrament of matrimony. So they forego the sacramental church wedding and are married by a deacon or justice of the peace. That’s a fundamental change over the past 40 years.

So everyone gathers for the ceremony in a chapel provided by the facility. The ceremony is short and sweet:
Do you take him?
Do you take her?
You’re married!

And of course, the last thing the presider at a wedding always says no matter whether it’s in church or on a beach is, “You may kiss the bride.”
Frank wedding article
So we always have the money shot of the two people kissing just before they head down the aisle.

This time, as I watched the bride and groom kiss, suddenly the words of the Paul Williams song made famous by the Carpenters started playing in my mind, “A kiss for luck and we’re on our way.” The bride and groom bound down the aisle, but no one throws anything anymore. Years ago, people threw rice, and later, the more ecologically-minded moved to birdseed and bubbles. Now we seem to have given up on it altogether. That’s fine with me. Let the cocktail hour begin!

So we all walked over to a nearby hall where the latest wedding innovation was in evidence – stations. Where we once had cocktails at a bar while waiters roamed with hors d’oeuvres, now we have a shellfish station, a meat station, a salad station, a pasta station. At this wedding, there was even a sliders station. I think stations are a big improvement over the old days. In fact, I ate so much at this cocktail hour I would have been happy to proceed directly to the dessert table.

But after an hour of drinks and great food, we headed to yet another room where tables were set up for dinner. We were seated close to the music. The music these days is mostly deejays. All the music is in their computer and so they can please just about every musical taste. I do miss live bands though. They were often mediocre and wedding singers were hit and miss. But every once in a while you got a great band, and that’s when you really appreciated live music. No matter how loud the deejay makes his music, it doesn’t compare with a live guitar, drums or trumpet. I think the convenience of a deejay, and the vast variety of music they can play is helping them drive wedding bands out of business. Anyway, these days I’m stoked when I see that a wedding features a live band.

Despite all the changes in wedding culture over the years, most weddings I have been to recently still feature the obligatory dances with the bride’s father and the groom’s mother. And most also still have a ceremonial cutting of the wedding cake. Although the nonsense with the garter seems to have thankfully faded away.

The finale to a modern wedding is the Venetian Table, which usually features just about every dessert known to man. Here, again, we have stations like the chocolate station, the pastry station, the cake station and the ice cream station. As someone with a gigantic sweet tooth, I give the modern wedding dessert festival two sticky thumbs up. The dessert table brings the wedding festivities to a close for people my age, though younger guests dance until the deejay closes up shop.

We as a society devote a lot of time and money to weddings. In fact, it’s an industry unto itself. But at the end of it, what matters is whether the bride and groom are willing to work at being a team, respect each other and live together in harmony. Everyone who has been married knows how tough it can be at times, but if you work hard, with a little luck, you end up with a life partner. That reminds me of another song. If memory serves me it was written by Carole King. It says, “I know that each of us is all alone in the end, but the trip still seems less dangerous when you’ve got a friend.” And that’s why we get married.

On a Dock, With New Perspective

03 Thursday Apr 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , ,

Bob on dock

BY BOB SMITH

It’s funny how time can change your perspective. In 1968 I was a 13-year-old high school freshman just starting to wonder about my place in the world. Although full of energy and enthusiasm, I was also plagued by the usual teenage insecurities. I wore my hair long, and smoked pot, so I could fit in with the nonconformist “hippie” crowd, whose approval I coveted. I cursed the blotches of acne that were starting to bloom on my chin and cheeks, and I worried about being too chubby to be attractive to the girls in my class.

Still, while the insecure teenage-me sought acceptance, and feared failure, at my core, I firmly believed that anyone could succeed if only they worked hard enough. I thought things could never get so bad that you couldn’t find some good in any situation. That life was never hopeless; that dreams never died.

In January of that year, the Otis Redding song, “(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay,” was released, and by March, it had reached the top of the pop charts. Part of the song’s appeal was the tragic story behind it: Redding and five of his bandmates all had died in a plane crash on December 10, 1967, just two days after putting the final touches on the recording. The song has since been covered by many other artists, and it’s been replayed endlessly over the years. In fact, in 1999, BMI declared it the sixth most performed song of the twentieth century, with six million performances.

But in 1968, I hated it. There I was, ready (or so I thought) to embark on the terrifying and wonderful adventure of adulthood, hearing this hit song about a guy who had nothing better to do than ” … sittin’ on the dock of the bay wastin’ time.” It seemed like a woefully misguided ode to indolence, glorifying defeatist behavior that I had been taught to condemn rather than applaud. This song seemed to fly in the face of all my beliefs, and I just couldn’t accept it.

The first verse sums up his day:

Sittin’ in the morning sun.
I’ll be sittin’ when the evening comes.
Watching the ships roll in,
Then I watch them roll away again.

I pictured some bum dozing in a daze of creosote fumes against the greasy piling of a California pier, doing zilch all day long. Oh no – not nothing – he’s listlessly noting the comings and goings of “ships” like fishing boats, freighters, and ferries piloted by people who have actual jobs, and some sense of purpose in their lives. A couple of verses later, he says he roamed “two thousand miles just to make this dock his home.”

Why, I thought, would anyone in their right mind leave a home in Georgia to live on a San Francisco dock steeped in the reek of rotting fish and seaweed?

Fast forward 45 years or so, and a sampling of life in those intervening decades: A lost love or two, plus a whole host of unrealized dreams that withered, not for lack of trying or faith, but simply in the harsh light of reality. Chances are, I’m not going to be a rock star, astronaut, Olympic athlete, world-renowned poet, or any of a dozen other things I might have considered within the realm of possibility when I was young. Throw in relatives and friends who have passed on – sometimes after wrestling long and hard with diseases you wouldn’t wish on a dog – and top it off with random natural disasters that destroy man and man-made things alike with impunity at the drop of a hat.

So the more tolerant, late-50s, me brings a far different context to the song. “(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay” now seems less the empty lament of a dissolute ne’er-do-well than a bittersweet mourning of the passage of worthy, yet unattainable, dreams, and one man’s peaceful acceptance of that fact. Loss doesn’t make you a loser; it’s just part of life. And sometimes, just sitting there resting your bones, watching the mad parade pass by, can be the most peaceful, and productive, way to spend your time.

Let’s Do as the Danish Do: Raise Taxes for Free Health Care

31 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by in Concepts, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

taxes 3

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

I filed my income taxes this week. I have always thought that the two most patriotic things that most Americans can do are vote and pay your taxes. These days, most Americans don’t vote, and the common wisdom for the past 40 years is that income taxes are too high. This, despite the fact that the richest Americans today pay less than half of what they paid in the 1950s. The ridiculously low income tax rates we have today account for the reason why our health care system is in a shambles.

As I edge my way ever closer to Medicare eligibility, I have to marvel at how dysfunctional America is when it comes to health care. The news from Washington is that 6 million people have signed up for Obamacare, while a new poll shows that 41% of Americans would like it to be repealed. After spending some time recently discussing health care with people in Denmark, I am convinced we are on the wrong track. And the tragedy is we could have avoided all this by simply phasing in Medicare for everyone over a 10-year period. But that might have required raising taxes.

Denmark, like most other developed nations, provides basic health care for free to everyone. It is paid for out of taxes. And if you want to see a Dane get agitated, mention income taxes. They pay roughly double what we pay. But ask them if it’s worth it and they will tell you that, by and large, it is. Oh sure, there are waiting lists for some elective surgery. But when a medical emergency hits, Danes know they don’t have to worry. It’s going to be paid for. They will not be bankrupted by a long hospital stay.

In fact, the only bad thing Danes seem to say about their health care system is that it’s too good. By that they mean it’s so good that people from poorer countries like Romania are flocking to Denmark to take advantage of Danish generosity. As I listened to some Danish women explain this to me, I immediately thought about the way some Americans talk about immigrants, particularly from Latin America, who come to the United States to collect welfare. The difference is that in the United States we have just about dismantled the welfare system, and people are falling through economic catastrophe without a safety net. And we have an army at our Southern border with orders to stop anyone who tries to cross without a visa.

Meanwhile, in Denmark, no matter how much they resent poor people coming to their country for the social benefits, they have not dismantled their social safety net. And because they are part of the European Community, they can’t legally stop the immigration. And some Danes actually see value for their country in allowing immigration. It provides talent and ambition that have always been the lifeblood of any progressive society. They see what America has done as akin to cutting off your nose to spite your face.

Obamacare will not solve America’s health care crisis because it starts from the wrong premise. It doubles down on the system we already have where insurance companies are given the role of health care gatekeeper. Capitalism is so out of control in this country that many Americans actually believe that it’s a good idea to have profit-making companies in a position to decide what medical test you can get. They complain bitterly about a government takeover of health care and actually prefer to have insurance companies in charge. Danes look at this and shake their heads. Why would anyone want a company that has an interest in allowing you as little health care as possible be in charge of health care, they asked me. These companies have a conflict of interest. Isn’t it better to have a neutral government official in that role?

I could not defend our system, except to say that it works very well for rich people. Those who can afford the best insurance here will get excellent health care – better than they would get in Denmark. But for the rest of us, the present system sucks, and Obamacare is not likely to make it much better.

After my conversations in Denmark, I am convinced that the only solution is higher taxes. That’s right, higher taxes. Americans have to get over the hysteria about taxes and see the long-term benefits of not having to worry about a tsunami of a co-pay that we all are one illness away from. And while we’re raising those taxes, let’s make state universities free for eligible students and liberate young people from a lifetime of debt. That’s another good idea we could borrow from Denmark.

Casino Ads Omit the True Gamble of the Game

27 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by in Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

bob casino

BY BOB SMITH

Occasionally (once a year, maybe), I’ll go to a casino, and throw away a bunch of money at blackjack or craps in exchange for the enticing illusion that the piles of money under the dealer’s fingertips could be mine if only my luck would hold. On any given visit, I’ll burn up two or three hundred dollars before I get disgusted, and acknowledge the cold reality I’ve known all along – you can’t win.

Oh, you might be ahead for a short time, but that’s the tease; the fantasy. You believe it can go on forever, when clearly it can’t. There are odds built into every casino game that guarantee the casino a winning edge. There’s no doubt that if you play long enough, eventually, you’ll lose.

This past November, New Jersey made it legal for the Atlantic City casinos to offer online gaming in an effort to enhance the struggling casinos’ bottom line. Although, so far, the revenue has fallen short of expectations, New Jersey casinos generated an estimated $8 million from online gambling in the first six weeks of the program. And it’s expected to grow from there.

The problem I have with this new extension of New Jersey’s gambling industry is the advertising. In one TV ad, a cool-looking young guy saunters through an ornate casino, singing a jingle set to the tune of “Luck Be A Lady Tonight.” Dressed in a slick, dark Rat-Pack suit, he confidently croons, “I’m playing blackjack online. I’m playing roulette online. Feeling like a mogul hittin’ jackpots on my mobile. I’m playing Caesar’s online!”

Attractive, young women in the casino gaze seductively at him as he strolls by, and the ad ends with him on a red couch cozying up to his very own smokin’ hot brunette in a miniskirt. They’re in front of a blazing fireplace, with a PC opened on her lap, presumably to the Caesar’s online gaming site.

Come on. Feeling like a mogul? Last time I checked, “mogul” was defined (on dictionary.com) as,”an important, powerful, or influential person.” You know – like Donald Trump. Does anyone dream that The Donald sits around playing slot machines, whether online, on a brunette’s lap, or otherwise?

I recall another TV ad for New Jersey online gaming that shows a man with a laptop sitting by himself on a couch in his home. He clicks onto an online gaming site, and suddenly he’s no longer alone, but rather surrounded by all the accoutrements of a bustling casino: a buxom waitress in a bustier with a tray of drinks, a maitre’d offering up a plate overflowing with a juicy steak, a dealer offering up a card with a wink and a smile, a crowd of friends cheering behind him, and slapping his back.

But the reality is that when you’re gambling online, you’re alone. You’re watching cards appear on the screen, and anxiously monitoring your corresponding bank of money, hoping to make the number go up. It’s just you, your dwindling bank account, the lonely clicking of your mouse, and those inexorable odds.

There are an estimated 350,000 compulsive gamblers in New Jersey alone. By now, everyone knows that gambling is as addictive, and potentially as destructive, as tobacco, drugs, and alcohol. Yet while advertising for booze and cigarettes is closely regulated, and requires warnings about the serious health hazards of using those products, gaming seemingly gets a free pass. The ads for online gaming are filled with misleading images of happy people winning money and frolicking in an imaginary casino as they rack up jackpots online. Without any hint that losing is at least a possibility (indeed, a mathematical certainty), isn’t that false advertising?

It’s ironic that the Caesar’s ad, relentlessly upbeat, uses the tune from “Luck Be A Lady,” a song in which Sky Masterson, a hard-core gambler, pleads with lady luck not to desert him, and laments her “very un-ladylike way of running out.” Similarly, there should be a prominent disclaimer at the end of every casino gaming ad that goes something like this: “WARNING – The results shown are not typical.
Most people who engage in casino gambling will lose money.”

It’s a pretty low standard – let’s hold the casinos to the same standard of honesty as the Broadway show tune whose lyrics they’d like us to ignore.

Travel Perks: A Castle, A Fortress, Some Meatballs, and a Fountain (Of Youth)

26 Wednesday Mar 2014

Posted by in Men, Travel

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , ,

Elisnore Castle

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

The beauty of travel is that it breaks the monotony that life can become. We are all creatures of habit, and our natural tendency is to do what we have done before. Travel takes us away from what we always do, and challenges us to adapt to something new. It’s not really hard since human beings are kinda great at adapting (when we have to).

Recently, I had to travel to Europe on business. The great part is that I have relatives in Copenhagen. So after the business was done, I was able to enjoy some time with them. Early on the morning of my last day there, my cousin picked me up at my hotel, and we headed north from Copenhagen about 45 kilometers to a town that English speakers call Elsinore, but the Danes call Helsingor. If the name Elsinore sounds vaguely familiar, it’s probably because Shakespeare set one of his most famous plays there. Elsinore is the hometown of Hamlet, fictional prince of Denmark. And the Danes have accommodated tourists by actually building a castle there.

But that wasn’t the principal reason for us to go to Helsingor. It’s a charming little village with lots of very old buildings, stores, and an ancient church to visit. And it has a twin city in nearby Sweden.

So since I had never been to Sweden before, we first got on the ferry to Sweden. The ferry was named (wait for it) the Hamlet. It’s only a 20-minute ride, and the town in Sweden where you land is a village called Helsingborg (apparently some guy named Helsing was a big shot around these parts).

FortressHelsingborg features a medieval-looking fortress at the top of a hill from where we got a great view of the town and the harbor. Of course, after that much exercise, two 60-something guys were ready for lunch. We could have played it safe with burgers at the Helsingborg McDonalds or KFC, but we opted for the challenge of local fare instead. We found a tiny restaurant that had a sign outside advertising their Swedish meatballs special. So we went in, and ordered it. Now, I had never before had the opportunity to have Swedish meatballs. Swedish meatballsIt’s not common fare where I live (outside of my local Ikea). And truth be told, I am not a very adventurous eater. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to have my first Swedish meatballs in Sweden. Of course they were absolutely delicious. We were both glad we decided to take a chance.

My trip to the twin cities of Helsingore and Helsingborg brought home how valuable it is for people our age to put ourselves into situations that force us to break out of the everyday way of doing things. And of course, it wasn’t just the Swedish meatballs. It’s not everyday I climb a fortress in Sweden, and tour cities that were around in Shakespeare’s time. It’s unusual for me to be in two countries where the native languages are ones I do not speak. And during the business portion of the trip, I taught a seminar in English to Danish-speaking students. For me, it was a step outside my comfort zone because I don’t normally address an audience in my job.

However, I think that doing these sorts of things keep us young. So there was a real therapeutic benefit to the trip. And in addition to eating Swedish meatballs in Sweden, I got to eat Danish for breakfast in Denmark!

Color Blind

25 Tuesday Mar 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Ken Art 2

BY KENNETH KUNZ

When I reached my senior year of undergraduate studies, I moved into an old duplex that was probably built in the late 19th or early 20th century. There was an even older cemetery out back, which was cool since we knew our backyard neighbors would not be complaining about any commotion that might ensue from the revelry of a house filled with college students. I moved there on a recommendation of a friend, as it would be the first time in my entire life that I’d have the opportunity to have my own room! Growing up with three brothers meant shared space. That was followed by sharing a dorm room, and then other rooms in other boarding houses. This was a luxury indeed! Funny how that was so special then.

At any rate, I settled in, and somewhere in the ensuing months a new housemate moved in. Some of the men in the house were closely acquainted with him from around campus, but I had only a slightly more-than-casual relationship with him. After a few days of living together, I realized the kinship we were developing was, at least on my part, due to the fact that he so much reminded me of my oldest brother, who was, and remains, one of my role models and heroes. So when people asked me how the new housemate was, I responded that he was just like my older brother. They would ask – how could that be?

Oh, did I forget to mention that my housemate is a man of color? I have done that a lot over the years. How could a black dude remind you of your brother? What??? I was exasperated. In Facebook/Twitter/Text Speak, I was SMH (Shaking My Head). Paid them no never mind. That housemate remains one of my closest and dearest friends to this day. (The subject of college buddies, by the way, is another story … stay tuned.)

Recently, this friend’s lovely daughter, and her children, were in a grocery store checkout line, and the cashier commented that she thought, “Mulatto kids are the most beautiful.” Oh wait, something else I forget to relate – my friend’s daughter has bi-racial parents. I forgot because her mom and dad have always been just my friends – skin pigmentation was never an issue.

So my friend’s grandchildren obviously have a bi-racial genetic makeup. (They are friggin’ gorgeous, by the way.) But mulatto? Last time I heard that term used I think I was in grammar school – that was over 50 years ago for Christ’s sake. The cashier did note that her “granddaughter is mulatto, too.”

Not that the term is a slur or anything, and I really don’t believe the cashier had any overt ill intent in what she said, but she, like those who queried me on my housemate so many years ago, and too many others of that ilk, all retain that subtle bias that seems to simmer at the rim of our society. I was fortunately raised to forgo skin color when evaluating folks, and I still do. But it is frustratingly disturbing, and disheartening, to realize that after all these years, and often so close to my heart, I see instances of the racial divide all too much for my digestion – both mental and gastric.

A well known, though perhaps not so venerated man named King (Rodney), once pleaded for us all to “just get along.” Wish we would. We surely could. We seem to be more influenced by, “just do it,” and deep-seated negative tendencies than by striving to love one another. So much easier to love than hate – to any degree.

Hey, I am no saint. I fall prey to jokes I should disdain. I fight off certain feelings about certain people. My snob index rises sometimes, even though I know I am really not better than anyone else. But when I wholeheartedly have a dislike for folks, it is based on who they are, and not what they look like. That I have down pat. And I will continue to try to improve in my dealings with fellow citizens of Earth.

People all over the world,
Join hands.
Start a love train, love train.

I’m a Stage 4. I’m Santa Claus

18 Tuesday Mar 2014

Posted by in Concepts, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

santa

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

If you’re like me, you receive a ton of junk email every day. A lot of it still comes via U.S. mail. Most of it now comes via e-mail. While it’s rare to receive a harmful junk mail from your mail carrier, our email is full of potential viruses and dangerous offers.

Many of us have friends who forward stuff they find interesting. One of those emails recently included the following:

THE FOUR STAGES OF LIFE:
1) You believe in Santa Claus.
2) You don’t believe in Santa Claus.
3) You are Santa Claus.
4) You look like Santa Claus.

I was struck with the profound truth of this. The very young are in Stage 1, and cross over to Stage 2 when they go to school and talk to the big kids (or their older brothers). You stay in Stage 2 until you have children, and then, suddenly, you cross over to Stage 3. And when you get to the right side of 50, the odds are you cross over to Stage 4. OK, only some of us make it to Stage 4, but put a white wig and beard on me, and I’m Santa.

All this is just another reminder of the journey we all make as we age. Looking back, it’s been an interesting trip, and I have enjoyed each of the four stages, but particularly the first and third. However, I wonder whether somewhere on the road ahead is a Stage 5, where due to senility, I return to Stage 1. That would really be the circle of life.