Want to Make a Gun? It’s a Piece of Cake

21 Thursday Aug 2014

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Originally published December 12, 2012:

Drawing by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

On October 7, 2012, The New York Times ran an article discussing how 3-D printer technology is allowing us to make guns at home.  This flipped me out, because really, regardless of where one stands on the Second Amendment (the right of the people to keep and bear arms), and gun ownership laws, it does seem somewhat crazy that we are moving into an era where guns, like cakes, can be whipped up at home with a little push of the button. Talk about the Wild Wild West!

So I brought the article up with a couple of my colleagues at work – neither of whom were particularly bothered.  One guy said, “If a person is intent on killing, it is very difficult to stop them.  They will find a means to do so with whatever technology is available at the time.” And another guy said that you still need to understand how to assemble the gun, so we need not worry about our ten year olds readily printing a gun for a fun game of cops and robbers.

Well, great!

But what does it say about where we are going as a society?  The simple fact that homemade guns are coming to your local neighborhood – it just blew my mind.  I wrote the above, did a fast drawing that reflected how I saw the situation, and figured one day we’d post my thoughts on the blog.  But last Friday I was talking to a different colleague, and he said, “Do you know what one of the most watched YouTube videos is?” I wouldn’t know since I forget YouTube exists. He said there is a video online that directs you how to make a paper gun – a usable, workable device to kill someone, and it is one of the most popular, watchable, and shareable videos within the small domain of YouTube entertainment.

He shook his head in utter disgust and resignation, and then asked me if I had heard of the University of Colorado dormitory that is specially designated for college students. You know – 18-21 year olds. That own guns. (Hate to be there on a night of too much drinking.)

Wherever you look, the liberalization of gun laws, coupled with the constant progression of technology, is not making us safer. It is just making our society scarier. I grew up knowing a gun was a company-manufactured device sold through regulated retail outlets. There were laws that governed accessibility. I may not have been any “safer” than I am today, but it sure felt that way.

So how does this relate to being on the right side of 50?  Only that I have more years behind me to feel sad about the years ahead.

I Want What She Has: Big Muscles

20 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

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Originally published on December 11, 2012:

Muscle Chick by Julie Seyler

Muscle Chick, by Julie Seyler

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

When I was 12, I arm-wrestled a girl and lost. I had not entered puberty yet, and the girl had. As I remember, it wasn’t even close.  The girl, who was the same age as me, had initiated the match.  She asked me to show her my bicep muscle. Perhaps she was flirting, but I was oblivious. When I flexed my arm, practically nothing popped up. The girl smiled, suppressing a giggle. She also did not have a defined bicep, but she had a thick arm, and was simply much stronger than me at that age. From the moment she engaged her strength, and started to push against my hand, I simply could not stop her from pushing my pre-pubescent arm down to the desktop. She was proud of herself, and when we argued about anything thereafter, she would flex her arm and say, “Remember, I’m stronger than you.”

Soon after that, I entered puberty, and within 12 months, when I flexed my skinny arm, a hard, round muscle popped up. It was truly amazing to the girl. She knew that I had not started lifting weights, or even exercising.  Just on the basis of being a boy, I had developed a bulging bicep muscle bigger than hers.  And to add insult to injury, she found out when we had our re-match that I was now just a little bit stronger than her also.

I was never a gym rat in my teens and never had athlete-sized biceps. But like most men, I developed biceps in my teens that were bigger than those of the women I came across. While they were just average by male standards, I was confident that I was not going to lose a strength contest to any woman I might meet.

Then I hit 40. I noticed that my biceps did not have the peak they used to have when I flexed them. I noticed there was more fat on my arm covering the muscle.  By the time I hit 50, I noticed a decrease in arm strength.  Lifting heavy items to put them on a top shelf was not as easy as it used to be. I started to read articles in The New York Times and elsewhere that said I was losing one percent of my muscle mass each year. This was alarming.

And then I started noticing that many women were developing  biceps as large or larger than mine. I was walking in Midtown Manhattan one day, when I saw a young woman with biceps the size I had formerly only seen on men. These were not cute fitness biceps from aerobics; these were cannonball-sized guns on a beautiful woman.  And I loved them on her! And beyond that, I wanted them on me.

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Hanging On to (And Finally Letting Go of) the Chooba Diamond

19 Tuesday Aug 2014

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Originally published on December 5, 2012:

the chooba diamond- drawing by Julie Seyler

A Little Chooba Diamond on Her Hand.
Drawing by Julie Seyler

BY BOB SMITH

Have you ever heard of the Chooba diamond? I invented it when I was 11.
In 1965, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons had a pretty big hit on pop radio with a song called, “Let’s Hang On.” It’s a bouncy anthem about love gone wrong featuring Valli’s powerful falsetto, and one of the verses begins like this:

That little chip of diamond on your hand
Ain’t a fortune baby but you know it stands
For the love (A love to tie and bind ya)
Such a love (We just can’t leave behind us) …

The chorus exhorts the girlfriend to:

Hang on to what we’ve got
Don’t let go girl, we got a lot
Got a lotta love between us
Hang on, hang on, hang on
To what we’ve got.”

Somehow, I misunderstood the first line of that verse.  I thought Frankie said, “that little Chooba diamond on your hand,” instead of “chip of:”

I’d had zero experience with diamonds (or engagement rings, or girls, for that matter), so I  assumed Chooba was a designation of origin for a rare type of diamond unknown to me.  The “ain’t a fortune baby” line made sense because he did say “little,” after all.  So in my quaint understanding, Frankie had purchased an engagement ring for his girl set with a minuscule, but nonetheless highly-prized and mysterious, “Chooba diamond.”

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Summer Reruns

18 Monday Aug 2014

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Loand juleon vacation

When The Write Side of 50 launched in November 2012, Julie was recovering from hip replacement surgery and Lois stated often, that, unlike many people her age, she had never had back pain.

Well, twenty-one months later, Julie has a new hip that’s as good as new, has traveled to remote corners of the world, and may very well hold the record in all of Manhattan for museum, art house, and restaurant visits.

Lois has had back pain due to trauma for nine weeks now, has moved twice, and got a divorce.

And the blog has remained afloat. (In no small measure, thanks also to the contributions of Frank and Bob.)

But they need a real vacation – a veg-out; a brain and body recharge. Maybe even a departure from the grid entirely – no e-mails, no worries. A beach bingo.

So they put the blog in charge of itself for one week. Starting tomorrow, The Write Side of 50 will be reposting four of its favorite and most popular pieces from that first year.

And also worth repeating – thank you! to all readers, followers, and contributors.

Breaking News: Robin Williams’s Death Not Worthy of TV Interruption

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

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rwilliams3BY BOB SMITH

Last night we were on the couch watching TV. Alex Trebek had just announced the close of the initial Jeopardy round, when the network news logo suddenly flashed across the screen, accompanied by blasts of militaristic brass music and marching drums, and the words “SPECIAL REPORT” in red capital letters:

“We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this Special Report from ABC News,” said the announcer, as my heart upticked in anticipation.

Has one of the local wars around the world blossomed into a nuclear holocaust?

Has an assassin’s bullet found the president?

Is a major U.S. city a smoldering ruin thanks to a terrorist attack?

Involuntarily, my mind reeled back to that November afternoon more than 50 years ago, when TV brought us the stunning news that President Kennedy had been shot dead in Dallas. What new calamity could this be?

None of the above – a celebrity had died.

The announcer, a square-jawed 20-something guy in a somber suit and serious demeanor, stared reassuringly into the camera. His hair was piled high on his head – dense, yet richly textured – like a freshly-baked chocolate souffle.

“ABC News has learned that Robin Williams is dead,” he said. “The gifted comedian and actor, 63, was found at his Northern California home earlier today. He appears to have died of asphyxia but authorities have not confirmed that, or any further details on the circumstances of his death at this time.”

He went on to note Williams’s brilliant comic talent, his long and varied TV and movie career, and the fact that he had long struggled with drug and alcohol addictions and severe depression. The report concluded after two minutes with the announcer promising “further details as this shocking and saddening story unfolds.”

Really?

Look, I loved and admired Robin Williams as much as the next guy. It seems anyone with a glimmering of talent today is called a genius, but he was the real thing – a comic tsunami, a dead-on, rapid-fire impressionist with both precision timing, and wickedly hilarious things to say. Loved him.

But have we really become so frivolous as a society that the death of a comic actor – even a transcendently talented one like Robin Williams – is considered breaking news that merits stop-the-world treatment? Has Entertainment Tonight hijacked the news?

No disrespect to Robin, but except for his immediate family and friends, I don’t think any of us will recount, decades from now, exactly where we were and what we were doing when we learned of his passing.

We interrupt this blog to bring you a special report: Mrs. O’Toole’s cat is up a tree again. The fire department is on the scene with a ladder truck trying to effect the rescue. Now back to our regularly scheduled (escapist) programming.

Getting in Touch with My Inner Nascar Redneck

11 Monday Aug 2014

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photo 2By FRANK TERRANELLA

I think that we over 50s stay young through new experiences. You say you’ve never been scuba diving? Jump in, the water’s fine. Never been to the opera? No time like the present. Recently, I crossed an item off my bucket list. I attended my first NASCAR race.

Now some of you may be wondering why it took me 61 years to try the most popular spectator sport in America. My only defense is that I’m from New Jersey and there is no NASCAR in New Jersey, never has been. The closest racetrack for me is 90 minutes away in the Poconos. So unless you have family or friends who are fans, NASCAR is not on your radar in the state with the most roads per square mile in the nation.

Only recently has a New Jersey NASCAR fan become a friend. My daughter’s boyfriend has been going to NASCAR races since he was a boy. So when he mentioned that he and his family were heading out to Pocono Raceway for the weekend, I expressed a desire to go along. So my daughter and I got up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning and headed to Pennsylvania to meet up with her boyfriend’s family who had rented an RV and were waiting on the Pocono Raceway infield for us.

If you’ve ever been to a horse race, you know that there is a center portion of the track that is usually green but not inhabited by fans. Car racing is a bit different. First, the track is about twice the length of a horse track and the infield is accordingly much larger. In fact, it’s large enough to accommodate hundreds of RVs. This is like the biggest tailgate you could imagine. Everyone brings grills, lots of food and unimaginable quantities of beer. In fact, everything about car racing is supersized. The racing is like horse racing on steroids; the tailgating makes football fans look like rank amateurs. Even the crowds, in excess of 200,000, are far beyond any other spectator sport.

It took an hour, but my daughter and I finally reached her boyfriend’s RV parked on the track infield. The first item on the agenda was breakfast, and the bacon, eggs and sausage were among the tastiest I’ve ever had. We took a walk around and noticed RVs with satellite television and RV’s with rooftop terraces. We also noticed a lot of Confederate flags.

Now I would expect to see the stars and bars south of the Mason Dixon line, but we were in northern Pennsylvania, about 150 miles north of Gettysburg in fact. So the presence of large numbers of Confederate flags was puzzling. The cars in the parking lot did not indicate that Southerners had driven north for the race.

photo 4 (4)

No, I found out that the stars and bars has become the flag of Redneck Nation. People who simply identify themselves as rednecks fly the flag, in some cases totally ignorant of its historical significance as a flag of slavery for African Americans. And as I looked around, the only people of color I saw were security personnel. There were also far fewer women than men. It seems that NASCAR is a predominantly white male pastime. Fortunately, I fall into that demographic, at least on paper.

As race time came around, we all went to the fence separating the infield from the track and watched the cars whizz by. I have to say that I enjoyed the race itself and all the people we met were extremely friendly. I am glad that I went for the experience of it, just as I was glad that I visited the Guggenheim Museum the previous Sunday. I think that the overlap of customers at the two is probably quite small. But I’m glad that it includes me. In fact, I would not mind attending another NASCAR race in the future. But this weekend, I’m going to the National Gallery.