tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91245419659016259332023-11-15T07:14:46.920-08:00The Barbecued Manatee Cafe!(No actual manatees were harmed in the construction of this blog!)Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-25684175701627036122011-12-19T19:06:00.000-08:002011-12-19T20:55:05.009-08:00Saab StorySo Saab automobiles are no more. The company filed for bankruptcy today, with liquidation the probable outcome. As the smaller of Sweden's two car companies slowly disappears from the roads, a little piece of my heart goes with it.<div><br /></div><div>It's no secret that I've been a car nut for much of my life. But unlike most of my contemporaries, I never cared for the muscle cars, the Mustangs, Camaros and the like. No, for me, the appeal was always the odd little Eurocars, the ones that prized handling over brute force, balance over mere horsepower. The ones that dared to be different. Saabs fit that mold perfectly.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I still remember the day in 1979 I first discovered the marque. It was a gray, rainy day in Dayton, Ohio. I was on Christmas break from college, and my aging, rattletrap '70 VW Beetle needed some work. So off I went to one of Dayton's several VW dealers to subject both car and nearly empty (student) wallet to the whims of the service department.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I had time to kill, so I wandered into the showroom. Turns out the dealer carried two brands. Certainly the VW side had some appealing little cars -- Sciroccos, Dashers and Rabbits. But my eye was quickly drawn by something I'd never actually seen in the metal before -- a Saab.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course I'd read about the odd little beasts all the car magazines described as "quirky," but I hadn't actually seen one up close. This one was a five door (four doors plus hatchback) 900 EMS -- Electronic (fuel injection) Manual (transmission) Sport. One look and I was hooked.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to say it was a Saab-specific shade of green, but if I recall correctly, it had burgundy cloth upholstery, so probably not. It could have been the gray that the company called "rose quartz." No matter. I was a fan for life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, the quirks were there, all right. The curved windshield. The ignition key between the bucket seats. The seats themselves, looking like something out of a Swedish furniture store. I loved them all.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember the price on the sticker too -- $10,000. At a time when the Scirocco across the room was selling for about $4,500, this was a small fortune. But I said to myself I'd have one someday.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few years later, I found myself working with a friend who drove a 900. It was nothing fancy, the base model, a kind of pastel yellow with a fair-sized dent in one side. I would have traded my two year old Civic for it in a heartbeat.</div><div><br /></div><div>It got better. She traded the yellow one in for a sleek, black 900 Turbo -- the ultimate Saab at the time. I drooled over that one too.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward a few years. I'd actually test-driven a few 900s by this point, so I knew what to expect, but never could quite find the right one. In the meantime, I'd switched careers, married and moved to southern Ohio. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then came the day Exec Chef Heatherann and I went out for a little drive. I picked her up at work on a Sunday morning after she had worked a 12-hour night shift. We headed into Huntington, W.Va., and as we passed the Toyota dealer, there it was -- a baby blue 1986 3-door 900 hatchback. This was the one.</div><div><br /></div><div>And it was. An $1,800 bank loan, another trip to Huntington and it was ours. We'd been looking to replace the Civic, which was on its last legs by then anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>From a driver's perspective, the car was everything I'd hoped it would be. It was truly the fulfillment of an automotive dream. It was wonderful -- until the air conditioning broke.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was the beginning of the downfall of Baby Blue. We spent a small fortune at the dealer trying to get the a/c fixed. The dealership spent at least an equal amount of their own trying to get it right. They really tried their best. But it seemed as soon as one part of the system was fixed, something else broke.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then we moved to Florida. A/C became critical. And by this point, about four years in, other things began to break too. Expensive things. Things that required tow trucks and rental cars. Things that required parts shipped from Sweden. Things our bank account couldn't quite handle.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last straw was when the car broke down as H.A. was driving to meet me for lunch one day. No matter how much fun the car was to drive, we couldn't have something that left us stranded on the side of the road. So before long, Baby Blue was replaced with a VW, giving us a pair of those.</div><div><br /></div><div>Never one to leave well enough alone, I moped around about missing the Saab. My long-suffering wife put up with it for a good while, biting her tongue as I read classified ads for the little Swedish wonders aloud to her. And we're talking months here, not days.</div><div><br /></div><div>One fateful weekend, one of those ads clicked. A dealer in Orlando had a 1989 four-door 900S. Well, you can guess the rest. My wonderful wife agreed -- partly, perhaps, just to shut me up --and I happily followed "her" VW home in a rose quartz sedan with no power window switches -- and no a/c. Apparently one of us was a slow learner.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thus began about 5 more years of Saab-dom. Once again, the car was a sheer joy to drive, everything I wanted it to be, even better than the first. On the reliability front, once again, it left much to be desired. From the radiator fan motor that literally fell apart in my hands to the six -- yes, six -- power steering pumps, it tested our patience regularly. Or rather it tested mine, and I tested Heatherann's. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got pretty good at making minor repairs myself. But even the minor things required expensive parts.</div><div><br /></div><div>At some point, it just became too much. Probably when the a/c broke yet again. We traded "Rosenqvartz" (the Saab paint code name) for a Volvo sedan that stood us in good stead for the next 8 years. But parting with the Saab was tough, as it was with the first one. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Volvo was built like a tank, and proved damn hard to kill. It was what we needed at the time. Even so, if I listened to my heart, I'd buy another Saab tomorrow, quirks, faults and all. There's just something oddly lovable about them, something that makes them more engaging than a Japanese transportation appliance such as a Camry or Accord.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I learned after the second Saab to listen to my head in things automotive. I vowed never again unless it was a new one. The bank account never allowed for that, so I made peace with the Volvo and a VW Jetta -- good cars both, but still lesser. Now the Volvo's been replaced with a Subaru. Once again, a good car, just not quite a Saab.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now Saab appears to be gone for good, and I'll never have the chance to own a new one. The old ones will eventually disappear, done in by a lack of parts availability. There will be more transportation appliances on the road, and fewer "quirky" cars. And that makes me a little sad.</div><div><br /></div><div>Godspeed, Saab. You'll be missed.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-77237019085960753432011-11-28T20:10:00.000-08:002011-11-28T20:38:41.918-08:00'Tis The Season!Wow, look at the cobwebs around this place. Must not have been open for a year or so, judging by the way the doors creak. Time to change that.<div><br /></div><div>Yes, friends, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">BBQMC</span> is back in business, for better or worse. Serving up platefuls of puns, oodles of observations, attitude appetizers and a soupcon of snark. Welcome back, one and all.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are once again at the start of another Christmas season, with Thanksgiving, Black Friday and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Cyber</span> Monday already past. We're rolling into the heart of the holidays, including holiday TV specials, Christmas music everywhere and shoppers shopping their hearts out throughout the land. So in the spirit of the holiday, the Cafe is introducing new seasonal appetizers.</div><div><br /></div><div>First up is our traditional holiday favorite, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">McFruitcake</span> sandwich. Don't ask what's in it. You really don't want to know. Just enjoy, with our special sauce. Remember, it's only here for a limited time -- and that's probably a good thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the grand holiday tradition of Iron Chefs everywhere, we're introducing an extra-special holiday favorite, eggnog-battered eel. If you want a real treat for the kids, order the electric version, which powers its own festive LED Christmas lights.</div><div><br /></div><div>But our pride and joy this season is our extraordinary new dish inspired by the holiday classic "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" -- the Reindeer Roadkill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Remoulade</span>. It's sure to be a taste like none you've ever <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">experienced</span> before.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course our regular menu is still available too, including all your favorites such as Manatee Meatloaf (Mom's secret recipe!), Flipper Fin Fondue and Octopus Over Easy. Just let your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">waitron</span> know what you'd like... and please tip generously.</div><div><br /></div><div>While you study the menu, let's get the jukebox playing, the espresso brewing and the vacuum collection polished up. Welcome back to the Manatee....</div><div><br /></div><div>Chef Rick!</div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-65470236975956256692010-12-01T19:13:00.000-08:002010-12-01T19:51:17.969-08:00Open Once Again!Wow, would you look at that? December 1st already. Time flies, and obviously it's been a while since this little bistro has had its doors open. Let's hit the lights on the pinball machine, crank up the old jukebox in the corner (a little Patty Smyth please, maestro) and get the espresso machine brewing once again, shall we?<div><br /></div><div>With the 2008 elections slowly fading, Thanksgiving already a warm memory and the Christmas frenzy not quite in full swing yet, let's have a little nightcap recap of a few random thoughts over the past few months. In no particular order, here we go:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Mary Chapin Carpenter is healthy again, back on the road, and in fine voice. Life is good!</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Ten days in Kentucky in November under mostly gray, rainy skies is enough to remind me why I enjoy Florida sunshine so much.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Regarding Thanksgiving: I am blessed in far too many ways to count. Every once in a while I'm smart enough to realize this.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Shopping on Thanksgiving Day? Bah, humbug! And "Black Friday"? An abomination -- more on this in coming days.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Old Volvos, fortunately, are difficult to kill.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. The Bumble (of "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" fame) is clearly a cousin to Cookie Monster.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's it for now. More later after a couple of cappuccinos......</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-89073175740135169052010-07-26T20:52:00.000-07:002010-07-31T23:11:57.944-07:00Tales From the Back Side!As we travel through this grand adventure called life, certain chronological markers take on specific meanings. At 16, we get the driver's license. At 16 and a half, we back our grandmother's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">VW</span> Beetle into a bridge post. At 18, we're legal adults. At 20, we back our own <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">VW</span> into an unsuspecting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Chevette</span> in a mini-mart parking lot. At 21, we're legally drinking adults. <div><br /></div><div> For some of us, turning 30 means we have to start considering ourselves "adults," whatever that means. Me, I'm not sure I'm ready for that big a step yet. As Jimmy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Buffett</span> once said, I'm growing older but not up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once a specific number of years have passed, you're "of a certain age," as they say. Things that once seemed abstract enter the realm of reality. Things like certain medical tests that always sounded unpleasant, but at least we could always say "No sweat. I'm too young for that."</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of backing into things ... one day you wake up and have THAT birthday. You know the one. The one where, at your next annual check-up, your doctor recommends a "screening" exam. You're officially no longer too young for that. Time to sweat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh Lord, he's not going THERE with this, is he? Not that thing with the northbound fiber optic tube and the southbound exit? Yes, he is. I am, friends and neighbors, talking about the dreaded C test -- the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">colonoscopy</span>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Relax. I promise not to get too graphic, and I'll do my best to keep you entertained. Grab some coffee and read on. </div><div><br /></div><div>Believe me, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">colonoscopy</span> wasn't exactly high on my to-do list. Just like an old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">VW</span> Beetle, I've managed to reach THAT age without really needing a dipstick. But I trust my doc, a very smart woman. More importantly, I'd been saying to Exec Chef <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Heatherann</span> for years that I'd have it done at THAT age, just as Katie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Couric</span> recommends.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now Exec Chef <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Heatherann</span>, in addition to running the cafe here, is a registered nurse in real life. She knows the importance of such things. And she wasn't about to let me back out of that promise. And I quite literally trust her with my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>So my annual checkup rolled around in June, and I casually mentioned to Doc that I needed the exam. She nodded and said she'd refer me to the local <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">gastroenterology</span> clinic. OK, no sweat, I thought. I'll have a couple of months before they can work me in. No need to think about it now, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>The clinic called one day one fine day in July and left a message. I called back and talked to a very efficient nurse who wanted to know when we could schedule the exam. I was thinking sometime around mid-August at least -- more than a month away. She had an appointment in one week. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Hmmm</span>. One week? Not what my naturally procrastinating mind -- and naturally terrified rear -- had in mind. But it had to be done by then, or I'd have to submit to another full physical similar to the one I'd just recently had at my doc's office. OK, fine. One week it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wasn't terribly enthusiastic about the prep, particularly the "clear liquids only" diet the day before. As anyone who knows me is well aware, food and I are VERY close friends. I grew up in a classic Southern-style "food = love" family. Let me put it this way -- my wonderful 86-year-old grandmother recently called me to apologize because she felt she hadn't cooked enough the last time <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Heatherann</span> and I came to visit her.</div><div><br /></div><div>So as I said, food and I are very close. We have a lovely daily dialogue. Food listens and offers positive affirmations. I do most of the talking. And here we were, about to be separated for the better part of 48 hours. This provoked no small amount of anxiety on my part.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even worse, I normally depend on at least one daily cappuccino, several cups of coffee with creamer and a few gallons of Diet Coke to get through my day. This little adventure required NO milk products, NO creamer, and horrifyingly, NO carbonated beverages for a full day. How can I gracefully back out of this? A rear guard action, if you will.</div><div><br /></div><div>No dice. The schedule's set, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Heatherann</span> knows about it, so I'm stuck. The clear liquids day rolls around. I get to have fat-free chicken broth for breakfast. Yum! You haven't lived until you've tried fat-free chicken broth at 7:30 a.m.</div><div><br /></div><div>No cappuccino. No Diet Coke. No hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember to grab my lunch (more fat-free chicken broth! Yum!) on the way out the door to work, but forget the best part -- Jell-o. Left it in the fridge. Damn.</div><div><br /></div><div>Got to work, managed to guzzle a cup of the office swill that passes for coffee, with nothing in it but artificial sweetener. It was enough to give fat-free chicken broth a good name. My coworkers in my office pod, knowing my status, wisely chose to give me a wide berth. In return, I managed not to push any of them down the nearby stairs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lunchtime arrives. I heat up my can of chicken broth (still fat-free!) in a mug and sip/slurp it at my desk. Meanwhile, my coworkers from throughout the office are heating up their own lunch in the office microwave -- in the kitchen. Which is 10 feet from my desk.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had to escape the building for the lunch hour. Funny how you never notice EVERY SINGLE <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">FREAKIN</span>' fast food place and fine restaurant, and coffee shop, and quickie mart, until the day you can't have food from any of them. Not fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't get me wrong. I'm not really ravenous, nor am I delusional at this point. Frankly, I miss the coffee and Diet Coke more than the food for the most part. Of course that doesn't stop me from posting on my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Facebook</span> page that I would kill -- in cold blood, without remorse, possibly even cheerfully -- for a cheeseburger and Diet Coke.</div><div><br /></div><div>Quitting time finally rolls around and I head home to dinner. Beef broth this time (fat-free!), and Jell-o for dessert. I never really appreciated before how satisfying Jell-o can be.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, aided by medicinal prep, the true adventure begins. To put it in bumper sticker terms, crap happens. And happens. And happens. Most people probably dread this part, but honestly, it wasn't bad. Trek to the bathroom, back to couch. Try not to trip over cats or the dog, trek to bathroom, back to couch. Repeat as necessary, keeping in mind that cats and dog occasionally move to a different part of the rug.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then came the appointed hour. I had to pick up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Heatherann</span> at work because she had to be able to drive me home. For some reason, they don't want recently anesthetized folks driving themselves home -- especially in a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">VW</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div>We get to the office on time, only to learn that the doctor's running late, by at least an hour. And by the way, they don't have the forms I mailed back to them four days before. "Oh, it would have been better to bring them with you, rather than mail them," the ever-efficient receptionist said. Gee, it would have been nice if you had mentioned that on the instruction sheet instead of telling me to mail them to you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let us recap -- It's 2:30 Wednesday afternoon. No real food since Monday night. Nothing at all by mouth since 8 a.m. that day. Do you REALLY want to harass me about the paperwork? She manages to call the downtown office, and wonder of wonders, the forms are there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally comes the magic moment. I'm ushered into a dressing room by a kindly nurse who tells me I can keep my sandals on, "and that's about it." Put the open-backed gown on, and leave it untied so that SHE can tie it when I come out. With the sandals, I can at least pretend I'm a Roman gladiator, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>I do as she says, having a brief flash of embarrassment (wonderfully descriptive word, that). But then I realize she's seen more buns than the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Pillsbury</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Doughboy</span>, so I might as well let it all hang out. She ties the gown, then leads me to a gurney, where I lie back and wait.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nurse Lisa comes in, introduces herself. She smiles and hands me the "informed consent" form. This is the form that states "We know that the odds of something going wrong during this procedure are roughly the same as your chances of getting run over by a beer truck being driven by an Amish driver who's just finished his 16-shot <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">venti</span> extra-dry cappuccino with whip, but the possibility exists, and we don't want to get sued." I sign, and Nurse Lisa and I chat briefly, then out of the blue: </div><div><br /></div><div>OUCH! THAT IS DEFINITELY SOMETHING TRYING TO GO SOMEWHERE IT DOESN'T BELONG! </div><div><br /></div><div>That's Nurse Lisa, attempting to find a spot in my slightly dehydrated hand for the I.V. After she tries in vain one more time, she calls in Nurse Raeann, who promptly gets the drip going.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nurse Lisa is busy with the woman in the cubicle next to mine. She's encouraging the woman to perform a common bodily function. That's apparently a requirement before you can leave and go have dinner. Because the procedure injects air to enable the doc to see everything he needs to, you must break wind before you can break bread. The woman next door proves to be a fast learner.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then she and Nurse Lisa start discussing food -- mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, pot roast, etc. I'm separated from this conversation only by an exam room curtain, so I hear every word. It's now 40 hours since I've had anything resembling solid food. I wonder if I could push them both down the stairs with an I.V. in my hand. Sadly, it's a single story building.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nurse Raeann wheels me into the procedure room, where I meet Dave, the nurse-anesthetist. I don't realize it yet, but Dave is about to become my new best friend. Dave double checks my name and date of birth, then hands me a clipboard with another "informed consent" form. This is the "yes, we're giving you the same anesthetic that killed Michael Jackson, but we're monitoring you closely, and while you'll probably be fine, there is a very remote possibility it will kill you and we don't want to get sued" form. I sign.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dave listens to my heart and lungs, then the doc comes in. He introduces himself, pokes my abdomen a bit, listens to my heart and lungs, and we're all set. I roll onto my left side, baring my backside to Doc, Nurse Raeann and Dave. I still have my sandals on, and wonder what a Roman gladiator would do in this situation. The lights go down -- how nice! -- very conducive to a nap. My pal Dave starts the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">propofol</span> drip. I have just enough time to think "oh, here we go."</div><div><br /></div><div>The next thing I know it's half an hour later, and my buddy Dave is telling me to wake up, the procedure is over. No pain, no discomfort, no anesthesia hangover at all. Life is good.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm wheeled back out to the room where I started this little adventure. I follow Nurse Lisa's instructions. Like the woman in the cubicle before I started, I prove to be a quick study.</div><div><br /></div><div>My beloved <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Heatherann</span> enters, and soon the doc comes in. He's all smiles and has good news -- no polyps, nothing to worry about. See you in 10 years.</div><div><br /></div><div>Soon after that, I get dressed, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Heatherann</span> and I hightail it out of there and head to dinner. Olive Garden never tasted so good. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two things to keep in mind:</div><div><br /></div><div>No. 1 -- If you go to Olive Garden, order the mixed grill. The rosemary on the steak and chicken is delightful and the roasted vegetables are delicious.</div><div><br /></div><div>No. 2 -- Yes, my results were fine, giving me peace of mind. But before my exam started, Nurse Lisa told me a story about her own <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">colonoscopy</span>. She had one right before moving from Virginia to Florida. The docs found a large polyp that had to be removed. She's fine today, but she asked her doctor what would have happened if that hadn't been caught. "They said 'you don't want to know.'"</div><div><br /></div><div>Think about it, folks. The test is NOT bad. Colon cancer is preventable this way. <b>Preventable</b>. I promise, you will not die of embarrassment. If you're "of a certain age," get your buns off the couch and into the doctor's office. You'll be glad you did -- and so will the people who love you.</div><div><br /></div><div>And if you're lucky, as I was, your doc will give you a picture of the results, suitable for framing.</div><div><br /></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-39920710537386015762010-04-15T20:24:00.000-07:002010-04-15T21:06:53.247-07:00YES, Words Matter! A Writer's ManifestoIn the beginning was the word ... now there's a phrase I've always appreciated. <div><br /></div><div>Words have pretty much defined my life from an early age. I was reading before I went to nursery school. I discovered the wonderfully subversive world of Dr. Seuss by first grade and never looked back. As long as I can remember, words have been a magical thing for me, something to play with and explore, something to tweak and polish and on occasion try to bend to my will. Words have been my playground for most of my time on this curious little planet. The simile, the metaphor, the adjective and the occasional dangling participle, boon companions all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fellow writers, can I get an amen? Thank you. Now let us turn to page 1968 of the hymnal and sing in the manner of St. Barry of Bee Gees: It's only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away.</div><div><br /></div><div>But these are dark times, brothers and sisters. The word is under attack. Folks are saying words are no longer important, that it's all about the image. The iPhone, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">iPad</span>, the Web site, all are focusing more on the image than the word. Pretty pictures for pretty posers, that's all we need. No need to concern ourselves with actual communication.</div><div><br /></div><div> There is a movement afoot in the land, brothers and sisters, a movement of dark forces. This movement is called search engine optimization or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">SEO</span>. Its purpose is to get a web site listed well in the search engines of Google, Bing and Yahoo.</div><div><br /></div><div>The practitioners of this dark art don't see the value of words -- unless they're so-called "keywords," simple words and phrases stuck into the page for the search engines to find. As for the actual CONTENT -- the words, the ideas, the REALITY -- of what's being said, well that's not really important.</div><div><br /></div><div>How do I know these things? I work in an emporium where these things are done. Day in, day out, as I labor over words, sentences and paragraphs, searching for just the right turn of phrase, I'm often told it's not a big deal because "no one really reads the words anyway." One coworker even told me that a sentence he wrote didn't need to make sense, because the next sentence was clear.</div><div><br /></div><div>Excuse me?</div><div><br /></div><div>No, dammit. Even if no one else reads it, I do. I know. Those words must make sense. There's too much that can't be explained in Flash and Illustrator. You need the words. And dear coworker, you don't even realize it -- but you will. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I exaggerate a bit at times for humorous effect, but I'm deadly serious about this : If we lose the words, we lose our humanity. It's that important.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've thought for a while that this blog might be better with pictures, a little visual appeal. I've gone back and forth about it for a while. But as of today, I've made a decision. If I surrender to the pictures, I am acknowledging that the words aren't strong enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>No pictures. The words matter. They stand alone.</div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-10399269002525217492010-04-15T20:15:00.000-07:002010-04-15T20:24:34.820-07:00Grand Reopening!Wow. Would you look at the dust in here? Jeez, how long has it been since this place was open? December? Yikes. Well, OK, we'll fix that.<div><br /></div><div>Let's dust off the vacuum cleaner collection first -- hmm, there's a dilemma: Which one do we use to clean the others? </div><div><br /></div><div>Next, plug in the jukebox, flip the switch, watch the neon blink to life. Ah, that's better. Let's start with Box of Rain tonight. Always good, just like the coffee.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of which, let's get that espresso maker cranked up. Much to talk about -- walruses (a/k/a/ Paul), cabbages and kings, etc. Much to say, much to listen to, many things to consider. Let's get started, shall we? The juke box is just getting warmed up, so in the immortal words of Sam the Sham, let's not be L7. Come and learn to dance......</div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-84639996514626019172009-12-23T20:01:00.000-08:002009-12-23T22:10:47.792-08:00So this is Christmas....In this skeptical age, it's fashionable not to believe in much of anything. But the holiday season is all about belief. Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. The Grinch's change of heart. Olive the Other Reindeer. And of course, that little event a couple thousand years ago in Bethlehem. We all believe in some of it. Some of us believe in all of it. It's all good.<div><br /><div>Me, I believe in Santa Claus. And I know at least one other person who does too -- more on that later.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first time I remember visiting Santa was in North Carolina. I was probably 3 or 4 years old. And yes Virginia, I asked him for a (toy) vacuum cleaner -- the collection was starting even then. A year or two later, we moved back to Kentucky, and that's when Santa really took center stage.</div><div><br /></div><div> We'd open our presents on Christmas Eve. I'm an only child, but my two younger cousins would come over and we'd have dinner with my parents, grandparents, aunt and uncle. Just when those of us who were waiting for Santa couldn't stand it any longer, he would appear. At the back door. With a big bag full of toys and other gifts. And the best part was, Santa Claus knew our names! Life was good, indeed. Never did understand though why my dad always missed Santa's appearance. He always had to go to the neighbors' house for some reason.</div><div><br /></div><div>After we kids had a chance to tear open our presents, run through the house and scream for a while, we would all pack up and drive to another set of cousins' house about 10 miles away. Santa would visit them too, and knew all their names. And the <b>really</b> cool part was that Santa still knew my name too, and talked about visiting with me earlier in the evening. How much better does it get than that?</div><div><br /></div><div>Somehow my dad always missed seeing Santa at my cousins' house too. Don't know why, but he always had to be somewhere else just before Santa showed up. Oh, and the adults still talk about the year Santa got chased through the snow by a pack of dogs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, kids grow up. In a few years, Dad stopped disappearing on Christmas Eve, and Santa waited until after we were asleep to make his appearance. Somehow though, the magical possibilities of Santa never left. Even at my most cynical, I've always found a way to believe in editor Frank Church's masterpiece from 1897: "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound, and give to your life its highest beauty and joy."</div><div><br /></div><div>A certain young lady in Atlanta also believes in Santa Claus. She knows because she's seen him, and it wasn't even Christmas. I was fortunate enough to witness what transpired.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was few days before the big day a couple of years ago. A gentleman and his wife, tired from their travels, went into a Max & Erma's restaurant for a late dinner. This particular gentleman was wearing jeans, a red shirt, was a trifle um, round, shall we say, and had a beard which hadn't been trimmed in a while. Looked a bit like me, some would say. Because it was getting late, the restaurant lights were turned down.</div><div>A young family -- Mom, Dad, little girl no more than four years old -- sat down at the table adjacent to the couple. Well, from the moment that young lady sat down, she was positive she was in the presence of the big guy with the sleigh. She was enthralled throughout her meal. Santa, feeling a trifle nonplussed, did his best to play along.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the family was leaving, the little girl's head drowsily on her father's shoulder, Santa called out HO HO HO loudly enough for half the restaurant to hear. I know Santa will never forget how her eyes widened. Her parents smiled as they walked out. That little girl knew -- KNEW -- she had seen the real Santa Claus.</div><div><br /></div><div> Oh, and by the way Dad, you'll be happy to know the next generation of Santa Claus is carrying on the family tradition.... Merry Christmas to all.</div><div><br /></div></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-57784106182015956542009-10-31T16:13:00.000-07:002009-10-31T22:35:15.642-07:00Barbecued Manatees for Charity!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> Welcome friends, come in, sit down, have a munch of the Buffalo seagull wings. Thank you so much for attending our informational meeting.</b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> As you all know, here in the cafe, we're big fans of southern cooking. Grits, cornbread, all the good stuff. And as anyone raised in the South in the last hundred years knows, there is precisely one correct way to prepare Southern food.</b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> Fried.</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> With lots of grease.</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> Now it has come to our attention that not all regions of the United States are so blessed with culinary wisdom. Take California, for example. Lots of stuff out there that Paula Deen just wouldn't use.</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> Arugula. Tofu. Sushi. (OK, Paula would use that one, but only as bait for catching catfish.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> The Barbecued Manatee Cafe is dedicated to spreading cuisinal knowledge worldwide, so we want to help remedy the tragic imbalance in the Golden State. To do so, we need your help.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> Starting today, the Barbecued Manatee Cafe is proud to be leading the charge for food freedom to California. Ladies and gentlemen, please help us with this noble cause:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> CRISCO TO FRISCO.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> Yes, that's right, In order to bring the land of the Beach Boys, Stanford and Schwartzenegger up to the culinary standards of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Georgia Tech and Paula, we are embarking on a crusade to donate 100,000 tons of America's favorite shortening to the City by the Bay. We want to teach San Franciscans the joys of chicken-fried steak, fried cheese, fried fish, even fried Twinkies.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> We hope to follow in the footsteps of successful programs in other cities such as Frostin' to Boston, Chili to Philly and our Minnesota chefs' spectacular Fruit to Dulut'. (But the less said about the Tabbouleh to Ashtabula fiasco, the better).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> Let's face it, all those San Fran folks are way too skinny. They look too much like those subversive Euro types if you ask me. They need some good old-fashioned, artery-clogging fat to make 'em true Americans.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:'courier new', serif;font-size:large;"> Won't you please help? We can't make our goal without you. It's easy to donate. Just buy a can of Crisco(TM) the next time you go to the grocery store. Then send it, postage paid, to Crisco(TM) To Frisco, c/o Sous Chef Ugotta B. Kiddin, The Barbecued Manatee Cafe. We'll do the rest. Although your contribution isn't tax deductible, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you helped someone who may well have been denied the joys of fried goods their entire life. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> And friends, keep in mind this is a pilot program. If this succeeds, we have an even more exciting project waiting in the wings for next year:</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> GREASE TO GREECE.</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Thank you and please give generously!</b></span></span></div></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-88180993027707095982009-10-31T15:36:00.000-07:002009-10-31T16:47:30.487-07:00Clean Sweep!<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Let’s see. Time to take one of my favorite high-performance machines out for a spin.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> Which will it be today?</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>The sleek Italian one?</b></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Nah, it’s broken down – again – in the garage.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>The little red German runabout?</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Maybe.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Or the other German one, the orange one with all the bells and whistles?</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Maybe some good old fashioned American muscle, the one with lots of power and the slick automatic transmission.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Or perhaps the SUV.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Ok, so how do I afford so many cars and where do I store them, right?</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Not quite.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Exec. Chef Heatherann and I have two cars, neither of which is described above.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>No, despite similarities to cars of their various nations, each machine I’ve described is a vacuum cleaner.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>It’s time for a confession, right here in the café:</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Hi, my name is Rick and I collect vacuum cleaners.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>(sound of crickets chirping.)</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Why?</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Why collect an appliance, for heaven’s sake?</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Why collect something that gathers dirt from rugs and floors, scares the cats, and takes up valuable garage space?</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Fair question.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Short answer is, I don’t know.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>See, I’ve always had an affinity for mechanical and/or electrical devices of all sorts from the time I was a child.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>You name it, if it plugged into a wall socket, I could be entertained by it.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Mixers, radios, record players, copy machines, etc.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>That pretty much holds true today.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>I love watching complex machinery in operation.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Printing presses for example.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Lots of moving parts, lots of noise, huge rolls of paper traveling from one side of the room to the other.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>And</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>while I’m glad I became a</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>journalist in the era of computers instead of the typewriter, I’m slightly disappointed I’ve never actually seen a Linotype typesetting machine in operation. Molten lead, multiple motors, lines of words moving to and fro.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>What’s not to love?</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>But for some reason, the vacuum cleaner was always the one machine nearest and dearest to my heart.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Maybe it’s the sheer mechanical nature of it. </b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>It’s basically nothing more than a motorized fan that picks up dirt and blows it into a container, nothing more, nothing less. Really a simple device at heart.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Ah, but the execution, that’s another story.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Take that SUV, for example, one of the newest additions to the collection.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>That’s what Hoover called a “Sport Utility Vacuum.”</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Looks like the illegitimate spawn of E.T. and #5 from “Short Circuit.”</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>THREE motors. Lighted electronic controls.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>A complex dirt path guaranteed to clog.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Weighs close to 30 pounds.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>It’s a technological nightmare just waiting to break – and that’s what makes it interesting.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Compare that to the Kirby G3 – a relatively simple design that hasn’t really changed much since Jim Kirby produced his first model nearly a century ago. Very powerful, built to withstand an earthquake, heavy, no frills -- except that automatic transmission for the self-propel feature. Although nearly as heavy as the Hoover, it's far lighter to operate.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>The Germans take a different approach.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>The little red Miele canister is mostly plastic, very high performance, lots of attention to detail.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>The bright orange Sebo upright is a fun color, lightweight, blinking lights, variable speed, all the bells and whistles.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Just as with cars, the Italians build a high performance vacuum, the Lindhaus.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>And like too many Italian cars, the example in the collection is under-engineered, breaking down at the drop of a dust bunny.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Then there’s Ocala’s own contribution to the vacuum marketplace, the late, mostly unlamented Bison. The brainchild of a former Kirby distributor, the Bison was largely a Kirby clone made with cheaper parts and some seriously questionable engineering.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>The company started in the late ‘60s, collapsed in the ‘80s, the victim of an unreliable product and management woes.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>But in between it built Bisons in the building here in Ocala that now houses the E-One fire truck factory welcome center.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>It’s an odd duck, the Bison. (Forgive the mixed animal metaphor.)</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>It’s loud, with a variable speed control that gives the user the chance to convince the neighbors that a small jet is about to take off from your living room.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>It’s ungainly, with a face only a collector could love.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>It’s badly built, with parts no longer available.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>And that’s part of the appeal.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>The Bison is a small part of Ocala history.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Others have their historic role too.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Noted 20</b></span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>th</b></span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> century designers Raymond Loewy, Henry Dreyfuss and Lurelle Guild, among others, designed vacs. The vintage machines of the ‘20s, ‘30s and ‘40s are true works of mechanical art.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>So why collect them?</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Why not?</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>They’re out there dirt cheap (hey, I’m entitled to ONE pun here.) and they’re entertaining to me.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Some folks collect old typewriters, others cameras, some even collect antique ice cream scoops.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>And Exec Chef Heatherann doesn’t have to worry about who does the vacuuming.</b></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Happy Hoovering!</b></span></span></p></span>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-75085264035997498742009-09-22T12:01:00.000-07:002009-09-22T12:03:48.717-07:00Espresso Thought!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="margin-top: 0.25em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 0px; font-size: 18px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.4em; color: rgb(204, 102, 0); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size: large; line-height: 20px; ">(Espresso = small, concentrated, unfiltered cup of coffee. Espresso Thought = short, concentrated, unfiltered thought.) </span></h3><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">L</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">l</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">p</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">g</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">v</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">g</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">d</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">d</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">g</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">y</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">c</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">f</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">f</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">f</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">m</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a coffee shop</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">b</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">k</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">f</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">y</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">E</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">X</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">p</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">?</span></div></span>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-25023760697711177872009-08-19T18:59:00.000-07:002009-08-21T14:20:02.741-07:00Listen, children, to a story....<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">... that was written long ago ...</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Those words are the opening lyric to "One Tin Soldier," a song first recorded in the 1960s. Probably best known for the version recorded in the early '70s as part of the soundtrack for the movie "Billy Jack."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For me, it was the first realization that music could make a political statement.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Music has been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember. From the "Percolator Song" I loved as a small child to Petula Clark's "Downtown," the first song I remember liking on the radio, to "Woolly Bully," I loved it all in the 1960s. But I was too young to have any clue what cultural icons such as Dylan, Crosby, Stills and Nash, or even the Beatles were saying about the state of the world.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">That all changed one day in 1972. I was in sixth grade in a Dayton, Ohio suburb. A troupe of touring college students of some sort performed at the school at an afternoon assembly. Lord only knows who approved their appearance at an elementary school.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Keep in mind, we're talking 1972 -- the Vietnam War was still raging, four students had been fatally shot at Kent State University only two years before, George Wallace was campaigning for president as a segregationist, and Watergate hadn't yet happened.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So this group presented songs and skits, all very entertaining -- I'm guessing. I remember enjoying the program, but truth be told, I don't remember a thing about it, other than the last number. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One Tin Soldier.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It started innocuously enough, with a lovely flute intro. Then the lyrics drew me in. The story of the mountain people's treasure and the valley folks who wanted it had me hooked. Then that devastating final verse -- where the valley folk, having killed their mountain brethren stand triumphant at the stone under which the treasure was buried.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As the song says, "turned the stone and looked beneath it -- Peace on earth was all it said." As they sang that line, the performers turned a stone facing the audience, revealing a peace symbol underneath.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Cue chorus: "Go ahead and hate your neighbor...." Flute coda of the intro. Curtain.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Wow. I was stunned. Who knew?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Our teacher, a conservative Christian, was appalled. Told us the message was satanic, the peace symbol a broken cross. Sounded a bit hard to believe, even then. The concept of peace as something evil was one I couldn't quite swallow.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By the following year, I was back in Kentucky, in seventh grade. I joined the school band. Within a year, I could play the song on tenor sax. I also had the lyrics committed to memory. To this day, I can whistle that flute intro, sing the lyrics word for word, and whistle the fadeout.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It took a few more years to discover Dylan, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Woody and Arlo Guthrie and other rabble-rousing peaceniks, but eventually I did. And Springsteen, and Mellencamp and all the others. But that one song, that one place, that one performance, stands as one of the singular musical moments of my life, the one that taught me the true power of song.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Give it a listen, see what you think....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mASbP3Eq1VE"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mASbP3Eq1VE</span></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-19097162680026477182009-08-19T18:54:00.000-07:002009-08-19T18:59:35.800-07:00Espresso Thought!<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 20px; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 20px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(Espresso = small, concentrated, unfiltered cup of coffee. Espresso Thought = short, concentrated, unfiltered thought.) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Whatever happened to good old -ly?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">You remember -ly. Had the ability to make things better, more precise. You know, like "Drive Safe</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">ly</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">.</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">" "Shop Local</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">ly</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">-Ly, alas, seems to have fallen on hard times late</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">ly. </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Local signs advise area residents to "Drive Safe" and/or "Buy Local."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Write careful</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">ly</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-22908822647468513832009-07-15T21:27:00.000-07:002009-07-15T22:18:06.666-07:00This I Believe!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><div><br /></div> Dave <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Schlenker</span>, is, I believe, the best writer at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ocala</span> Star-Banner, and one of the finest writers I've read anywhere. I believe he won't mind if I borrow the idea from a recent column of his, especially since he borrowed it from National Public Radio.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe in many things, not least of which is the power of the written word. This, I believe, will remain a primary form of communication for centuries to come.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe men and women are more alike than we are different.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe there is far too much to be learned to be able to learn it all in one lifetime.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe that music can ignite the imagination, soothe the soul, inspire the mind and heal the body.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe the best-engineered vacuum cleaners in the world are made in Germany. I believe the best-built vacuum cleaners in the world are made in Cleveland, Ohio and Andrews, Texas. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe "Network," not "Rocky" should have been Best Picture of 1976.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe no one faith has a monopoly on heaven.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">soulmates</span>, and that I've found mine.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe instant coffee, like non-dairy creamer, is a crime against nature. I believe anything labeled "instant espresso" merits the death penalty.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe the death penalty brings society down to the level of the criminal.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe both dogs and cats were sent to us from the Creator to demonstrate what unconditional love is.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe small towns are over-romanticized.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe living in a world-class city in my 20s made me a better citizen of both my own country and the world.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe there's ample proof the Creator has a sense of humor.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe old German cars, whether <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">VW</span>, Mercedes, BMW, Audi or Opel, all smell the same inside -- a mix of engine oil, well-baked upholstery, cracking dashboards and gasoline.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe cats and keyboards should not mix.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe there are no coincidences. We are all in each others' lives for a reason, regardless of how we came to be there. I believe that reason is not always clear to us, but it's still there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe the sound of a cat snoring is really cute.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I believe in Santa Claus.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> I am a happy soul, because I am blessed in too many ways to count. This I believe.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> </span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-67007437172715661252009-07-14T16:02:00.000-07:002009-07-14T16:19:08.588-07:00Cafe open for business!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Wow, didn't realize it had been so long since we've had visitors to the Cafe! Guess I'd better start making up for lost time. Let me plug in the espresso machine and the jukebox and we'll get busy.</span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">If you're new here, welcome, welcome, come in, sit down, and enjoy the ambiance. The daily special today is free-range pelican pie, with a side order of Buffalo manatee flippers. And, since today's Bastille Day, we'll throw in a free side order of escargot.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">For the regulars, you'll find not much has changed. Same lousy service, same sarcastic chef you've come to know and love. Feel free to tip generously.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">We do have a new item of decoration. See the vacuum cleaner sitting over there in the corner? That's the latest addition to the collection. It's a Singer R5, produced sometime between 1940 and 1950.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">Big deal, an old vacuum. What's so special about that?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">Think about the dates. This machine is somewhere between 59 and 69 years old. And yet...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">... It still has its original bag.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">... It still has its original CLOTH- (not rubber) coated cord -- which is still safely usable.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">... Its cordwinder still works.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">... Its headlight still works.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">... Its two-speed motor still runs just fine.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">When's the last time you saw a machine that old of ANY kind that works that well?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">So, with that level of build quality, it must be made in Germany or Japan, right?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">Try Elizabethport, N.Y. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">THIS is the quality we used to produce in America.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-8387500337582054612009-05-11T21:19:00.000-07:002009-05-11T22:14:50.436-07:00Beetlemania!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ah, the memories a few lines of a classified ad can conjure. Take this example from a recent ad in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ocala</span>: "</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1967 VOLKSWAGEN BEETLE ... This car was last driven in 2008, stopped driving when the battery ..."</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And thereby hangs our tale ...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Once upon a time, there was an original Volkswagen Beetle. It ran flawlessly, got great gas mileage and remained dependable transportation for its original owner for some 20 years.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> This was not, alas, MY Beetle. It was my grandmother's. She drove it everywhere since she drove it off the showroom floor in 1969. Rain, snow, sleet, sun, didn't matter. It went where she pointed it. She loved it, and it was a great little car. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Unlike today's modern <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">VWs</span>, the Beetles of yore were about as simple as it's possible for four-wheeled motorized transportation to get. No air conditioning. No power steering. No power brakes. Hand-cranked windows.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I thought <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mamaw's</span> Bug was a blast to drive, and in college, decided to get one of my own. Mine was a 1970, and had been owned by a mechanic. What could go wrong?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Over the next three years or so, I managed to find out -- just about everything. The car left me stranded on half the roads of Eastern Kentucky. With rusty heater boxes and no ventilation fan, it forced me to scrape more ice off the inside of the windshield than the outside -- while driving. It had about as much horsepower as the average leaf blower, and when the muffler went bad, was twice as loud.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The turn signal switch broke. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">VW</span> used the same switch for several years before, and several years after, but in 1970, they used a design unique to that model year alone. I still remember the cost of that one -- $46 for the part alone, on a college student's budget.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> One low point was a rainy Friday in March when I was driving home from school for the weekend. I had the flu, and felt lousy. Shortly after I headed onto the interstate for the 20-mile trek home, I heard a familiar thump-thump-thump. Flat tire. Just perfect.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I got out of the car, dug the jack and the lug wrench out of the trunk. and got to work in the steady downpour. Car jacked up? Check. Hubcap off? Check. Lug nuts loose?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> No. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Try again. Lug nuts loose? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> No.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Try again, standing on the wrench this time. Lug nuts loose?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> No.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Thanks to some kind of mechanical gremlin, these old beasts had a nasty habit of locking the lug nuts, nearly welding the wheel in place. I ended up having to flag down a truck driver to break the things loose. Not exactly my most macho moment.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> But the breaking point came on a day when the car actually was running well. Heading into my senior year, I took it to my trusted mechanic for brakes and a muffler. Cost $125, and I thought it was money well spent, thinking it would at least get me through one last year of school.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> All was going fine as I headed toward home, once again on the interstate. It was a really nice fall day, so I had the windows open and the AM radio cranked up, cruising about 65.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Then I heard the sound of something dragging under the car. With no idea what it was, I pulled off at the nearest exit. The car was still running fine, with no obvious sign of distress as I pulled into a parking lot and shut it off.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I got out, walked around the car, raised the engine cover in the rear, looked around. No obvious problem.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Until I looked under the back seat. Where I expected to see solid sheet metal, I saw only a perfectly rectangular hole. Automotive history lesson here, folks: in original Beetles, that's where the battery lived. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> As for what happened, let's pick up the thread of our classified ad above, with some slight spelling correction along the way:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "Stopped driving when the battery fell out of car onto highway due to extensive <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">floorpan</span> rust (embarrassing, huh?)"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"> Well, embarrassing isn't exactly the word. When I called my mom to tell her I needed a tow truck, and the reason why, she cracked up.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"> Honestly, I don't recall my mom laughing that hard before or since. She must have laughed for a solid five minutes. She was still laughing when I hung up the pay phone to wait for the tow.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"> I found it considerably less funny. There's a story, possibly apocryphal, that Elvis Presley once shot a high-priced sports car when it refused to start. Standing in that parking lot that day, I knew exactly how he felt.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"> But the faithless Bug had the last word. In the intervening years, I've owned four more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">VWs</span>, including the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Jetta</span> that currently graces the driveway of Maison <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Cundiff</span>. So there must be something special about them that keeps me coming back.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px;">OK, fine, I wouldn't have shot it. But I would have Tasered it.</span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-61740787508196045022009-05-04T15:49:00.000-07:002009-05-04T16:56:06.830-07:00Rut-Ro! It's a Conspiracy!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Rut-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ro</span>!</span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> Chances are, if you're somewhere between age 6 and 60, you probably know just what that means. It's cartoon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dogspeak</span>, of course, for "Uh-Oh!" Like many foreign phrases, it can convey a range of meanings in just two syllables, anything from "Oops" to "Oh S***!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> But who said it first? And who decided that animated mutts should speak in a language where everything begins with the letter R? Let's face it, if you'd never heard it before, "Mutt-Mo" or "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Zut</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Zo</span>" could make just as much sense, no?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> First things first. The first cartoon canine to utter the now immortal phrase Rut-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ro</span> was none other than <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Astro</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Jetson</span>, a/k/a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Tralfaz</span>. (If you don't know where <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Tralfaz</span> comes from, to quote Annie Savoy, you could look it up. If you don't know who Annie Savoy is, I give up. Don't expect me to do all the heavy lifting here, folks.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Astro</span> was the quintessential cartoon dog -- smart, loyal, capable of understanding English, and of speech -- as long as every word started with R.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> Some time later, another telegenic pup came along, name of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Scooby</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Doo</span>. He and his merry band of meddling kids roamed the country in the Mystery Machine, solving crimes before the police, foiling the aims of various and sundry <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">villains</span> and ne'er do wells. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> For animation lovers, the series raised numerous existential questions: Was Freddie really gay or did he just dress like it? Why were Daphne and Velma portrayed in the classic Ginger/Mariann dichotomy rather than having brains and beauty in one female character? And why exactly did both Shaggy and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Scooby</span> perpetually have the munchies?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> And perhaps most perplexing of all was the fact that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Scooby</span> spoke the same language as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Astro</span>. "Rut-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Ro</span>" was as common as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Scooby</span> Snacks whenever the lovable Great Dane was around.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> After spending a considerable amount of time researching this issue -- at least 90 seconds, anyway -- I have discovered the answer to the one mystery <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Scooby</span> and the gang couldn't solve. According to that unbiased, unimpeachable, trusted information source <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Wikipedia</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Astro</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Scooby</span> spoke the same language for one simple reason:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> THEY HAD THE SAME VOICE!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> More specifically, Hollywood voice actor Don <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Messick</span> voiced both characters. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Messick</span>, well known for other cartoon characters, including <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Bamm</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Bamm</span> Rubble, Boo Boo Bear and Papa Smurf, created <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Astro's</span> trademark R-centric speech in 1962. Seven years later, he voiced <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Scooby</span> in the same voice. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Messick</span> also voiced the cartoon villain sidekick dog <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Muttley's</span> classic snicker.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> Now some among us might wonder if the the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Astro</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Scooby</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Muttley</span> combo is really a secret language for dogs, who are patiently biding their time, using it as a means of communication to coordinate their own plot to take over the world and make bacon the international unit of currency. I asked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Snickerdoodle</span> the Wonder Pup what she thought of that theory.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> She snickered and said it was, and I quote, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Rabsorootry</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">ririculous</span>."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Hmmm</span> ....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;">Rut-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Ro</span>.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;">Postscript -- Sparky the Wonder Cat was sitting on the desk as I wrote this. No joke, he clicked on the mouse in an apparent attempt to delete part of what I just wrote. That can only mean this is bigger than I thought. Now it's a cross-species conspiracy!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;">RUT-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">RO</span>!</span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-64464623224596011132009-04-27T08:55:00.000-07:002009-04-27T09:04:02.149-07:00It's not easy being green!<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:18.0pt;"></span></p><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Funny how our perceptions change over time, isn’t it? The shock of the new becomes the yawn of the everyday, the cutting edge gets dulled into the commonplace. </span></span></span><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"></span></span></span><br /><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Take punk rock, for example. What began in the 1970s as a rebellion against overblown “progressive” rock music soon devolved into lifestyle accessories. The authentic ripped jeans, the safety pin piercings and the spiked hairstyles became today’s “distressed” jeans, 18-karat eyebrow rings and $100 (or more) stylist-created coifs. Yesterday’s rebels with a cause are today’s rebels without a clue.</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> For would-be iconoclasts, that complicates life – how do you rebel when the symbols of your rebellion have become everyday occurrences? Worse still, what do you do when the very sorts of people you’re trying to shock approve of your style?</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> I couldn’t help wondering about that the other day when I encountered a young woman in the supermarket. Encountered is probably too strong a word – we passed in the soup aisle, both lost in our own thoughts. </span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> She was a teenager, shopping with her mother. She was dressed in a Goth/punk style that really wasn’t too extraordinary. The most notable part of her appearance was her green hair.</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> It was a lovely spring green, neither St. Patrick’s Day decoration bright nor Easter basket grass pastel. It was, simply, an attractive shade of green. A few years ago, I might have been shocked. As it was, I thought, “Hmm, that green suits her. Looks nice.”</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Later, I considered her likely reaction to my opinion. She probably would have been appalled. </span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Think about it. In her eyes I’m an ancient geezer, old enough to be her father. I’m supposed to see the green hair and disapprove, my disapproval validating her rebellion, yes?</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Besides, even if I ever had been as young as she – a highly unlikely prospect -- I couldn’t possibly remember what it was like to be that age, to be not yet in control of your own life, to need to assert your individuality in whatever small way possible.</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> And yet I do know that feeling, as does anyone who’s ever gone to high school, no matter when. I also know it gets easier to be who you are once those alleged “best years of your life” are behind you. In that sense, the young woman’s rebel challenge still rings true.</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> So here’s to green hair and what it represents. And here’s to not being afraid to express yourself in whatever way suits you best. </span><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span><o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-31692234554899529402009-04-15T16:10:00.000-07:002009-04-15T16:33:00.151-07:00Just Say No to No?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Had an interesting discussion with a family member over the weekend. He's a longtime veteran salesman, selling expensive high-tech equipment to medical facilities.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Somehow we got onto the matter of dealing with </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">salesfolks</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">. He maintained a potential buyer should NEVER say no to a sales rep, because it's rude, politically incorrect and damaging to the rep's ego and sense of self. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Instead, he wants the customer to say "maybe," then when the rep calls back at a later date, tell him/her that the budget doesn't allow the purchase, or that it doesn't fit the buyer's needs, or whatever.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Excuse me? When did a simple, straightforward, politely delivered "no" become rude?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">good </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">salesmen and saleswomen. It's a tough job, and one I know I'm too introverted to do well.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In my former career as a hospital housekeeping department manager, I dealt with all kinds of salespeople, selling everything from floor scrubbing machines to paper towels and soap. Believe me, a good sales rep is an asset to a department manager, introducing new products to improve productivity, offering to train department members, and keeping up with the buyer's needs.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But if I can't afford what the rep's selling, or it doesn't suit my needs, or even if I just don't like the product, why should I prolong the dance of the transaction when I already know what my answer will be? Why not just tell the rep no, respectfully, and move on? It doesn't mean I'll never buy from him/her, just that a particular product isn't right at a particular time. A waffling answer just wastes two people's time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Even now, in my job search, I still prefer the direct approach. I am in essence selling a product -- me -- to prospective employers. If I'm a good fit for the job, by all means, tell me. And if I'm not, tell me that too. We save time, we part with respect, and we move on.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sorry, but if your ego is damaged by hearing the word no instead of maybe, then you might be better off in another line of work.</span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-44685414276047653682009-04-06T06:34:00.000-07:002009-04-06T06:39:34.062-07:00Soaring Birds at Last!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">FINALLY, a team to root for in the NCAA championship game. No, not Michigan State or North Carolina.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">No, my loyalty is to the birds. In this case, Louisville's Lady Cardinals, who will play Connecticut for the women's title.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">Once again:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold;">GO CARDINALS!</span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-10289846659545608112009-04-03T12:41:00.000-07:002009-04-03T12:50:19.174-07:00Espresso Thought!<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 20px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(Espresso = small, concentrated, unfiltered cup of coffee. Espresso Thought = short, concentrated, unfiltered thought.) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Who knew? Disco can save your life!</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Researchers</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> have found, no joke, that the beat of the Bee Gees' disco classic "</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Stayin</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">' Alive" is the perfect rhythm for performing CPR. The 103-beat-per-minute song is ideal for keeping blood pumping and oxygen moving to the brain until professional help arrives.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But if the Bee Gees aren't your cup of espresso, don't fret. Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust" has the same beat. Just be careful not to sing out loud while you're doing compressions ...</span></div><div><br /></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-45241602072505120282009-04-02T10:11:00.000-07:002009-04-02T10:48:51.165-07:00Mysteries of Life!<span style="font-size:130%;"><br />It's always seemed to me that much of the world's innovation comes from people thinking "there must be a better way." See a need, then devise something to fill it.<br /><br />Josephine Cochran, for example, got tired of servants breaking her china. So she invented the first automatic dishwasher.<br /><br />Murray <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Spangler</span> was looking for a way to sweep floors that wouldn't aggravate his allergies. So he combined a pillowcase, a box and an electric fan. He sold the design to Mr. Hoover and the rest is vacuum cleaner history.<br /><br />Throughout history, inventors from Ford to Edison to Gates, Jobs and Wozniak have sought a better way to do things. If necessity is the mother of invention, then improvement is surely the father.<br /><br />But there are some products on the market that don't seem to fit my tidy little theory.<br /><br />Take the tea bag squeezer, for example. I didn't realize there was anything a small piece of plastic could do that a teaspoon against the side of a cup can't.<br /><br />Or indoor wind chimes. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against wind chimes. I just never found it necessary to bring a small set inside and place it on my desk. Nor have I ever felt compelled to use "artificial wind" (as noted on the box), also known as a battery operated fan, to produce the soothing sound I can get for free outside my front door.<br /><br />But my favorite solution to which there is no problem has to be the Grapple. (Pronounce it with a long A -- "Grape-L") <br /><br />If my theory makes sense, it means someone, somewhere, looked at an apple, and thought "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hmmm</span>, what a lovely food product. Hand-held, portable, all natural, great tasting. But there's gotta be a better way."<br /><br />So what did they do? The perfectly logical thing, of course. They infused it with natural and artificial flavor to make it taste like a grape! Mr. Spock would be so proud!<br /><br />So would Dr. Spock, apparently. The company's marketing folks say the Grapple could improve children's eating habits and "introduce them to more produce." Such as what? The strawberry-flavored banana? The pineapple-flavored orange?<br /><br />Hey, it could happen. After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the vine, right?<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-62466981566449230262009-03-30T08:12:00.000-07:002009-03-30T08:25:21.740-07:00Wide Awake in Dreamland!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">This could qualify as the strangest dream I've ever had.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">The other night, I dreamed I was Hillary Clinton's second husband (?!?) I was kidnapped at gunpoint by a comedy troupe on the order of the Capitol Steps or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">SNL's</span> crew, to provide statements that would be quoted out of context about Hillary in order to be funny. The kidnappers were dressed like stereotypical Secret Service agents -- black sunglasses, trench coats, very real guns. I was taken to a room with a lot of other folks, including Madeleine <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Albright</span>, and eventually, Bill Clinton. Later, I found myself unharmed, back out on the streets of whatever unknown city I was in.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">Since the Cafe is a strictly nonpartisan place, we'll skip any kind of political analysis. And since it raises some really scary possibilities, we'll definitely skip any kind of Freudian analysis too. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Geez</span>, I've gotta stop flipping between CNN and "24" reruns right before I go to bed ...</span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-77245413001527441972009-03-26T20:49:00.000-07:002009-03-26T21:29:39.568-07:00Peace, love and German engineering!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Attention Retailers:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I understand your desire to invoke the spirit of the 1960s in some of your advertising and store promotion signs. What better way to denote free-spirited originality than to co-opt some of the symbols of that turbulent generation, right? Sorta like how you play "classic rock" in the store? Especially if you're trying to attract postmodern </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">millennials</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> and their Gen Y brethren, yes? A little irony, like a little sarcasm, goes a long way.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Fine, I can live with that. The medium is the mess, so to speak.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But pay attention here. This will be on your final exam, if only in a karmic sense:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.designboom.com/contemporary/peace.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">THIS</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> site shows an example of a peace symbol. Notice how many points it has? That's right, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">FOUR</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now </span><a href="http://www.mbusa.com/mercedes/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">THIS</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> one shows a Mercedes Benz star logo. How many points does the Mercedes star have? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">THREE</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Contrary to popular belief, these two symbols are </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">NOT </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">interchangeable! One straight line makes all the difference in the world. If you're insist on invoking the peace symbol to sell overpriced clothing made in third-world sweatshops, at least get it right. Failing that, pay the Mercedes folks a royalty, slap a three-pointed star on the back pocket and triple the price.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-35656392688888593772009-03-23T11:35:00.000-07:002009-03-23T12:17:57.539-07:00Bond. James Bond.<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">For men of a certain age, the James Bond 007 films are iconic. Urbane, witty, well-dressed, and powerful, Bond was a role model. Why?<br /><br />For his drinking habits? No. (Although to this day, I prefer my Diet Coke shaken, not stirred. Wish he'd warned me about the dry cleaning bills.)<br /><br />For his fearless <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">derring</span></span>-do? Well, maybe, in a Cowboys-and-Indians kind of way.<br /><br />For his success with beautiful, scantily-clad women with double-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">entendre</span></span> names? No. (We noticed that part later.)<br /><br />No, what made James Bond a hero to millions of boys growing up in the 1960s and '70s was the <span style="font-weight: bold;">gadgets. </span>All the cool stuff that Q came up with to keep Bond in the loop, on target and out of the bad guys' clutches was what made him worth watching.<br /><br />So I can't help wondering what the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fictional</span> Bond -- the icy-cool essence of all things sophisticated and technologically hip -- would make of today's wired world.<br /><br />I propose that we've all become James Bond. After all, it's now possible to carry a phone in your pocket. The shoe phone of another famous secret agent, Maxwell Smart, is a reality after all.<br /><br />For that matter, it's possible to carry a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">smartphone</span></span> (no relation to Agent 86) that has more computing power -- in your shirt pocket or purse -- than the room-sized machines NASA used to send men to the moon.<br /><br />Camera phones can <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">surreptitiously</span> take pictures in a resolution Bond couldn't dream of, and we don't have to wait to get the film processed. Portable GPS units track our every move, and can pinpoint where we are at any time.<br /><br />Then there's the fact that I'm currently sitting in a coffee shop in Florida typing this into a computer that's hardly larger than a steno pad. It weighs about 2.5 pounds. Its 8.9 inch screen shows me any Web site I care to visit. It has <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wi</span></span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">fi</span></span> access to let me post this, a built-in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">webcam</span></span> and a 160-gigabyte hard drive. If I download <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Skype</span></span>, I can talk to anyone in the world.<br /><br />It cost $300. No, that's not a typo.<br /><br />Between the hardware and sites such as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Facebook</span></span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">MySpace</span></span> and Twitter, we can be in constant contact with friends and acquaintances at any time, anywhere.<br /><br />Maybe it's time to update that classic exchange between Bond and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Goldfinger</span></span>:<br /><br />"Do you expect me to talk?"<br /><br />"No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to TWEET."<br /><br />Truly, we live in amazing times. Now if we could just get the Aston-Martin DB5, complete with the ejector seat and those really cool machine guns behind the headlights ...<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9124541965901625933.post-20434435443651556682009-03-22T14:58:00.000-07:002009-03-22T15:10:27.969-07:00Back to the Aerie ... and a New Bird Rising<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So no Eagles in the Final Four this year. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Morehead</span> State lost Friday by 20 points to Louisville, no surprise. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">Time to switch allegiance to my OTHER Kentucky team. See, when you grow up in the Bluegrass State, college basketball is a religion. It doesn't matter which college you actually attend, or even if you do. But almost from the time you're born, you're expected to declare your loyalty to the Blue (the University of Kentucky Wildcats) or the Red (University of Louisville Cardinals). The two sides get along just about as well as Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland did before the peace agreement. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">Me, I'm the family heretic, so:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large; color: rgb(255, 0, 0); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">GO CARDINALS!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div>Chef Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15111098825628185051noreply@blogger.com0