Okay, it's been years since I downed a glass of chocolate milk. But, when I was a kid, this was a real treat. Sometimes, you could get it in a plastic container from the grocery store. Or you simply made it yourself. A couple of spoonfuls of Bosco into a glass. Or a pump or two from the Cocoa Marsh dispenser. Bingo, bango, instant chocolate refreshment.
As an adult, I have looked at the calorie content of chocolate milk and pretty much pushed it away from me. But, still, it's milk, I'm no longer ten years old, and kids do need a treat from time to time.
Except it was recently revealed that some school systems have now banned it from their cafeterias. Sorry, kids, you're too fat. Go expand your waists elsewhere.
What????
Now that you've rolled that around your noggin, try this one on for size. There are some schools in the increasingly brain-dead metropolis of Chicago that are now prohibiting kids from bringing bagged lunches from home.
What????
I guess the thinking is that the school cafeterias can do a much better job than Mom or Dad when it comes to giving their youngsters a noontime meal. Okay, I don't know who's dishing out the slop in the Chicago schools, but I remember what passed for lunch at Mount Vernon High School. And it usually passed right through me. There was one edible item on the menu. Friday pizza. How can you fuck up frozen pizza? Miraculously, the ladies with the hairnets at MVHS didn't. But, on most days, I had my brown bag. Taylor ham with mustard on a roll. And I grew up just fine.
Wait, guys, there's more.
This dumbbell of a mayor in Boston had to get into the act. He's banned all sugar-based soft drinks from any city property. Soda, punch, sports drinks? Good luck finding them in selected areas of Beantown. Of course, he did negotiate a special deal with the Boston Red Sox so baseball fans can still buy a soda at Fenway Park.
What the hell is going on??????
Trust me, I'm the first one to admit that America is woefully out of shape. Let's face it, the Midwest in this country is just one big XXL pair of sweatpants. But, still, shouldn't the policing be done at home? What happened to self control? Where is the parental responsibility? What is wrong with any of these pictures?
A lot of this is a direct by-product of the desperatate need for First-Lady Michelle Obama to have something to do with her days. All Presidential wives have to adopt a cause. Lady Bird Johnson cleaning up garbage on the side of Route 80. Nancy Reagan showing on "Diff'rent Strokes" to tell kids not to smoke weed. Laura Bush yakking it up about the reading skills of children. With Mrs. Obama, there was a fervent desire to give her a cause that was so benign that she couldn't possibly screw it up. Wow, the eating habits of children. How hard could that be for her?
Um, pretty hard. She screwed it up anyway.
Thanks but no thanks for the guidance and teachable moments, folks. I personally know what I can eat and what I shouldn't eat. And, if I do, so do my friends with children. And, for those who don't have the time to give guidance to their young'ins, well, them thar is the breaks. If you take your kid to McDonald's three times a week, you shouldn't be surprised when they grow up to look like Rosie O'Donnell the day after Thanksgiving dinner.
But, at least, they should be allowed the choice. You can have normal children. Or they can be supersized. But it should totally up to you.
When does the insanity stop? To quote a good friend of mine...
"The only one who can tell me what to eat is my mother. And she's dead."
Dinner last night: Smoked sausage with salad.
The original Jefferson who moved on up.
1111: HENRY V IS CROWNED HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR.
What's with all these Henrys who become rulers? There were no Hanks?
1204: CONSTANTINOPLE FALLS TO THE CRUSADERS OF THE FOURTH CRUSADE.
Of course, they were Crusades. What else would the Fourth Crusade produce? Martha Reeves and the Vandellas?
1250: THE SEVENTH CRUSADE IS DEFEATED IN EGYPT.
Okay, let's do some math, gang. In 46 years, there are three different Crusades. That's less than 16 years per Crusade.
1256: THE GRAND UNION OF THE AUGUSTINIAN ORDER IS FORMED.
Later it merged and became the Waldbaum's of the Augustinian Order. New Yorkers are laughing their asses off at that gag.
1612: MIYAMOTO MUSASHI DEFEATS SASAKI KOJIRO AT FUNAJIMA ISLAND.
In two out of three falls. The main event was Bruno Sammartino vs. Killer Kowalski.
1742: HANDEL'S MESSIAH MAKES ITS WORLD PREMIERE IN DUBLIN, IRELAND.
Isn't this a Christmas thing? Hello, it's April.
1743: PRESIDENT THOMAS JEFFERSON IS BORN.
This had to happen or else there would be no reason for a memorial.
1796: THE FIRST ELEPHANT EVER SEEN IN THE UNITED STATES ARRIVES FROM INDIA.
This almost prompted a Liz Taylor joke, but I'm still in mourning.
1852: F.W. WOOLWORTH IS BORN.
The original nickel-and-dimer.
1861: DURING THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR, FORT SUMTER SURRENDERS TO CONFEDERATE FORCES.
I didn't know Fort Sumter was in France.
1870: THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART IS FOUNDED.
Oddly enough, the gift shop opened two years earlier.
1902: J.C. PENNEY OPENS HIS FIRST STORE IN WYOMING.
Still the best place to shop for really cheap washcloths.
1906: WRITER SAMUEL BECKETT IS BORN.
Yep, we're still waiting....
1919: EUGENE V. DEBS ENTERS AN ATLANTA PRISON FOR SPEAKING OUT AGAINST THE DRAFT DURING WORLD WAR I.
And you thought Jane Fonda started this?
1919: ACTOR HOWARD KEEL IS BORN.
Clayton Farlow of "Dallas." And, oh, yeah, some other stuff.
1921: THE SPANISH COMMUNIST WORKERS' PARTY IS FOUNDED.
And that explains why the matador's cape is always red.
1923: ACTOR DON ADAMS IS BORN.
He was almost born on April 12, but he missed it by that much.
1935: TV PERSONALITY LYLE WAGGONER IS BORN.
His biggest claim to fame is that he invented the trailers that movie stars hide out in when not on set.
1943: JAMES BOARMAN, FRED HUNTER, HAROLD BREST, AND FLOYD G. HAMILTON TAKE PART IN AN ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE FROM ALCATRAZ.
An attempt? Never a good sign.
1943: THE JEFFERSON MEMORIAL IS DEDICATED IN WASHINGTON, DC, ON THE 200TH ANNIVERSARY OF THOMAS JEFFERSON'S BIRTH.
I told you.
1945: ACTOR TONY DOW IS BORN.
"Ward, I'm never worried about Wally."
1963: AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS, SIDNEY POITIER BECOMES THE FIRST AFRICAN-AMERICAN MALE TO WIN THE BEST ACTOR AWARD FOR "LILIES OF THE FIELD."
Amen.
1970: AN OXYGEN TANK ABOARD APOLLO 13 EXPLODES, PUT THE CREW IN GREAT DANGER.
But it also gave Ron Howard an idea for a kick-ass movie.
1976: THE UNITED STATES TREASURY REINTRODUCES THE TWO DOLLAR BILL ON THOMAS JEFFERSON'S 233RD BIRTHDAY.
Okay, enough already with the Jefferson shit.
1983: HAROLD WASHINGTON IS ELECTED AS THE FIRST AFRICAN-AMERICAN MAYOR IN CHICAGO'S HISTORY.
At least, his name wasn't Jefferson.
1992: THE GREAT CHICAGO FLOOD.
Probably due to years of neglect during the Mayor Washington regime.
1997: TIGER WOODS BECOMES THE YOUNGEST GOLFER TO WIN THE MASTERS.
The golf course is the only place where he drives correctly.
2009: PHILLIE BROADCASTER HARRY KALAS DIES.
He dropped dead in the press box. Going, going,...
2009: DETROIT TIGER PITCHER MARK FIDRYCH DIES.
Big Bird falls out of the nest.
Dinner last night: Garden medley salad with chicken at BJ's.
We've got a whole busload of morons this month, gang. All of them spinning around the horrific tragedy that took place in the Dodger Stadium parking lot on Opening Day.
Unless you've been hiding in a closet, you know the story. Some poor unsuspecting Giant fan is pummeled to a cranial pulp after the game by the absolute shitheads shown in an artist rendering above. Now there's a dragnet out to catch these two neanderthals plus the woman who drove the getaway car. And there was a child with them!!
Good luck finding them. Don't bother looking anywhere in the Los Angeles environs. I'd bet dollars to burritos that this bunch has hightailed it over our gravy strainer of a southern border and are now back where they came from. Most likely illegally in the first place.
If they show their faces ever again on American soil, let's hope their greeters shoot to kill. And, if the driving senorita and the little nino get hit and suffer collateral damage, oh, well, life's a bitch. How do you say "tough love" in Spanish?
So, they're the easy picks to be April's Morons. But, there are others skirting this whole situation that also need to be recognized for their excess stupidity.
Another simple target for projectile vomiting would be the increasingly inept Dodger owner Frank McCourt. Heck, even before this happened, 99.9% of Dodger fans wanted this guy shipped back to Fenway P-ahrk with the rest of the cre-tahns who reside in Red Sox Abomination. Now, everything Frank does looks like the last act of Arthur Miller's "The Crucible." If it's true that McCourt neglected to hire a new head of security last winter in a cost-cutting measure, the recent violence could be his Dodger Blue waterloo.
Still, it's really too simple to draw a bulls eye on his back. Why not recognize the true Moron in the McCourt travesty?
Yes, that would be Major League Baseball's woeful sap of a commissioner, Bud Selig.
There has never been a more likely stooge since the days when Shemp was wielding a lead pipe at Larry's head. Selig, who was inexplicably elevated to the commissioner's seat after years fucking over the Milwaukee Brewers franchise as chief owner, has screwed the sport royally. Under his leadership, baseball suffered through the steroid debacle as Bud conveniently looked the other way as science projects like Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire made a mockery of the record books.
Most importantly, with regard to our topic today, Selig is the one who approved the deals that turned the likes of Frank McCourt into baseball owners. Let's face it, from everything we hear, McCourt bought the storied Dodger franchise on his Sears credit card. Who allowed this to happen? Bud Selig. And let's not forget that Bud has also let the New York Mets franchise to wilt on the vine in the wake of the Bernie Madoff/Fred Wilpon alliance. Two major baseball franchises. Stripped of both dollars and dignity.
It's time for Bud Selig to pick up his Velveeta processed cheese and go back to Milwaukee where shoveling mounds of snow is considered a creative achievement.
But, wait, there's more. Morons galore in April. Lots and lots of them found in the pages of the Los Angeles Times.
These days, I'm still a fan of newspapers and love to go through one in the morning. But, the Los Angeles Times is making it hard for me to keep my subscription. They're a Sudoku puzzle and a Blondie comic strip away from losing my business. Their coverage of the Dodger Stadium situation has been that biased and inaccurate.
The regular Dodger beat writers like Dylan Hernandez, Steve Dilbeck, and columnist/alleged stand-up comic TJ Simers are already working overtime in their daily attempts to trash the team both on-the-field and in the front office. Their rants are the journalistic equivalent of week-old Chinese takeout. They seem to be on a crusade to run Frank McCourt out of town and, while I'm not opposed to the notion, the Times sports hacks are blaming him for everything from the recent earthquake in Japan to the stoning of Lot's wife in the village square.
But, now with the parking lot calamity, everybody who writes for the Los Angeles Times is piling on as if there's a rumor going around the building that Frank McCourt is secretly sleeping with Sarah Palin. Regardless of their expertise or lack thereof, all of the columnists are waxing philosophically on the violent element at Dodger Stadium. Because, at the Los Angeles Times, you can pull an opinion out of your ass and call it news reporting.
Take, for instance, some dumb broad named Sandy Banks, whose journalistic skills lead me to think that her time would be better spent at home doing the wash.
I've never paid attention to anything she's written before, but, suddenly, she's an expert on Dodger Stadium. In a recent column, she even admits that she's rarely been to the ballpark over the past three decades. But, that doesn't stop this nincompoop from spending two dozen paragraphs lecturing us on the deplorable situation that Dodger fans must endure every game. This is all based on a worrisome text message she got from her daughter on Opening Day. Just where was her daughter sitting at that game? That is apparently not the issue. But, if Sandy Banks is so darn worried about her daughter's safety, she might use her pull to get the kid some seats on the Loge Level where absolutely nothing sinister happens on any given day.
At the very least, I give Banks credit for insinuating in her column that ethnicity might play a part in the Dodger Stadium problems. But, still. Come to a game once every ten years or so and then have something to say.
Then there's the Times' Pulitzer-Prize-winner-wannabe/resident crybaby Steve Lopez. If his photo looks like a mug shot, that's fitting. What he writes in his column is frequently borderline criminal. An uber-do gooder, Lopez is most known for befriending some screwball schizophrenic bass player and turning it into a movie called "The Soloist." That's a good title for the film since I think only one person saw it.
Anyway, if there's a sob story to be told in Los Angeles, Lopez will find it and write it. You read his dribble and you just know that cold hard facts are being overlooked in favor of whatever heart strings Lopez wants to tug.
So, naturally, he has to weigh in on the Dodger Stadium fracas. His focus is on the neighborhood around the ballpark where fans are now parking their cars in lieu of spending $15 to put their cars in the stadium lot. Since this was raised from ten dollars a few years back, the folks in the environs have seen an increase in hooliganism as a result. That blasted Frank McCourt! For an extra five bucks, our front lawns are now littered with beer bottles.
What????
First of all, parking fees are parking fees and an easy way to gouge more money from fans. This is a fact that all baseball owners now subscribe to. Heck, there are some Met game tickets at Citi Field that cost less than the $19 parking lot. Hello?
Meanwhile, Lopez zeroes in on the neighbors and their plight now living near a ballpark. Excuse me? Dodger Stadium didn't suddenly emerge from the ground one night. It's been in the Chavez Ravine area in some shape or form since 1958. Most of the people Lopez chatted up were relatively young. So they moved to a house, knowing fully well that a ballpark was nearby. These are the kinds of idiots that Lopez likes to empower in his columns. And, once again, logic and facts need not be included.
Let's hope he finds another classical music lunatic living under a freeway overpass soon, so he can stop beating the hell out of Dodger Stadium.
None of this is to say that there is not a serious problem lurking the top levels of Tommy Lasorda's famed Blue Heaven on Earth. But, I can tell you all that I have never once dreaded a single moment attending a game at Dodger Stadium. I have found the customer service staff there efficient and friendly. Last weekend, when a foul ball fell two rows in front of me, a security person was down the stairs immediately to see if anyone was hurt. I have seen ruffians dealt with when I called over the attention of game day staff. I'm totally comfortable.
But, then again, I'm in the pricier seats. Upstairs, in tickets affordably priced so EVERYONE can attend a baseball game, you have a clientele that mirrors what is happening to the population of Los Angeles.
Let's face it. Here's something you don't hear from the Los Angeles Times. The Mexican influx into California has severely degraded the region. And, almost automatically, it couldn't help but permeate the 56,000 chairs at Dodger Stadium. Frankly, there is nothing happening in this city that isn't happening to any other major metropolitan area. But, to hear it from the mouths of the assholes at the Los Angeles Times, you would think this was a problem totally unique and confined to Dodger Stadium.
Shame on them.
Trust me, I would like nothing better than to think it was 1965 again. It's a bright sunny day at Chavez Ravine and Sandy Koufax, as Vin Scully might say, is putting some smoke rings on the scoreboard. But it's not. Those days are long gone.
Yep, plenty of morons this month. And, given our lax immigration policies, there are even more headed our way in years to come.
Dinner last night: BBQ Ribs at Kate Mantilini.
U-N-C-O-N-S-C-I-O-U-S....
Dinner last night: Pepperoni and provolone sandwich with sweet red peppers.
I hated it. Those two words in the title above.
Especially in elementary school. I attended the Grimes School, pictured above as more evidence of the decay that has rotted the mental images of my hometown and my childhood.
But, the good news is that there are still memories and friends who can prod you to remember even more. Once again, here's an opening of the Memory Drawer spurred on by a Facebook conversation with some of my friends of years gone by. Another flood of emotions started by two words.
"Gym Class."
I hated it.
Oh, yeah, I said that already.
What kid hates gym class?
This kid. Right here.
Back in my years in grades three through six, it was the one class period that I dreaded each and every day. In our school, the boys and the girls took gym together and none of us looked particularly attractive. The boys had to wear the same color of gym shorts and the standard white T-shirt. I think the girls were able to adapt slightly with a short skirt. Whatever the case, we all looked uniforms in our uniforms. Sort of a combination of Romper Room and a World War II prison camp.
There had been a renewed vigor in America thanks to one youthful President and he wanted all the nation's youth to share in that vitality. Twice a school year, gym class was devoted to completing the President's National Fitness Test, which had been started by the former Senator from Massachusetts. Of course, in retrospect, we all know that President Kennedy was hardly fit himself and was taking regular injections of pain killers. But, back then, it was all about our ability to participate in such odd stunts as the "Shuttle Run."
It involved two blackboard erasers. They would place them at the end of some straight-away. You ran down quickly and picked up one eraser. You ran back and put it down at the starting line. Then you raced back and picked up the other eraser and repeated the run back. The gym teacher would clock you and the time would be an indicator of your physical prowess and perhaps even your ultimate entrance to God's kingdom. For me, the "shuttle run" could only be important if you were looking for a future working in the stock room at your local Staples.
I was a chubby kid and never did well. Perhaps, there are no overweight people in Heaven?
There was other nonsense this test required. Six times running around the school yard. Again, a time was recorded. The gym class wasn't long enough for me to finish.
So, in the process of determining the physical capabilities of America's youth, most of us suffered great blows to our self-esteem. Life giving with one hand and taking with the other.
I'd trod back to class wondering what the hell was wrong with me. And, oh, yeah, let's see John F. Kennedy with his bad back stoop down and pick up some erasers. Alive or dead.
Each day, the specter of gym class hung over my head like an anvil ready to drop at any moment. What new fresh pile of Hell was awaiting me today? There were no sneak previews available. You had no clue what was on today's menu down at the gym. Perhaps a brutal game of dodgeball. There was always one mental patient in your class whose main goal in life was to imprint the word "Spalding" on your left thigh. Maybe the net would be up and you were doomed to some volleyball. As you rotated through the defensive positions, I would pray that the bell would ring before I got to the front line when some lunatic would spike the ball right on my noggin.
And then there was the pinnacle of my dread. On those days every school year when I would walk into the gym and see the supreme horror.
The mats were down. The parallel bars were set up. The rings were hanging from the ceiling.
Shit!
Gymnastics.
An involuntary twitch would go up my right arm, making it immediately go up in the air.
"Can I go to the nurse's office? I have a sore throat, an upset stomach, and maybe even cancer."
If I got a sense ahead of time that gymnastics was scheduled, I'd work overtime to get that coveted medical excuse. I'd perfectly time/fake a sprained ankle or a wrist. Sorry, Mr. Gym Teacher, I'm stuck. No gymnastics for me this year. A tear is rolling down my cheek.
But, usually, gymnastics were waged as a sneak attack. And I was left to somehow manage my hysteria. Whoever that year's gym teacher was, he would outline our stunts as if he was coaching Mary Lou Retton in the 1984 Summer Olympics.
"Okay, you will swing up on the rings and then wind up in the cat's cradle?"
What the fuck are you talking about? I mean, what are you referring to, please, ...um, sir?
There was never any way I was going to perform this feat of magic. At least not sober. And I never had anything strong than milk with Cocoa Marsh in those days.
Self Esteem, here comes another beating.
Now here's the fascinating thing I discovered this week from some of the girls who I shared these ignoble moments with. I drew a complete blank on the names of some of those gym teachers. They, however, did not. Largely because some of them were particularly good looking. I read tales of these guys' wavy hair and they all seemed to drive in convertibles. These idiots did nothing for me, but, as for the girls in my class, their butter was melted.
There was one gym teacher name, however, that did come back to me loud and sadly clear.
Seth Hicks.
Shudder, shudder....
By this time, he may have even passed on. And, if he is still with us in this mortal coil and he is spending his retirement days Googling his name, well, he's not going to be happy. The guy was an asshole. A nasty piece of business who apparently had a small cup of espresso as a professional basketball player after playing college hoops at Seton Hall (or so the internet tells me). As a result, he was a frustrated guy who took all his unhappiness out on us.
And me. And it came down to a supreme battle over...
...the forward roll.
I've told the saga here before. Next week, I will share it all over again.
Seth Hicks, it's on!
Dinner last night: Lasagna at Della Terra.
If only this idiot had stopped with megadoses of Pepsi...
Dinner last night: BBQ pulled pork sandwich at the Cheesecake Factory.
Droopy Drawers!
Lucky Charms. The official breakfast cereal of Harlem.
Note to self: Never take the middle seat on an airplane.
If there's a heaven, this guy better not be in it.
As she got older, it wasn't just Granny's spirits that sagged.
Let's have a party and invite your pants down to meet your ankles.
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at Maria's Italian Kitchen.
