They Don't Shoot Horses, Do They?

You know how when you're watching a Western movie (in this era of political correctness) and the horses fall down, and at the end of the movie there's this disclaimer, "No animals were injured in the making of this movie."  You know what I mean?

Now, when you see that do you feel all fuzzy inside and thank the powers that be that those horses weren't tripped up or anything? I used to do that too. I used to walk out of the movie house and be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, "Steve, you'd never want to see a horse hurt, would you?"  And then I'd answer myself and say, "No, I wouldn't." It was all very upbuilding to me.

But I started thinking. If they are not knocking horses down or tripping them up, then what's happening.  I don't think it's some sort of Shrek-like computer animation. I think the horses are being made to fall. Now, maybe they can train a horse to fall on cue. But, even so, how do we really know that no horses were injured?  I'm thinking that some of those horses are bound to be sore the next day at the very least. 

But as I got to thinking about horses falling, I got to thinking about something else. You know how when you're watching some Law and Order crime drama and there's a baby in the scene and the baby (in the storyline) has been traumatized? And, you know how the baby seems to cry on cue?  I mean somebody has got to be making that baby cry.  And yet, at the end of the movie there's no disclaimer saying that no babies were harmed in the making of that movie.

So what does that tell you? It tells me a few things.

1) The people who make these movies  must know that a lot more people are worried about harming animals than they are about harming babies.

2) These same people must be harming children. I mean think about it. They make the babies cry. They make no promise that they didn't have to hurt the kid to make him cry. 

3) Hollywood producers are deliberately harming babies.

So, what are you going to do about that?  I've presented the evidence. I laid out my argument, brilliantly, if I must say so myself.  The truth is staring you right in the face.

I feel pretty confident that after most of you have gone back and re-read this blog carefully, you're going to do the only thing a progressive thinking American could do. You're going to get on your computer and you're going to start sending emails. And you're going to let anyone who will listen know that you're on to them. You're going to tell these big-time Hollywood types to stop hurting horses and lying about it.

And you'll feel much better about yourself for having done so.

Thank You Al Gore. You Keep Us Warm

 People are forever coming up to me and saying things like, “Steve, you're just so deep,” or, “Steve, you think too deeply for your own good,” or stuff like that.

I always humbly reply, “Aw, shucks.” And then I blush. I can blush at will, you know.

Anyway, I do have to admit that sometimes, when I put my mind to it, I can come up with some pretty brilliant ideas. And, I've done it again. Here's what I've figured out: Al Gore is actually largely responsible for global warming. He caused it. No, wait. I can prove it.

Think about it. Doesn't increased electrical consumption have something to do with it? I'm sure I read that somewhere. And I'm not talking about how much electricity Al Gore uses in his big house. I think people who can afford big houses should live in them, and, hey, you got to keep a light on.

No, I'm talking about something much more than one house. Here's where my depth comes in. Didn't Al Gore invent the Internet? I think so. He said it and I don't think he would lie about something as important as that. I think I may have even read it at Wikipedia. So you know it has to be true.

Now if it weren't for the Internet, how many computers would be on right now? Mine probably wouldn't. I don't get up at 5:00 in the morning to play Solitaire. Not anymore. But I will get up to see the NASA picture of the day, or to watch some kid in Ohio, on You Tube, who can play a selection from Chopin with his armpit.

And I have Al Gore to thank for that. Bless his heart. Without him, how would I know that the sun set yesterday at 7:27 pm? Or that Haiku is 5 syllables, then 7, then 5?

These are just a few of the things I've learned, indirectly from Al Gore. But, alas (I hope I used that word right. I've been wanting to use it for quite some time), such wonders come with a price. In this case, the price is increased electrical usage. Now take me and multiply me times 1.7 billion Internet users worldwide (learned that from the Internet, too). Now, take that number and multiply by 55 kilowatt-hours of use. That's a typical, maybe modest estimate I found at a website, which, I might add, was only accessible to me because of Mr. Gore. So, take 55 kilowatt-hours and multiply by 1.7 billion and you get 93,500,000,000 kilowat-hours a year of electricity.

Now could that cause global warming? I'm not sure because I couldn't find anything on the Internet to tell me. So, I'll go out on a pretty big limb here and say, yes indeed. It definitely would cause global warming.

But, before you Al Gore fans get all up in arms, which according to allwords.com means, “(idiom) angry,” let me explain. I'm not denigrating our former Vice-President, and, according to some, almost President. I'm thanking him for causing global warming.

What? You're probably asking yourself as you scratch your head. Calm down and hear me out. Before global warming, yes, before there was an Internet, what were scientists warning us about? Now, you're beginning to nod your head in wonderment, aren't you? Yes, it was global cooling. Just 35 years ago or so, that's all we heard about.

Now, if I had my choice of global cooling or global warming, I'd take global warming. I mean we're not talking about the earth hurtling into the sun and frying us to a crisp. We're only talking enough warming to turn New York city into a tropical Atlantic island. And, when you think about it, what's so bad about that. I bet there are many New Yorkers, who, especially after this winter, wish they lived in the Bahamas. Soon they will, sort of.

So, the way I look at it, Al Gore saved us from freezing. And, at the same time, he provided us with a tool that helps me to know the difference between “hurtling” and “hurdling.” I dont know about you, but I'm grateful.

Anyway, I gotta get off of here. I'm going outside and plant me a grove of banana trees. And, next year, every time I go out back and pick me a deliciously fresh banana, I'm going to say a little thank you to Mr. Al Gore.

GEE, MY HAIR SMELLS HORRIFIC

 You know, I always am amazed when someone sniffs a carton of bad milk, makes a horrible face, and says “Yuk. Smell this.” Even more amazingly, I actually stick my nose in the carton and take a big whiff. And, it's not just me. I think we're all intrigued by horrible odors...drawn to them, if you will.

So, if I'm right about that, many of you may well be enticed by my request. Sniff my hair please. That's not some kinky plea. I just want you to confirm that my hair really stinks. No, it's not a dirty, stinky smell. It's a clean, stinky smell. Perhaps I had better explain.

My wife loves creams and goos and lotions and elixirs and shampoos and all that stuff, and the more exotic, the better. She spent a two-week vacation at an Aveda store once. So, it was not surprising that when she returned from a recent business trip, she brought back a bunch of new goo from some sort of organic type goo store.

Included among her finds was a round cake of soap that's really shampoo that you smear all over your head and it lathers up. It lathers beautifully, but it stinks. I think it's called Mildew or maybe just Doo. But it smells like cigarette smoke.

She used it the other night and I thought I was going to have to evacuate my home. So, when she handed it to me, while I was in the shower this morning, I was somewhat hesitant to use it. In fact, I begged her not to make me use it.

“Use it,” she demanded. “It's good for dandruff.” As if I have dandruff.

“But it stinks,” I tell her meekly, in my typical meek manner.

“You can always rinse and use some conditioner,” she assured me.

So I used it. It was horrible. The steam from the hot water mixed with the stuff and sent a whiff of something terrible right up my nose. I was gagging so much that I could hardly reach for the conditioner. It's her conditioner and guess what it's called. Go ahead.

Tree Sap. That's right. Her conditioner is tree sap. So, I mix the tree sap in with the cake of horror and what do I get? Well, let me paint a word picture to help you get the essence of what I smell like. Picture, if you will, a lovely little cabin in the woods. Listen as the birds chirp a cheery good morning. See the little winding stone walkway leading up to the little cabin. Did you notice the butterflies around the lovely little flower garden?

Now, picture that beautiful little cabin going up in smoke. Whoof. In an instant, the log cabin is reduced to a smoldering heap. Imagine what that cabin smells like as you sift through the ruins, trying to find anything that might be salvaged.

Your lungs are filling up quickly with a putridness, right? Well, that's me. So, if you run in to me today, please come up and say, “hello.” And, please sniff my hair. Pretty yucky, huh?

Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due

So, I’m sitting at my desk this morning, and, in all honesty, I’m coming up empty on something to write about. Then out of the blue, the phone rings. Although it’s early, I pick up the phone.

“Is this Mr. Steve Cook?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.

“Yes,” I reply honestly.

“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.

I get that instant throbbing feeling one gets as his head starts to swell. “Yes, but you can call me ‘The,’” I say.

“My name is Lochru,” he says. “And, I’m hoping you can help me out.”

“Lochru? “ I question. “Sounds rather Druidish.”

“Bingo,” he says.

“Bingo?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers. “I’m a Druid.”

“Sure you are,” I say with a certain degree of sarcasm.

“No, honestly,” he continues. “I’m Druid, actually half-Druid, half-Nordic…and half-Roman.” He laughs. “That’s an old Druid joke.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” I ask him. The Druids have been extinct for centuries.” I say. I’m not so sure that’s accurate, but I throw it out there.

“You’re basically correct,” he answers. “I was frozen for centuries at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir, and only just recently thawed out.”

Now I know he’s lying. “The Falling Creek Reservoir hardly ever freezes,” I say.

“Thin blood,” he answers.

I decide to play along.

“So, why are you just now thawing out?” I ask him.

“Global warming, I guess,” he says.

“Global warming?” I respond inquisitively. “There are many who don't believe in that.”

“Well, I guess I'm Al Gore's dream come true,” he retorts quickly.

“You seem to know quite a bit about current events for someone who’s been frozen for centuries,” I say, congratulating myself on my own quick retort.

“I read,” he says.

“So, you said you wanted my help,” I say, changing the subject.

“Yeah, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been following this ongoing debate about whether to call it a Christmas tree or a holiday tree, and whether to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’”

“So?” I ask him.

“Well,” he continues, “I heard this woman on TV say since it’s Christian, it ought to be called a Christmas tree. I have to admit, that gets my goat.”

“What do you mean, Mr….Is it Lochru,” I ask.

“Yeah, but you can call me what everyone else does, or did…back in the day,” he says.

“And, what’s that?”

“Sonny,” he answers.

“Okay, Sonny,” I say. “What do you mean it gets your goat?”

“Everybody’s talking about all these holiday festivities, but nobody ever stops to thank us Druids,” he says. He does sound sincerely upset.

“Could you explain?” I ask him.

“Hey,” he continues. “A lot of these things started with us Druids, although I admit, we stole some of ‘em from the Romans.”

“What kind of things?” I ask him.

“You know, the holly, the mistletoe, that sort of stuff.”

“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “We were big on the nature stuff. We specialized in the worship of trees and bushes and the like.”

“Tell me more.” I’m getting interested in what Sonny has to say.

“We even have a Holly King,” he explains. “He wears red, lives just one night a year, and drives a team of eight deer.”

“You’re kidding,” I say. “That sounds like…”

“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.

“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.

“Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You know, let’s give credit where credit is due,” he says. “Give us the credit for all these traditions you folks stole from us, and, in turn, I put something pretty in your stocking.”

“No thanks,” I say. “I'm not Druid.”

With that he hung up. I really don’t know whether I should even mention this or not.

My Very Special, Annual, End of the Year Report

 Well, here we are at the end of another year. Is it just me, or does it seem as if it were a mere 360-some days ago that we were welcoming in 2009? And, now, before you know it, comes the time we have to way so long, to 2009, that is.

I think 2009 could be known as the year just about everyone famous died. It could also be known as the year that global warming froze the rest of us nearly to death. It might be known as the year that Nebraska Senator, Ted Nelson, determined that the life of an unborn child is worth about 45 billion. (okay, that one is a little obscure, but worth noting) It definitely could be known as the first year in American history that we had a president whose last name ended in a non-silent vowel. Talk about your diversity, eh.

When you think about it, this whole New Year's thing is just a very well accepted excuse to drink more than you should, kiss people you shouldn't, and make promises that you obviously will not keep any more faithfully than the promises you made a year ago.

There's nothing especially special about January 1^st. It happens to be the beginning of a new month and the month begins a new year, but it's just a somewhat arbitrarily chosen date. The Jews began their new year in the spring. The Chinese celebrate the new year, well, gee, I can't remember when, but they do it in bed. No wait I'm mixing their New Year's up with their cookies.

And, if I were well versed on such things, I could probably go on and on about when other cultures celebrate New Year's. But, I'm not, well versed that is. So, I'll just shut up about this.

But think about all the hubbub that centers around New Year's. Think of the tons and tons of trash and garbage that's left behind when Times Square revelers stagger home in the wee hours of 2010. Think about how stupid it is to stand outside in freezing temperatures to watch some neon lit “apple” slowly slide down a pole.

Think about how you sit around the TV trying to figure out what in the world Dick Clark has just said. I bet that even after he's dead, Ryan Seacrest will be standing alongside Clark's casket in Times Square, counting down the seconds 'til the ball drops.

It's all pretty ridiculous, don't you think? You wake up January 1^st, many doing so with massive hangovers, and you look at the calendar and you say, “Yeah, it's January 1^st. And you go back to bed. Nothing really is any different. True, you won't really break any of your resolutions until you sober up, but, to be sure, you will break them.

After that, nothing much is any different. It could be 2009, or 2008, or 1978, except you look so much older than you did then. It's just a number. It's just another day. As the immortal Peggy Lee once asked, musically, “Is that all there is? Is that all there is?” Yeah, Peggy, that is pretty much all there is.

You know every year I write a column about this. And no one pays attention. No one says, “Steve, you know, you're right. I'm not going to make a big deal about New Year's.” It's all very frustrating. But, I know how to put an end to my frustration. I'm making a resolution that next year I won't write a column about the absuridity of New Year's. I sure hope I can stick with this.

The Best Story You'll Ever Read About Ukrop's

The story I'm about to tell you is true. The names have not been changed. I'm only writing it because I want to keep you up to date on Ukrop's Grocery Stores. You know how much I love 'em.

The rumor is, and this is strictly hush hush, that Ukrop's is about to sell out to an Ahold. In fact, it's a Royal Ahold. Ahold USA is the American arm of Netherland's based Royal Ahold, the largest grocery chain in the Netherlands.

I'm not surprised that Ukrops would sell to an Ahold. They've done some interesting things through the years. Now, I know this will tick many Richmonders off. Ukrop's is more of a shrine than a grocery store to many FFVs (fat, flatulent Virginians). They don't sell alcohol because of their Christian principles. Now, I've raised the question before, and I'll raise it again...now. In that picture of the Last Supper, I saw Jesus and his Apostles drinking wine, but which ones in the group are enjoying a good after-dinner smoke? I can't find 'em. I don't even see an honest-to-goodness ashtray in the picture.

Also Ukrop's has had a strict CLOSED ON SUNDAY policy. Again, it's their Christian values. However, word is that now that the local foodstore chain has hit on harder times, they're thinking about opening on Sunday. You see, according to the Bible, you're only supposed to observe the Sabbath when you're operating in the black. Bible principles are based on the bottom line, not on the rightness or wrongness of the action, itself. And, as an aside to you purists, truth is, Christians were never told to observe a Sabbath, and if they did, it would have been Saturday, in line with the Jews, to whom a Sabbath law was given. Why a Sunday sabbath, unless you just love them good ol' southern sun-worshipping Romans, who did know how to throw a good party, especially in December.

So, when you see such contradictory principles at work, I'd say the next logical step is to sell out to an Ahold. Now how will these Ahold folks be different? Well, when the Aholds bought Giant Food in the D.C area, they kept the Giant name. They updated the stores, but kept the name. Most Ukrop's are in pretty good shape. Although it is true that the restrooms in their Cary Street and Staples Mill Road locations only have one toilet, and no Ahold would sit for that.

So, the name we love, no make that the name we venerate, remains. The stores, if anything, get better, and, for sure, we can shop on Sunday and maybe even, if no one is looking, buy a bottle of wine or a can of beer. So, you decide, who is better, the Ukrops or the Aholds?

Sizzling Hot and Delicious

You probably thought, from the title of this post, that I was going to step forward and admit that I, too, have been involved with Tiger Wood.  Nope. Sorry to disappoint, but my lips are sealed on that matter.

What I do want to tell you about, as I wrap up my Door County blogs, is the good ol' fashioned Door County, Wisconsin Fish Boil. Now, for you boil novices, that term may sound like some nasty growth on your body, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Here's the scoop, which comes from reliable sources:  The fish boil began years ago as a quick, economical way to feet hungry lumberjacks. Before long, it had become so popular that church groups and other organizations were sponsoring them. And, as the fish boil became more and more of a tradition in this fantastic Wisconsin community, many of the restaurants began featuring the fish boils.

In the summer months, there are several local dining spots that hold the boils. However,   there are only a couple spots that I know of that continue them year round. Last Friday night, I had the pleasure of being on hand for one such said boil at the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek. 

The night was cold. Actually, it was downright frigid. The windchill was probably near zero. That's probably why most of the restaurants discontinue the boils during the winter. But the cold weather didn't seem to bother master boiler, Tom Christianson, who, when we first arrived, was outside preparing the boil in his shirt sleeves. As the night air grew colder, he did put on a light jacket.  As for me, well I was bundled up with every piece of clothing I had taken on the trip tied around some part or another of my body. Yes, my briefs around the ears were a little disconcerting to some. But that problem was taken care of when Jon Jarosh, the publicity coordinator, TV personality, and all-around good guy for the county's Visitor's Bureau, loaned me his Packers ear warmers, or whatever you call that piece of material I had wrapped around my head.

Back to the boil. Christianson has prepared the fire in the outdoor pit, just outside the restaurant. Whitefish steaks are in one pot on the fire, with potatoes below.  The boiler then adds his "pinch" of salt, which, I am told is about a pound of salt for every two gallons of water. The salt is not for taste. Rather, it raises the gravity of the water, or some other such Mr. Wizard nonsense. I'm just repeating what I've heard here. Anyway the salt causes the oils that are coming out of the fish, to rise to the top of the pot.  

After the fish are boiled and all the oils are out and floating on the top, the fun begins. Christianson has what looked, in the dark, to be a big ladle.  He scoops up some kerosene and tosses it, no, not into the pot, but onto the fire. The result is leaping flames that raise the fire temperature to over 400 degrees. This causes the oils in the pot to boil over onto the ground. With an end result, delicious, oil-free fish (but more about the fish in a moment)

The flames leap out towards the crowd. I'm thinking this must be some sort of Wisconsin bikini wax, because I smell my eyebrows burning. But, with the temperature and wind the way they were, I loved this split second of blast furnace heat.

Once the fish and potatoes are done, they're served buffet style in the restaurant. I have to tell you, as a fan of fresh fish, this was some of the best down home eating I've ever done. Along with the fish and the tasty tartar sauce, come the boiled potatoes, a creamy, slightly sweet coleslaw, and, for dessert, the best cherry pie a la mode you'd ever want to sink your teeth into.

The fish boils might not be true gourmet quality, but it sure was one fantastic meal.

Well, I guess I've told you 'bout all I know of Door County for now. But, hey, I'm going back next spring. If you want to come along let me know.