Nobody's Perfik

      It has often been said, “You always remember the first one” and I remember mine. January 15, 1967 – the game was held in the Los Angeles Coliseum but I was somewhere else. The game was so far back in history that they had not yet invented roman numerals to identify it.  History has led to the common belief that aggressive, single-minded, amoral Roman Numeral lobbyists got hold of football commissioner, Pete Rozelle, and twisted his arm with a few “V’s”  “X’s” “L’s and M’s” and got their way in rather short order.   

     The term, “Superbowl” had not yet been created.  In fact to this very day, spell-check still underlines “Superbowl” in red directing the writer to split it into two words. 

     THE original iconic game in 1967 was simply, and boringly called, “The World Championship Game” between the (upstart) American Football League and the (long established and stodgy) National Football League. Yawn!

     Leading up to the game, there was speculation about the possibility of disfigurment and death in the Coliseum (Google: Christians v. Lions) due to the perceived disparity between the competing teams and their respective leagues who had never met before.

     Looking back we now know that date was still in the Dark Ages of commercialism compared to what we enjoy today. We were so naive and young.  We never thought there might someday be repeated 12-minute commercial interruptions of most shows or that we’d ever have entire networks dedicated to showing nothing but commercials. The snack food industry was in its infancy. Grocery stores might have had a shelf or two of cookies and potato chips.  Now entire aisles of the stores are dedicated to this basic necessary and life-sustaining food group. So it is significant this first-ever mega-game of professional football triggered a Renaissance of American commercialism and a snack food boom that continues to rise beyond all reasonable expectations.

     On that historic date in January 1967, I was residing in the home of a beloved former professor in the infamously historic town of Hopewell, NJ. (Google: Lindbergh kidnapping). Her husband, Tom, was in the midst of rehabbing their grand old Victorian on Greenwood St.

     Technology being what it was then, to see the game, we carried their small portable black and white around the house until we could find a spot with suitable reception.  Most places we tried produced the familiar snowy screen.  We finally found a magically good spot right under a second-floor stairwell.  We had to toss a half-sheet of plywood across the exposed floor joists but it was a cozy place to watch the epic battle between the Packers and Chiefs. 

     And now it is 45 years later and, if I recall my Roman Numerology correctly, we are soon to be mesmerized by the national phenomenon of Superbowl MDGFUTIIVX. 

     Organized religion loves the Superbowl.  It’s a day that provides a definite time limit to the all-important church annual business meetings so the budget will invariably pass before kickoff. 

     The snacking industry from Doritos all the way to Tums love Superbowl Sunday. Elastic waist pants are a must for the opportunity of unlimited munching the day spawns. 

     The day makes a spectacular statement of patriotism with low flying jets overhead, marching bands and an ill-prepared screeching singer to regale us with the National Anthem or some facsimile of it. And then there is the halftime show that may offer more show than ever anticipated. (Oogle – oops – Google: Janet Jackson).

     The day offers the promise of the best of what Madison Avenue can create in TV ads and the highest rates of the year are charged by the networks for showing them.

     If one is in or near the city of Neenah, Wisconsin, the Superbowl halftime begins with celebratory cigars being lit. Cheers of joy are heard from the General Offices of the toilet paper manufacturers – even if the Packers are not playing. Why? Halftime elicits the annual ultimate stress on our city sewage systems when tens of millions of toilets from coast to coast are flushed virtually simultaneously. It is the ultimate expression of product placement no matter how you look at it…but don’t look.   

     And I am Stoked!!  Excited!!! and PUMPED!!!! I have just been informed that I have won tickets to see the Superbowl in Indianapolis on February 5. 

     I’ll let you know how it was after I get back home.

Precocious Timmy always thinks his ideas are better!

      

 I’ve got too much stuff in storage.  Good stuff, too good to toss out but it’s all just about useless.  Obsolete stuff.  I have piles of records…78s, 45s and 33s. I have cassette tapes, videotapes, a video tape camera, three analog TVs, floppy disks, Zip disks, a videotape deck, a cassette tape deck, a half-case of Man Tan and now on my endangered species list are my lava lamps and my (ahem) Suzy Homemaker Oven. 

     Why are the last items there?  You are likely not the fortunate owners of a lava lamp or a Suzy Homemaker Oven so you haven’t lost any sleep thinking they require heat generated by incandescent light bulbs to do what they do.

     Here’s the problem. Newer generation light bulbs CFLs, NFLs, MLBs and CNNs don’t generate enough heat to make those items work.  If I put a new, required by law, GMA or a LSMFT bulb into my Suzy Homemaker Oven, the batter will lie there and become a culture for penicillin before it’ll turn into chocolate cake. 

     My incandescent bulbs and all the items dependent upon their unique properties are soon to become AWOL.

     The cartoon industry will also be impacted by this revolutionary change in lighting options – the old “idea” bubble must now switch from the good ol’ 75W Westinghouse to some kind of squiggly, mercury laden electronic item that represents illumination.

     Soon the Department of Homeland Security will have incandescent lightbulb sniffing dogs at all the airports to prevent the illegal smuggling of them from energy wasteful, child labor exploiting, Wonder Bread deprived third world nations just as airport security now has two-gallons-per-flush toilet sniffing dogs at the security gates these days. (Note: in Dogdom, those are entry-level jobs that family pets secretly joke about.  “Arf!! Cousin Fido just got one of those government jobs!  He’s a toilet sniffer!!”  It always brings about raucous belly laughs even though there are one or two among them who quietly think it’s a pretty good gig.)

     Our sometimes friendly and sometimes not so friendly customs agents at the Canadian and Mexican borders will have to add more to their litany of contraband they now grill about when I drive my little Honda Fit across the border. That is really why the lines are so long. 

     “Are you carrying firearms? 

      Ammunition?

      Leaded gasoline?

      Diet pop with sodium cyclamates?

      Lifebuoy soap with hexachlorophene?

      New Coke?

      A Chevrolet Corvair?

      Rap recordings by Vanilla Ice?

      Alcoholic beverages?

      A Beckstein concert grand piano with ivory keys?

      Tobacco?

      Goose livers?

      The Gurerrero family or any members thereof? 

      Illegal drugs?

      Reasonably priced prescription drugs?

      Incandescent lightbulbs?

      Heavy plumbing fixtures made of porcelain that require more than  �
      one gallon of water to flush?”

…and more – all those questions are asked while they run our license plate numbers through their computer systems to learn more about our personal habits such as how often we shampoo and brush our teeth; our voting records in primary elections and our history of being sent to the principal’s office in grade school.

       If we answer all questions to their satisfaction and our driver’s license photos are sufficiently bad enough to resemble our passport photos, we just might be allowed to drive under the banner stretched across the road that reads, “Welcome to the United States of America, Home of the Brave and Land of the Free as Long as You Don’t Want to Bake a Cake in Your Suzy Homemaker Easy Bake Oven.”

     I’ve had it up to “here” (if you could see me I’m pointing to the line above my eyebrow) with government interference in my life.  How DARE they tell me what I can and cannot do, what and how much I can and cannot own and above it all, what I can smoke and what I cannot!!  We need new leaders who can relax a bit, put their egos in their back pockets and let us follow the path set by our forbearers in making decisions for ourselves!! 

     I recently read in our hometown paper, The Sentinel, the government has decided to not dredge the local harbor that leads to Lake Michigan. The depth of that harbor makes it navigable for many of those beautiful luxury boats owned by plain folks who toiled hard and long in spite of the oppression of taxes and regulation and managed to reap the rewards of their labor and/or inheritances to own a nice watercraft.

     Well, that’s just fine with me because I don’t want no stinkin’ agents of the US government poking around in our precious harbor. Who knows what else they’re up to?  Where is the pioneering spirit of  town founder Augustus VanRaalte and his merry men who met at the mouth of the Black River back around 1857 with their shovels and wheelbarrows?  Have we gone soft and are now dependent on the stinkin’ government that bleeds us dry? The government moves in, opens our harbor and then thinks it can tell us what we can do on, in, under and near the water.

     Then there are these ridiculous road taxes we have to pay.  The results of those taxes should speak for themselves.  Our hard-earned money to these highways only leads to MORE regulation. It’s the same old story – give ‘em an inch and they take over the entire highway system!  Once the roads are built with my money, they then come in and paint lines on them and try to tell me how fast I can go and on what side I have to drive.  I paid for both sides of the road and now then are trying to limit me to one side at a time!!  It’s a slippery slope, my friends, and it’s only a matter of time before they tell me when I can use the roads and when I cannot. I say, the guy with the biggest pickup truck should be able to decide for hisself about these matters!

     Licenses!! That’s another thing. What a scam!! They make me buy marriage, huntin’ and fishin’ licenses so I can harvest the God-given critters and beautiful ladies put on the face of this earth to sustain me. Who needs those little tin plates on our cars bearing numbers, letters, vanity statements and state identity in which we live? Bumper stickers and those fish things to stick on our cars is all we need! Our right to be where we want, go as fast as we want and avoid capture when we need to is protected by the constitution and if isn’t it should be.  And those unnecessary regulated license plates are one more foot of the government on our necks.

    Defense?? I’m not gonna even start to get into that! I got the second amendment to take care of that. I got all the defense I need leaning right up next to my front door in my Red Ryder lever-action carbine BB gun.

      It was the wee hours of January 1 a few years ago when I was drifting off to sleep after a wild ushering in of the New Year.  Lovie, humble about her central European heritage lay at my side – sound asleep, head nearly hidden beneath her traditional holiday babushka, the more formal one worn only after dark. 

     I sensed another presence in the room yet I was not afraid.

     An eerie whispering voice seemed to say, “I am the ghost of New Year’s Eves past.”

     I bolted up in bed…suddenly noting an aroma – one I strangely associate with the start of each new year – underdone sauerkraut. 

     “Wh…what…is it?” I quietly asked, trying not to awaken Lovie from her slumber.

     “Once again, you have failed to honor tradition!” sternly spoke the apparition, “Once again you watched Dick Clark, ate Buffalo wings and that lampshade…you HAVE to lose that act.  It does not work as a hat!”  I’d had perhaps a bit too much to drink.”

      “So?” I countered.  “Your point is….?”

      “Think hard, bright boy, remember those earlier years and the New Year’s Eves when you and Lovie first met?”

      I began to reminisce and recall those times.

      They were in the little coal mining town of Wakquake, North Dakota, the epicenter of Lovie’s family in the New World.  All year long, the local Orthodox Church was the community center that offered dinner and traditional old country dancing each Friday night in their hall.  Friday night after Friday night folks came from miles around for the renowned “All You Can Eat Cabbage Boil” but on New Year’s Eve it was special.  Potatoes were added to the pot and brave men would engage in feats of courage by bobbing for taters when the pot had cooled just a little.

     The men with the bushiest mustaches and beards seemed to do best. At the start of each October they’d begin allowing their facial hair grow longer in eager anticipation of the annual tater bobbing. Men would meet in town; examine each other’s beards and remark, “Gettin’ ready fer da’ bobbin’ eh?”

     In late autumn right after the Cabbage Boil dinner, while the women chatted in the kitchen, the men would gather outside the hall vying to be upwind from one another and engage in rigorous training to increase their tolerance levels for tater bobbing by dipping their faces into pots of steaming water.  

     It was a strange custom indeed but when one looks elsewhere, not so strange after all.

     For many in the U.S. it would not be New Year’s Eve without silly hats, noisemakers and Guy Lombardo’s Royal Canadians’ Sweetest Sounds this side of Heaven playing Auld Lang Syne at the stroke of midnight. But in the little hamlet of Wakquake, it was cabbage, potatoes and dancing.  To each their own.

     Anticipation of the music alone got the town buzzing. By Thanksgiving talk swirled around the Gravlek’s General Store cracker barrel and from under the plastic hoods of Pavlovka’s Big Curl Hair Salon.  “D’ya tink dat dere gonna git ol’ Anton Grvdzyk and his Toe Tappers to play fer us dis year?”  They all knew it would not be New Year’s Eve without the Toe Tappers. 

     Owner Frankie Vwxcyzk at Wakquake Hardware and Hospital Supply excitedly added, “I heard dat Georgie Czewdrv has a new squeeze box – wit lots a’ mother a’ pearl!”

     It was only natural that music would lead to dancing. 

     On the Fridays of autumn, the men would return into the hall, red-faced from the bobbing training and the women, now wearing freshly starched hand embroidered aprons, would join them from the kitchen. The music would begin. Most nights it was a DJ. 

     First, the men would gather in a random cluster in the center of the room and to the count of the music’s 1-2-3 beat, they’d hike up the waistbands of their pants to just below their man boobs.  Then they’d slightly bend their knees pointing them a little outward and begin to step like little kids with loaded diapers in unison to the right while waving their arms in the air in synchronized rhythm.  The women would then circle them and do their traditional five-step jig as tradition requires, attracting the attention and favors of the men.

    Two-by-two couples would pair off and disappear into the night not to be seen again until the break of day at the Wakquake Cafe for a cup-a-joe and to purchase bait for the Saturday morning all-town carp fishing contest of at nearby Lake Stagnation.

     My trance was broken.  “Ah! Those were the days!” I quietly muttered. “We have strayed too far from the truly meaningful things in our lives!”

     On January 2, at 10 A.M. sharp I called the bus terminal and made early reservations for transport to Wakquake for the next New Year’s Eve.  It felt good to be back on track again.

      Lazy eye is what it was called and at age six I got my first pair of glasses.  At the same time I was issued a pirate-style eye patch for my good eye in order to strengthen the weak one.  I’d switch the patch to avoid getting my broccoli and Spam mixed up at dinner. It worked for a week before mom took notice and watched more closely.  The ophthalmologist countered with a deft move gained from years in medical school and private practice – he covered the left lens of my glasses. I could’ve used a guide dog.   �
      “Jackie!  Where are your glasses??

      “I left them at school!” or “Aw, Ma, I lost ‘em!” or “Buster (the dog) ate them!”

      My eyeglasses went into my top dresser drawer under the Christmas bunny socks from grandma not to emerge again until I got my driver’s license.

      Meanwhile, the teachers at Fairmount Ave. Elementary tried their best.  Among the reading groups of Bluebirds, Cardinals and Crows, I was a Crow.  By mid-year, each year, I was the only Crow.  I soon found myself in the stuffy little room next to the principal’s office with reading specialist, Mrs. Morse who emitted the essence of coffee breath and spoiling petunias.  

     My driver’s license required me to wear corrective lenses in order to protect myself and others on the roadways and sidewalks of the Garden State. So, at age seventeen ol’ four-eyes returned – but only when driving.

     In school, I’d had to learn through means other then the printed word by listening and making things up. I managed to fake my way through college without ever having read an entire book – a feat in which I take considerable pride. It obviously qualifies me to run for president these days.  End of semester sales of my so called “used” textbooks were slow because they lacked the highly desirable element of being pre-underlined or highlighted. 

     College was a good place to engage in “networking”. I networked my way to the front of St. John’s Lutheran one hot Saturday in July and married well. 

     Meet Lovie.

     Even though English is her second language, Lovie is an avid reader.  By avid, I mean she reads EVERYTHING. She reads books on history, theology, philosophy, cultures and even cookbooks.  It is ironic but we often find ourselves sitting at dinner and she is reading.  Never taking her eyes off the page of her favorite cookbook, she reaches into the bucket of carry-out chicken with her non-page turning hand  

     On long car trips the front floor of the passenger side is heaped to her knees with reading materials from which she often quotes passages as we travel along. I have learned many interesting facts about Dietrich Bonhoeffer while cruising at 70 mph. and dodging semis on I-94.  Who needs satellite radio?

     At the grocery store, labels are her favorite media.  I try to speed things along by only going to stores that are not open 24-hours a day. If I do it right, we walk into the store a couple of hours before closing.  That guarantees choices have to be made within a certain time frame.  Granted, it is hard when one is trying to compare the ingredients among the 39 varieties of mayonnaise. What’s the difference between low-fat, reduced-fat and non-fat? And then there are the choices of what kinds of fat we are talking about – trans-fat, polyunsaturated fat, saturated fat and the “good kind of fat” whatever that is. When considering sodium content an entirely new realm of choice and time requirement opens up.

     She’s not much into magazines except for when limited to outdated copies of Time, “John Foster Dulles Named Man of the Year,” People, “Liz taken to hospital!!” and the germ-encrusted, stuck-together pages of Highlights for Children in doctor’s office waiting rooms. 

     We get home delivery of the Sunday New York Times and that becomes Lovie’s “light reading” for the week.  One Thursday morning (a day that will forever live in infamy) I made the grievous error of using part of it to start the fireplace.  It caused a major case of (medical term here) newsprintus interruptus and my banishment to the dog house for a day and a half. 

     But it is books she really loves and I would venture to guess reading a book is her favorite form of recreation.  In fact one of her guilty pleasures is to find a copy of a book such as The Brothers Karamazov and read it in German. It’s a guilty pleasure we don’t share.  I still prefer chocolate ice cream.

     While Lovie is reading her books, my favorite form of recreation has become, out of necessity, building bookcases. It is not easy to keep up.  Between the paper of her books and the pine boards of the shelves, large forests in the northland have become barren tundra.

     After about 45 years of blissful companionship, I must admit some of this has finally begun to rub off on me.  In fact just this morning I was taking a few items out of the bag from a recent excursion to JC Penney and I squinted through the bottom section of my trifocals to read the informative tags and as I removed them. “St. John’s Bay Big and Tall.”  They put the “Tall” part in there so when I am in that section of the store, I can fantasize that others who see me will think I’m there for the Tall stuff. It’s just like when I was a kid and my mom dragged me over to the Husky rack at Robert Hall. Ugh!  I grew up in constant fear someone I knew would see me there.  Husky means only ONE thing and tall has nothing to do with it.

     But I read on. I note an exciting bright blue tag on my new mock turtle neck that tells me, “Look! Extended length!”

     I‘ve obviously become a fan of non-fiction yet whenever I try to read, I seem to detect essence of coffee breath and spoiling petunias.

        Each year, as Christmas approaches, we start our search for our own way of celebrating. There are a lot of distractions along the way but as I approach the far side of middle age, I’ve become more successful in repelling the intrusion of those into my life.  The main distraction, commercial Christmas, begins in late September – unless we succumb to sudden, unexplainable cravings to see 20-foot, brightly lit, inflated Santas and race across the state to Bronner’s during the summer.  Commercial Christmas continues until the end of the post Christmas sales and our dried out tree is cast aside. 

     Like the onset of seasonal change, commercial Christmas starts rather slowly as items begin to creep onto the shelves of stores ranging from the Mom and Pop’s to the mega chains.  At first, it’s hardly noticeable.  The mail carriers could surely tell you when it really kicks in because of the added weight and volume of catalogues they have to handle or when we see all those increased “fragrance” ads on TV.  Indicators that it is in full swing are the appearances of Chia Pet and Clapper ads followed by Santas riding on electric shavers. 

       The hunt is never easy.  I leaf through a few catalogues but cannot find Christmas there.  I walk the aisles of retail and I cannot find it there.  I hear the dancing, plastic poinsettia plant play the Barking Dog’s rendition of “Jingle Bells” and do not find it there (although it does cause me to smile).  I see friends planning menus, hanging decorations, making travel plans, purchasing cards, writing their year-in-review Christmas letters, but I still cannot find Christmas.               

       The endless Christmas specials and holiday-themed episodes of our regular TV shows become redundant and seem to try to be telling us how it should be, at least in La La Land.  Bing Crosby croons and snow falls, but we all know that was not the real Bing and the snowfall on that California movie set was just as artificial. 

     The other day, I was in line at the checkout at Paper Clips R Us and a mom and little guy were ahead of me.  The little boy had just held up his proud four fingers to answer the query “how old are you?” and then the clerk asked the child what he wanted Santa to bring him.  His answer was surprising for a four-year-old yet, not totally out of character for this area.  “Santa is not real and St. Nicholas is in heaven!” he proudly declared.  There was not much to say after that.  Sadly, the Christmas I search for was not to be found in the eyes of that little boy.

     In the end, I think most people create their own designer original Christmas. For my mom who quietly sobbed tears of joy when Perry Como sang Ave Maria on TV.  For others, it might be a special meal and a new (used) coat given out at a shelter.  It might be a ton of gifts emerging from a pile on crumpled wrapping paper on the living room floor.  It might be the strains of carols being played on outside speakers everywhere or it might be in the simple ringing of the bell at the Salvation Army collection pot and the good wishes of the volunteer standing nearby.  It might be the magic and excitement reflected in the eyes of children.

      There are little steps along the way on our journey to find Christmas; steps like being with loved ones and friends and sharing in the joy of the season. Those are steps in the right direction, yet, in themselves, are not the destination.

     Christmas must be found deep within the self and in one’s personal relationship with God.  For me the search comes down to a single, magical moment in a familiar place.  In the dense dark moment of a cold winter night, a candle is lit.  And the light of that candle is shared with another and then another until the darkness is conquered with a real and metaphorical light that connects us to all such celebrations in the past.  And then, beginning in a quiet yet ever-growing chorus, all join in with the singing of “Silent Night, Holy Night”.  When that happens, I know I have found my Christmas and I am overwhelmed. 

       Elsa and I both hope your search for Christmas is rewarding