At the Movies Again

Image by rosi capurso from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"We are not trying to entertain the critics. I'll take my chances with the public."

                                                                                               -Walt Disney                                                                                                                                                            

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

I wrote a column in early January titled At the Movies. The subtitle was With apologies to Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert.

As many of you know, but many may not given that it went off the air in 1990, Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert were film critics featured on a popular TV show called At the Movies which was the second version of a show that had started in 1975.  

Yeah, you're that old. 

A thumbs up or thumbs down rating from Siskel&Ebert was a RBFD at the time, not that they necessarily agreed. 

As hard as it may be to believe for those of you who have grown up Twittering, or those of you old enough to forget, intelligent, civilized, and often even light-hearted arguments among people who disagreed were once commonplace.

The column that I titled At The Movies was about how I had gradually gone from frequently going to movie theaters as a kid to eventually almost never going as a grup as ticket prices rose and movie quality fell.   

{And/or you aged out of the demographic cohort Hollywood makes movies and TV shows for.}

Methinks that's intended as an insult, Dana. However, I view it as a compliment. THBPBPTHPT!

Anyway, now that I'm retired, I confess that one of my favorite things to do is watch an episode of a "prestige" TV series while eating a low-brow meal. I have the palate of a 10-year-old boy, a 10-year-old boy from the middle of the last century. The Stickies all have fairly sophisticated palates and are gourmets compared to me.

Long story short, "Prestige" TV ain't what it used to be so I've had to resort to Rotten Tomatoes (.com) to find movies I might want to watch or unearth obscure TV shows that might be worth watching. 

Therein hangs a tale. 

If you read the reviews that were used to determine a given productions rating, as you might expect, given that the internet offers us the dubious blessing of too much of just about everything, Rotten Tomatoes offers no shortage of the opinions of movie and television critics ranging from the Hooterville Herald to the New York Times. 

Positive and negative reviews are tallied and a verdict is rendered. I have no problem with that although you must take your tomatoes with a grain or two of salt. The site also includes the collated views of everyday Joan, Joe, and J. Bagadonutses. 

If both groups agree that something is awful, it usually is. But if just the critics overwhelmingly endorse a movie or TV show, look out. There's a good chance it's going to suck sweaty socks.

{Everyone knows that, what's your point?} 

I've got two points. The first concerns the tendency of many of the critics to mention, in some form or fashion, that while the movie or TV show in question is mediocre and predictable at best, to declare that it could be worse, and bestowing what amounts to a sideways thumb.

"I give this move a sideways thumb. It's sort of stupid but one of the actors is really good, or the cinematography is amazing, or the special effects are great, etc.

Point two is because social justice. 

Cynical old fart that I am, I figured that the industry pays off the critics. But I went a-googlin' and the general consensus is that this isn't true. 

So I think the reason I so often read something like "It's sort of stupid but..." is because brutally honest critics will anger audiences and Hollywood alike. Also, they've got to write something beyond "this movie/TV show is stupid, don't waste your precious time" even if the resulting multiple paragraphs waste the reader's precious time. 

As to, because social justice, there's apparently no shortage of woke movie and TV critics lose in the world. 

This results in a given critic feeling compelled to inform us as to whether or not the production in question was made by and/or includes an adequate number of members of registered marginalized minorities, and if the plot is politically correct. 

I wonder if that's why so many movies and TV shows are saturated with nihilism or sex or violence... or all of the above. Since everything is politicized, is that why stylized, over-the-top sensationalism is such a popular form of entertainment? 

Is that what it takes to provide an escape from the stylized, over-the-top, all politics, all the feckin' time sensationalism endlessly pushed by the purple press and social media? 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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White Privilege

Image by 1820796 from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"My schooling gave me no training in seeing myself as an oppressor, as an unfairly advantaged person, or as a participant in a damaged culture." -Peggy McIntosh 

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

Not long ago, on yet another cold, damp, overcast winter morning in Northern Ohio, I awoke and like most men of a certain age hastily headed for the bathroom. 

Opening the door of my warm, cozy bedroom, I grabbed my cane and stepped out into the chilly hallway which resulted in the usual mild shock, the result of going from 72 humidified degrees to 66 un-humidified ones. 

I'm one of those old geezers that get up early, very early in my case, and a programmable thermostat will not nudge the furnace to raise the temperature of the rest of Casa de Chaos to a luxurious 68 till 6 a.m., a half an hour or so before Stickies start appearing if it's a school day. 

Self-indulgent, planet-destroying, privileged persons of pallor that we are, the temperature will remain at a balmy 68 till 11 p.m. before dropping back to 66 again. 

I was in too much of a hurry to put on my slippers and the tiled bathroom floor made me feel like I was crossing the frozen tundra. I was reminded that I didn't live in a house with central heating till I was 13 and felt grateful for the enormous, inefficient, outdated furnace in the basement.

Next, I returned to my room and checked on my countertop humidifier. It consumes both water and electricity but helps to prevent rubbing/scratching my dry skin raw in my sleep. 

I then checked on and tweaked the oil-filled space heater strategically placed in front of the room's only heating duct so it doesn't use as much electricity (the furnace helps keep the oil warm) because the room temperature had jumped to 73.

I've turned into one of those old farts that always feels cold in the wintertime but I'm stuck north of the Mason-Dixon line. I put my slippers on and sought out the services of the Keurig machine in the kitchen. 

K-cups were ridiculously overpriced before our current transitory inflation problem so I placed 3 or 4 tablespoons of Cafe Bustelo (the price of which has temporarily risen by a buck a can even at Dollar General) in a washable/reusable K-container and made myself the first of the two cups of coffee I'll drink today.  

I returned to my room and started my day with a current events/email check via my low-end Chromebox (a variation of a Chromebook), my virtual window on the world. It also serves as my Kindle, stereo, word processor, and TV. I use my phone as a phone. 

I wrote for about an hour and then pulled up the free Google Docs spreadsheet I use to keep track of my money titled Robbing Peter, Paying Paul and commenced doing just that. Despite having worked full-time, including many 6 and 7-day weeks for 45 years, my fixed income is rather modest. To paraphrase a rhyme my daughter used to sing-song when she was a kid:

Poor old Poppa,

Sittin' on a fence, 

Tryin' to make a dollar 

Out of 15 cents.

Speaking of my daughter, she popped in to say hey for a minute before trudging upstairs to bed, exhausted from being up all night baking at the bakery she works at. I wondered if my son-in-law made it home by midnight or worked late because overtime was available. 

The following question then popped into my head. I wonder where the phrase white privilege came from? I went a-googlin'. 

An English teacher/feminist/anti-racism activist/women's studies scholar is credited with popularizing the phrase in question. Dr. Peggy McIntosh received a Ph.D. from Harvard "where she wrote her dissertation on Emily Dickenson's Poems About Pain."

In 1988 Ms. McIntosh also wrote a (famous in certain circles) essay titled, WHITE PRIVILEGE AND MALE PRIVILEGE: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences Through Work in Women's Studies.

An essay, proudly based on the professor's "lived experience," which was/is somewhat different than the lived experience of me, mine, and probably yours has nevertheless impacted our lives. 

Wikipedia: "This work has been included in many K-12 and higher education course materials, and has been cited as an influence for later social justice commentators."

For your edification, here's the long version, here's a much shorter one. 

Enjoy.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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Older, Not Necessarily Wiser

A quotable quotes column. 

Image by Brigitte Werner from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device 

"Old age isn't so bad when you consider the alternative." -Maurice Chevalier

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

Wisdom is alleged to be a side effect of old age. 

Oscar Wilde said that "With age comes wisdom, but..." (the writer emphasizes but, and then pauses for effect).

{But what?}

The second half of the quote is, but sometimes age comes alone. 

H.L. Mencken said, "The older I grow the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom."

Kurt Vonnegut said, "True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country." 

I'm currently 69 (the new 39) years old and recently discovered that the average age of the members of the U.S. Senate is only 64, which means that many of them weren't even old enough to be freshmenpersons when I was a senior and everyone knows how uncool freshpersons are. 

However, I also discovered that 34 of 'em are older than I am and that a personal favorite of mine, Chuck Grassley, a friend of corn farmers everywhere, is 89 and tied for first place with Danne Feinstein. Ms. Feinstein, as you may have heard, was recently surprised to discover she was retiring. 

The average age of the members of the House is a youthful 57, which means that when I was a senior in high school, the average Congressperson was only in second grade. However, 87 are my age or older, 36 are 75 or older, and 12 range in age from 80 to 86.  

   

{What's your point?}

When I become king, Dana, I'm going to decree that 75 is the mandatory retirement age for congresspersons. If they wish to continue to serve the people they can always get jobs as lobbyists.

As of 2020, the average H. sapien was dead by the age of 73.7. Currently, there are 60 lucky members of the 118th Congress who are beating the odds. As of 1/23, the congressional approval rating stood at 21%. Your question answers itself. 

Sylvia Garcia, 72 (D.-Tx) who represents "much of eastern Houston" according to Wikipedia, has only been a congressperson since 2019 but has been a politician for roughly 40 years. Recently, she was (semi) famous for (almost) 15 minutes. 

Ms. Garcia is a member of the Select Subcommittee on the Weaponization of the Federal Government, details here if, unlike me, you have a life and find following politics and/or current events boring and would like a briefing. 

Bottom line: The Red team says The Fedrl Gummit has been stepping, treading if you will, on the rights of the people it's supposed to serve. The Blue Team says nuh-uh.  

Journalists Matt Taibbi and Michael Shellenberger were called in front of the committee to testify about their role in publishing the details of what appears to have been a, um, unhealthy relationship between Twitter and The Fedrl Gummit (TFG) prior to its purchase by Tony Stark, a.k.a. Elon Musk.  

If you're unfamiliar with that kerfuffle... take care, and I'll catch ya later. It would take a column or two to even begin to adequately explain that particular he said, she said, they said.

    

In the following YouTube clip, Congressperson Garcia is beating up on Messers. Taibbi and Shellenberger for refusing to reveal what she wants to know about the stuff they've published that reveals some shady connections between Twitter and TFG prior to Mr. Musk's purchase.  

While this would seem to prove that getting on the wrong side of TFG can get ya stepped on, Ms. Garcia, at 72, is as focused and relentless as Jack McCoy on Law & Order back in the day.

Until...

At about five minutes in she reveals that she doesn't know who Bari Weiss is. 

Ms. Weiss (apropos of nothing, a fellow former Yinzer) is a journalist who's had important jobs at the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Nowadays, like Mr. Taibbi, she's gone out on her own, via Substack, in order to practice traditional (i.e. real) journalism, with no one to answer to but her readers.

Musk turned to her and Taibbi for that very reason. They have led the charge to get the story, stories (Pl) actually, out into the world. Congressperson Garcia, with a straight face, asks Mr. Shelleberger if he, Taibbi, and Weiss are "...in this as a threesome?"

Cue grins and suppressed laughter. 

Garcia, apparently oblivious, continues her attack as if nothing happened, instantly losing all credibility. The head of the committee, Congressman Jim Jordan, then provides a succinct epilogue to the performance. 

       

                                                The End 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share my work or access oldies. Buy an old crank a coffee? Extra content is available to members of Cranky's Coffee Club.    

Comments? I post my columns on Facebook and Twitter where you can love me, hate me, or try to have me canceled. Don't demonize, seek a compromise. 

Dear Wall Street Journal

I was shadowbanned! I think...

Image by Eveline de Bruin from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"We live in a world where finding fault in others seems to be the favorite blood sport. It has long been the basis of political campaign strategy. It is the theme of much television programming across the world. It sells newspapers."                                                                                                        -Henry B. Erying 

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

{Wait-wait-wait. Dear WSJ? That's like writing Dear Congress, or Dear United States Army. Using a personal salutation when communicating with a company/organization is dumb.}

Hey, Dana, I get letters and emails from all sorts of faceless entities that begin with Dear Mark Mehlmauer, and then prattle on with phrases such as please cease and desist or the like. Now, where was I? 

I'm writing to thank you for when you (apparently) temporarily banned me from being able to comment on your news stories and editorials or even see the comments of my fellow subscribers. I use the word apparently because you did so without dropping me a line to explain why. Which, incidentally, I thought was rather rude.  

(For those gentlereaders not of a certain age, the phrase "drop me a line" is an archaic social convention from the dead trees era that means the same thing as text me, dm me, hit me up on _______, etc.)

I've been reading your world-class publication for decades, going all the way back to when I was a (pre-woke era) lefty, and I've been a paid subscriber to the digital version for I don't know how long now. This is in spite of the fact my retirement income is relatively modest and your monthly subscription fee is not. 

However, I continue to subscribe for the same reason I started reading the dead trees version of the WSJ prior to owning my first computer and when my local paper sold for 25¢. Your paper sold for a buck back then and store clerks would ask me why anyone would pay a dollar for a newspaper.

Answer: The high quality of the writing and the in-depth coverage.

As the years rolled by... flew by, years don't roll by anymore, most other newspapers drifted leftward as I drifted in the other direction but you didn't change... much. I'm not wild about the shopping feature stories:

"Buy Side from WSJ is a reviews and recommendations team, independent of The Wall Street Journal newsroom. We might earn a commission from links in this content." 

Last Minute Valentines Gifts (They'll Never Know You Procrastinated)

Or, the fashion features that feature fashions one (theoretically) may wish to buy. I'm still trying to unsee the one about men's underwear. However, articles about absurdly overpriced clothing that's laugh-out-loud funny, or looks like ordinary people's clothing but costs a hundred times as much, helps me to appreciate living in Flyoverland. 

But I get it, trying to keep the lights on and the reporters paid in an era wherein the news — though not necessarily real and/or mere narrative-serving propaganda and/or sensationalism — can be had for free can't be easy. 

I can count on you for traditional, objective journalism with news stories clearly delineated from your world-famous op-ed pages that were, and are, unabashedly conservative with a libertarian tinge, but with a willingness to publish opinions written by prominent and articulate individuals of the left. 

{As opposed to?}  

Most other publications and the wire services, whose allegedly straight news stories are often hard to distinguish from editorials. Publications that profess objectivity but follow a narrative so as to wake the unawokened. 

{Wire services?}

For gentlereaders not of a certain age... never mind. 

{Hold up there, Sparky, what's all this fanboyish blather have to do with you being grateful you weren't allowed to see other people's comments or post comments of your own?} 

I admit I was becoming addicted. I, who require readers to click over to Cranky's Facebook page if they wish to comment on my work so as to avoid having to moderate them, and for other reasons, found myself spending inordinate amounts of time reading comments on news stories and opinion pieces of particular personal interest. 

And then I started making comments in spite of the fact I consider both reading comments and commenting a waste of precious time. I don't wish to pass judgment on those who enjoy that sort of thing but surely we can find a better use of our time given that there never seems to be enough of it to go around. 

Everyone yelling at everyone else about everything, which is what commenting on news and opinion articles often is, or often quickly becomes, seems to be making everything worse. I'm no longer a commenter, my column is my comment on everything. Go on without me.

But I still think you were rude. 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share my work or access oldies. Buy an old crank a coffee? Extra content is available to members of Cranky's Coffee Club.    

Comments? I post my columns on Facebook and Twitter where you can love me, hate me, or try to have me canceled. Don't demonize, seek a compromise. 

  

     

 

He Said, She Said, They Said, It Said

Life in the Dizzinformation Age.

Image by hakelbudel from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"Advances in automation, artificial intelligence and robotics, while increasing productivity, will also cause major upheavals to the workforce."                                                                                                     -John Hickenlooper

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

Sometimes I wonder if certain Luddites of my acquaintance are on to something.

"You could look it up!" -Casey Stengel... or James Thurber... or maybe Yogi Berra.

{You should look it up.}

I tried that, Dana. I was looking for the origin of the phrase you can look it up. No joy. What I found was that there's an out-of-print book called You Could Look It Up: The Life of Casey Stengel (my emphasis).  

Mr. Stengel was apparently well-known for frequently saying you could look it up to sports writers, hence the title of the book, but if I were the King Solomon of quote attributions I'd go with James Thurber. I'll spare you and my gentlereaders the details. I find them interesting but... 

{Yeah, fascinating, although I don't know or care who Casey Stengel is. I've heard of Yogi Berra but I wouldn't know who this James Thurber dude is if I ran over him with my car.}

Not to worry, Thurber, Stengel, and Yogi Berra for that matter are no longer with us but that's not the point. My point is that even though most of us can easily and instantly "look it up" nowadays, most of us don't. 

And if we do, we often discover that the answer we seek is elusive and we give up for the same reasons we don't "look it up" in the first place: who's got the time, motivation, or attention span to follow a given rabbit hole to the end?

DING!

{Sorry, dude, I've gotta check this notification.} 

While we carry around a virtual Library of Alexandria in our pockets neither Siri or Googella are very good librarians, often offering up multiple, conflicting answers when we ask a question.

{What a coinkydink, somebody's selling a collection of Yogi Berra baseball cards on eBay. Who's Googella?}

That's the name of the woman that responds when one says, "Hey, Google."

On the trail of an idea I had for a column I next googled the question, "Do people still say you can look it up?" 

{Why didn't you just ask Googella? You've got an Android phone, right?}  

Because I'm one of those Geezers who prefers using my computer to using my phone for such things and disembodied creatures such Googella, Siri, Alexa, or whoever are not welcome at Casa de Chaos. Remember, a vampire can't enter one's home without an invitation.  

I mostly use my phone as a phone. When I leave my cave, although I do bring my phone with me in case I need directions or have a massive heart attack or the like, it's often not even turned on. And even if it is, it's only permitted to notify me of incoming texts, and that's only because I set it to make this really cool BOING sound that I never tire of hearing.  

I prefer interacting in the real world without an electronic buffer betwixt me and it, and often as not, I don't even feel compelled to take pictures or record a video. 

{Huh. Well, do people still say you can look it up?}

I don't know. 

The first hit returned was the title of an article from GrammarBook.com titled You Can Look It Up. Summary: When reading you should look up every unknown word because your best guess might be completely wrong. 

{Words to live by... or read by anyways.}

Followed by: People also search for... (dead end).

Followed by: People also ask... (dead end). 

Followed by a hilarious and accurate definition of, "look it up" as supplied by the Urban Dictionary. 

Followed by: "8 Words That Totally Reveal You Are Not a Millennial," a 7-year-old article from Inc. magazine. I gave up. 

However, I did follow a fork in the road rabbit hole and discovered that the original Luddites weren't Luddites, there was no such person as "Ned Ludd," and that we're all using the word incorrectly.  

I found an excellent article published by Smithsonian Magazine in 2011 written by Richard Conniff titled What the Luddites Really Fought Against. Long story short, "...the original Luddites were neither opposed to technology nor inept at using it. Many were highly skilled machine operators in the textile industry."

England's "seemingly endless war against Napoleon’s France" caused food shortages and rising prices and "...on March 11, 1811, in Nottingham...British troops broke up a crowd of protesters demanding more work and better wages. That night, angry workers smashed textile machinery in a nearby village." This resulted in a violent, bloody labor dispute that lasted till 1816. 

You can look it up.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share my work or access oldies. Buy an old crank a coffee? Extra content is available to members of Cranky's Coffee Club.    

Comments? I post my columns on Facebook and Twitter where you can love me, hate me, or try to have me canceled. Don't demonize, seek a compromise.

 

Up, Up and Away

{In your beautiful balloon?}

Image by Susann Mielke from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"...aerial military surveillance dates back to the Civil War, when both the Union and the Confederacy used hot-air balloons to spy on the other side..." 

                                                                                         -Michael Hastings

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

When recently spooked by a hooge spy balloon launched by the People's Republic of China, that sailed across our republic, American politicians of all stripes responded promptly: by attacking each other. 

Uncle Joe decided to wait till it completed its mission before ordering it shot down over the Atlantic with a $400,000 missile to insure that no pieces/parts would land on innocent civilians. 

Fortunately, so far at least, Chinese dicktater Xi dada has shown restraint and not cut off the flow of any vital imports like designer sneakers. 

{I'll bet Tom Cruise could've just popped it with a big-ass bayonet mounted on the front of a F/A-18F Super Hornet.} 

Doubtless, Dana. Subsequently, when three more balloons were brought down, demonstrating to the Chicoms that messing with the USA might blow up in their faces I couldn't help but wonder if bored teenagers had found a way to warm up life in the frozen North. 

In their defense, it might've been an accident. When I was a teenager my baby brothers and I once accidentally fooled our subdivision into thinking that a strip of adjacent woods had caught on fire. 

I went a'-googlin' and discovered that even as you read this there are all sorts of balloons bob, bob, bobbin' along the bottom of the stratosphere launched by everyone from hobbyists to government agencies. Turns out you can buy one for about 12 bucks. I'm thinking about...

{Wait-wait-wait. Hold it right there, Sparky. You and your little brothers once "accidentally" set some woods on fire?}

No, definitely not, the neighborhood just thought we had, that the significant billows of harmless smoke that drifted out of the trees and into our hood might be the result of a fire or some other disaster. But given that any applicable statute of limitations has (hopefully, surely) expired by now I can explain your honor. 

{Please do.} 

It was 1966 and one of my older sisters had brought home her new husband, a Green Beret, to meet the family. 

{What's that got to do with setting the woods on fire?}

I repeat, we didn't set anything on fire. I must beg the court's indulgence, a bit of context is required if it pleases the court. 

{You may proceed.}

There was a patriotic hit song out at the time called The Ballad of the Green Berets. The Green Berets,  Wikipedia: "... are a special operations force of the United States Army." Due to the song, and other factors, the Green Berets were "having a moment" not unlike the one the Navy Seals are having nowadays.

To my little brothers and me, this guy was an American warrior right out of central casting. And he brought us green berets. And he told us some cool, toxically masculine inappropriate stories.  

We were in love.  

Now, as to exactly why he had brought a pair of official United States Army-issue smoke canisters/bombs (I don't remember how they were labeled) and gave them to us, I can't tell you. My guess is that being a semi-good ol' boy from the South combined with the aforementioned toxic masculinity led him to believe that boys will be boys and that we would be impressed and enjoy using them.

He was absolutely right. 

We took them into a modest-sized strip of woods behind our house and popped the tops on what looked like large, Army green (soda) pop cans and were shocked and awed. The amount of smoke them babies produced was amazing.

Totally cool. 

But then, thanks to a light breeze, significantly sized billows of smoke began rolling out of the trees and into our neighborhood. We beat a hasty retreat to the first and only house my parents ever owned, the first suburban house my little brothers and I had ever lived in.

Picture a teenage boy, his two younger brothers, a small crowd, and a couple of fire trucks. Firemen were combing the woods in search of where all that smoke was coming from. Fortunately, they didn't find it. 

I confess we were more frightened than exhilarated at that point but we got away with our accidental crime and the adults involved didn't rat us out. I apologize for whatever it cost the township to pointlessly dispatch two fire trucks but I'm sure it was less than $400,000 apiece. 

We were only accidental juvenile delinquents for a minute and grew up to be productive members of society.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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