Veggie Chips vs Garrett’s Popcorn: Which Would You Choose?

Ruminations at 6:00 a.m. this morning.

“Let’s see, it looks like someone brought a big bag of treats into the lunchroom for us bleary-eyed coworkers. From the size and shape of the package, it looks like about a month’s supply of some crunchy snack from Costco. The package has drawings and cartoons, so that’s a little bit more suggestive of Trader Joe’s. Got to be one of the other. I’m gonna try to hold off until after lunch before I dig in and have a few pieces of whatever it is.”

Post-Lunch snack time

“Hmm, OK here we go. Time to check out those “Veggie Chips.” I’m looking at the label, and it feels like I am reading the Google “Do No Evil” credo, or maybe my physician pledge to “first do no harm.” These things pass every hippy-dippy requirement of the decade. The label says the chips are gluten-free (but I love gluten,) vegan (I love meat almost as much as I love gluten,) Kosher (good, tomorrow is Yom Kippur, but wait-I can’t eat on Yom Kippur,) free of dairy products (ice cream is my third love,) non-GMO (I think GMO’s will someday save the world,) and without hydrogenated or trans-fat (OK, even I don’t want hydrogenated or trans-fat anymore.)

“I flip the bag over and take a look at the ingredient list, see what tasty vegetables are part of this good for our souls and the world around us veggie snack food. Ingredient number one: potato flour. Ingredient number two: potato starch. Huh? Where are the veggies? I know that technically potatoes are vegetables, but who thinks of them that way? Finally, after I read through the salt and the sugar and the (non-trans, non-hydrogenated) oil we get to things like tomato paste (remember, ketchup is a vegetable,) turmeric (more of a flavoring and coloring than a four-star vegetable,) spinach powder and beetroot powder. And that makes these Veggie Chips? I think not. These are extruded potato chips. Pringles with a fancy disguise and a little red beet powder. And not even a stackable can.

“The question becomes, do I really want to eat any of these? I don’t see anything else laying on the table, and something crunchy/salty would be good, keep me from having food cravings all afternoon long. I think I will have one or two.”

Ten Minutes Later

“I can’t believe how many I ate. They are tasteless but addictive. I had better stop.

“Oh no, what’s this? Has a rep just brought in twenty bags of Garrett’s Popcorn? The caramel and cheddar mix? Now we’re talking. Pseudo-Pringles be gone, the King of Snack Foods is here!”

I made MY choice. Which would YOU choose?

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Did 48 Years Worth of Suckers Elect Donald Trump?

pt-barnum-and-donald-trump — Showman P. T. Barnum and President Donald Trump

“There’s a sucker born every minute.” You all know the quote. While it is most commonly attributed to P.T. Barnum, it precedes him, and there is no evidence he actually ever said it. But someone, somewhere, did originate it. And 48 years worth of those suckers voted for Donald Trump for President.

How do I reach my conclusion? Here are my calculations:

62,985,106 Trump voters = 62,985,106 minutes
62,985,106 minutes = 1,049752 hours
1,049752 hours = 17,496 days
17,496 days = 48 years

And why are those voters suckers?

Because they believed “repeal and replace” would lead to a reasonable, effective improvement to how our health care system works
Because they believed there would be an actual plan to put coal miners and factory workers back into the realm of the employed
Because they believed that we would rebuild our infrastructure to make us a nation ready for this century and the next
Because they believed that a “dealmaker” who believed America should be great could manage our foreign affairs
Because they believed that maturity and dignity fell like a cloak over any holder of the Office of the Presidency
Because they believed that a less intrusive, less bureaucratic, government could still protect our environment
Because they believed a President’s personal business interests would never affect his leadership
Because they believed they were hearing the truth

Of course, not all those 62 million voters were suckers. Some disliked Hillary Clinton so much that nothing Trump said mattered. Some heard the dog whistles, knew what they meant, and approved. Some missed the America of their past.

I know in the past I have asked for dialogue. To quote Bret Stephens in yesterday’s New York Times, “to disagree well you must first understand well.” I try to understand where those millions of votes were coming from. But most of those millions of people have been taken for a ride. I hope it is not one we spend 48 years regretting.

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Pancreatic Cancer Took My Dear Sister, But Not Her Light

Sunday was a day spent at my friend Art’s lake house with a few other high school buddies, walking along the beach, downing chili, and watching the Cubs soar while the Bears and Sox flopped. My friend Gary mentioned that he enjoyed the blogs I have written about my family history. He quoted a line I had used in discussing my dad in a blog from two years ago, a piece that had faded from my mind, about looking into a mirror and seeing my father. Gary asked if I had any more family member to write about. I hesitated, and Art said I needed to write about my sister.

I have always been reluctant to write about my late sister, Linda. Maybe it is a feeling that her story didn’t belong to me, but rather to her husband or to her two sons. Maybe I thought there is just too much pain involved. But with the exception of my cousin Judy, there is no one alive who knew Linda as a young girl, who remembers some of the early moments. So I have decided to try to honor her, as I have my mom and aunt, my dad, and my father-in-law in previous blogs.

When does a boy first understand he has an older sister, and how important she will be to him as he grows up? I first remember Linda as a flower girl at Cousin Judy’s wedding. Was she seven or eight? I just remember being very sleepy as she walked down the aisle, doing an important grown-up thing. It was a few years later that she had first chance to “mother” me during our family’s month-long visit to our uncle and grandmother in Switzerland. Mom and Dad were traveling for a week in Austria, and Uncle Herbert really didn’t know what to do with his young niece and nephew. Linda made sure that there was food I would eat, that my blistered feet were taken care of, that we had time to swim and play in Lake Thun.

Linda was five years older than me, and because I spent part of my education in a parochial school, we never attended the same school at the same time. But I followed her at a few schools and had her reputation to live up to. I was expected to be well-behaved, courteous, a scholar and a willing volunteer. Mr. Wohlberg, everyone’s favorite eighth-grade teacher, and Miss Nee, the freshman algebra teacher, insisted on nothing less from Linda Raff’s little brother.

I know Linda had the usual ups and downs in high school. Her four-girl gang would tighten and loosen, sometimes bringing hugs, other times bringing tears. Boys, dating, proms; it all followed as I looked on from one or two maturity levels below. I remember the cramped family drive to deliver her to Northern Illinois University, my uncle’s Chevy Impala totally unsuited for transporting six people and the clothes, makeup, and bric-a-brac needed for a seventeen-year-old girl to start university life.

Linda completed college in Chicago. She met Alan while I was busy being a high school over-achiever. Then in the blink of an eye, I was in med school and Linda was married and a teacher. Another blink and I was wed, Linda and Alan had two children, Barb and I had a pair of our own. Through it all, we never lived more than 10 miles apart. We spent so many birthday celebrations and happy holidays together and shared so much sadness over my mother’s bad accident and my dad’s passing away.

Linda never lost her sweetness and devotion to her family, but something inside her was changing and we had no way of knowing. She was only 46 when pancreatic cancer made its appearance. Alan and the boys did all they could for her, as did some amazing medical teams. We all lost Linda in January of 1999–a special light had flickered and gone.

But the reflection of that light continues, burning strongly in the eyes of her sons. Alan and his wife Yvonne made sure the boys always had a home and special place to be loved, and I hope Barb and I did so as well.

It is what Linda would have asked of us.

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10 Ways Neil Diamond Should Sell Out–Can You Guess Number Nine?

Did it make you laugh? The first time you saw the Hyundai TV commercial using “Sweet Caroline” to sell Sonatas? It suddenly seemed as if it were everywhere. The bum-bum-bum sing-along between the guy and gal commuters ranked as the most frequently viewed car commercial for a week over the summer. And audiophiles like me know that there’s a radio version too. Much to Barb’s delight Neil Diamond was back in our lives.

So with a song catalog that stretches back over 50 years, I thought I would give some thought to how Barb’s favorite singer-songwriter could cash in on a few more of his hits. Here are 10 for his consideration:

Chicago Tourism can link in with The Last Picasso. The last Picasso may be in some old museum, but we have our own rusting in Daley Plaza.
Kentucky Bourbon and Kentucky Women. A match made in whiskey heaven.
Nature Valley should be pushing product using Crunchy Granola Suite.
Joel Osteen and Rick Warren can battle it out over the rights to Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show. They can afford it.
Red Red Wine will make Gallo fine.
And while we’re drinking, Cracklin’ Rosie will fill the bill for Aldi’s $9 a bottle Rosé award winner.
In concert Diamond likes to show a video of his youth while he sings Brooklyn Roads. Sell the rights and let all the roads lead to The Barclays Center and the Brooklyn Nets. Grab some of that NBA cash, Neil.
And how about September Morn for the beginning of the NFL season? You’ve got more fans than Hank Williams Jr., and we all need Sunday Morning Football.
President Trump might like the rights to Coming to America. “On the boats and on the planes, they’re coming to America–that’s because I built my wall and they can’t get here by land.”
And of course, Levi’s will pay whatever it takes to have the world Forever in Blue Jeans, even if it’s mostly those funky dad jeans now.

If some of these are a stretch, at least none are quite as much of a grab as the Cherry Cherry Christmas song from a few years ago; the one with the “Holly Holy, Rocky Rolly” lyrics where you wedged in as many of your own songs as you could. As one nice Jewish boy to another, all I can say is oy vey.

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No Love-The Relationship Has Come to an End

How long has it been? Do we even remember the early years? Every thing was so smooth and easy. It was like poetry in motion, just like a finely tuned ballet. If I was down, you picked me up; if I erred you were there to help me. I looked forward to being with you, when I was with you there was always a song on my lips, and a tune and a rhythm going through my head.

Who knows when it began to change? At first, there were only little squabbles. Beer and pizza would make things right. Or we would open some wine, have a birthday cake celebration. A few years ago, when we weren’t content being together in one place, we looked for another and made a change.

I was trying so hard to be honest, to be fair in my decisions. But I would look at you and see that grimace facing back at me. I was giving you all I had, but it wasn’t enough for you. I just wasn’t good enough. You were keeping score, and I was falling further and further behind.

In the last year or so has come the yelling, the screaming, the stamping feet. So much of it I couldn’t understand. I don’t even think you were angry at me, just upset at the way things were going. I would stand there mute, cutting myself off from all the emotion.

There were still some good moments when it all came together again. We would smile and catch fire. But those were few and getting fewer. This summer our meetings became a weight on my shoulders. I looked for reasons not to be there with you. A few weeks ago I made my decision. Resolute and with conviction, not sure I would even be missed, I told you it was over.

So now my Thursday nights are free. After almost two decades I have divorced myself from you, my Thursday Night Tennis League. I am saying goodbye to the wins and the losses, the highs and the lows. The time for arguing line calls has come to an end. I will miss many of my fellow players and the camaraderie over the beer and pizza, but I had to do what my heart said was right. And besides, Thursday night is Trivia Night!