DeLayed Reaction

The Bleacher Creatures

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

There are fans and there are Bleacher Creatures. The New York Yankees baseball team has them both.

Yankee Stadium, located on East 161st Street in The Bronx, has long been referred to as “The House that Ruth Built” (as in Babe Ruth). About the time Yankees starting winning, Babe Ruth’s star was in motion. So, which came first? The Yankees winning or Babe Ruth hitting his stride?  We’ll never know. 

But in the first game the Yankees played at their new three-tiered stadium on April 18, 1923, the 28-year-old Sultan of Swat hit a homer to help defeat the Boston Red Sox and the fans went wild. (The Sox had unceremon iously dumped The Babe from their team a few years earlier.) The Yankees went on to win their first World Series that year—their first in the 57,000+ seat Yankee Stadium.

Talk about fans that go wild. In Section 39 of Yankee Stadium, located just behind the right field fence in the Bleacher section are the Bleacher Creatures. The Yankees most ardent and, shall we say, outspoken fans pay only $14 for one of the 2,385 seats in the bleachers (compared to $23 for an upper tier seat in the nosebleed section).

Roll call is their starting whistle. As the announcer shouts out the name of a Yankee player, the Creatures begin to chant, and they don’t stop until the player acknowledges them—usually with a wave. No amount of ignoring them will make them go away, much to the dismay of the visiting teams. Greetings from Section 39 to visiting players include a disparaging personal remark that ends in “you suck.” (It’s their favorite cheer.)

No wonder Stadium officials have banned the sale of beer to all Bleacher Creatures. (Every other section of the Stadium sells beer through the fifth inning.) Nothing ramps up the rowdy factor like an adult beverage.  Officials should also ban the sale of candy since everyone knows what sugar can do to three-year-olds. Or people who act like three-year-olds.

In anticipation of the Yankees-Mariners game when Seattle’s right fielder Ichiro Suzuki made his first appearance at the stadium in the Bronx, the Bleacher Creatures learned enough Japanese to greet him with obscenities in his own language. Ah. So just to make him feel at home.
When the Yankees are so behind in a game that not even dismissing the opposing team would help them win, the crowd in the stadium thins out. But not the Bleacher Creatures.  They are there until the bitter end, chanting about people who sit in box seats (“Box seats suck!”) and even turning their insults on each other. (“You suck!”) Some of these derogatory comments center on anyone who didn’t wear proper attire (a Yankees jersey) or even what kind of combat boots a BCE2s mother wears.

Shouts and jeers are one thing, but the Creatures aren’t content with that.  They also throw things like money, knives, and batteries. (Who hasn’t thrown a battery at someone from a distance? Besides me.) I’m sure the players would prefer money to knives, but that’s just a guess. Creatures are also known to throw punches—usually at each other.

Ali Ramirez was the original Bleacher Creature. For about 15 years, he entered the stadium through one of the two rear entrances carrying a cow bell. (Bleacher Creatures are not allowed to go through other entrances.) Using his cow bell, he would get the crowd going with their chanting, and he never missed Yankees games.  Well, not until he died in 1996, leaving behind a legacy and a big cow bell. In his memory, the Yankees affixed a gold plaque to Seat 29, row A, Section 39 that reads: This seat is taken in the memory of Ali Ramierz, The Original Bleacher Creature.” (Ali’s timing was off. He died before the Yankees won the Series that year.)

Things are about to change for the Bleacher Creatures.

The Yankees will play their final home game at the House that Ruth Built on Sunday, September 21. When the new season opens, they will move across the street to their new stadium. And the Bleacher Creatures will have to find a new place to roost. Sure, there will be right field seats, but who knows how far away they’ll be? In 2009, it’s possible the chants of the Bleacher Creatures could be a mere echo.

And that, as they say, would suck.
 

Chocolate—the New Health Food

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay
 
Chocolate has become a vegetable. Sort of. For years, it hovered near Crisco and Twinkies on the food chain. But something has moved it from its guilt-ridden status into the world inhabited by vegetables and antioxidants.

Chocolate is a plant-based food, which, of course might be the same thing as saying beer is a grain.  Chocolate is made from the seeds of the theobroma cacao tree—cocoa beans. And it seems they might be magic beans.

Because they are rich in flavonoids, cocoa beans have become a miracle food. In case you don’t know what a flavonoid is, let me see if I can explain. Often referred to as a bioflavonoid, it is a class of plant secondary metabolites
derived from a 2-phenylchromen-4-one structure. That didn’t help me understand, but chemistry ranks right above calculus on subjects I will never grasp.

Flavonoids are full of antioxidants that help protect against cancer and heart disease. The same flavonoids that exist in apples, blackberries, green tea, and red wine are also in chocolate.  We always knew chocolate was good. Now it’s good for you. The antioxidant properties of one chocolate bar are equivalent to two cups of green tea, 2/3 cup of blueberries (I assume fresh blueberries and not the ones fished from a box of Franken Berry cereal), or one glass of red wine.  Now we’re talking.

The secret to the success of dark chocolate may lie in its ability to maintain the elasticity of our blood vessels. Two hours after eating a bit of dark chocolate, men who smoked had improvement in the cells responsible for this elasticity and, wonder of wonders, that improvement lasted a whole eight hours.  Three bites of chocolate and they’re set for the day. No word on what chocolate does for women, except to make them very, very happy.
 

Suffer from hypertension?  Well, you’re probably not really suffering since it’s a bit of a silent disease and the suffering doesn’t start until it’s too late.  But if you have high blood pressure, increase your dark chocolate consumption to a daily dose of 3.5 ounces or 2-1/2 bars.

Studies show that eating 3.5 ounces of dark chocolate can lower both the systolic and diastolic blood pressure for 15 days. But don9 9t stop because after two days without chocolate, BP readings return to previous levels. That remedy will also make women very, very happy, at least until they can no longer zip their pants.

Unrelated studies show that this same dark chocolate helps out in the cholesterol department. Eating a little of the dark elixir increases good cholesterol and lowers bad cholesterol.   Probably because one of the fatty acids in dark chocolate is oleic acid, also found in heart-healthy monounsaturated fats like olive oil.

The other two fats in dark chocolate aren’t so good because they’re saturated.  Typically saturated fats fall next to cheese fries dipped in mayonnaise on the food scale, but chocolate magically neutralizes their saturated fat so the effect on cholesterol is zip. Like I said, magic beans.

You knew there would be a catch, didn’t you?  In processing these magic beans, many of the flavonoids are destroyed. So, you can eat them in their raw and unprocessed state, or you can stick with dark chocolate.  The darker the better—containing at least 70% cocoa.

Millions of advertising dollars would have us think Vitamin D-rich milk is the perfect food. So combining milk with chocolate would be a super food, right? Not so. Drinking milk with chocolate may inhibit the body’s ability to absorb the antioxidants, rendering any health benefits useless.  And white chocolate? Forget it.  According to my chocoholic friend Shelley, white chocolate is not chocolate at all, and she’s right. The only cocoa in white chocolate is cocoa butter, which might be good for stretch marks, but not for fighting heart disease.

To make things worse, chocolate is calorie-laden and contains caffeine. The darker the chocolate, the higher the caffeine.  A regular Hershey bar contains 10 grams of caffeine; a dark chocolate bar contains 31.  To keep things=2 0in perspective, a cup of coffee has between 65 and 120 depending on whether a spoon will stand in it.

So, get healthy. Eat chocolate.  If you want a one-two health punch, enjoy it with a glass of red wine. 

That should make you healthy…and happy.

Common Threads

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

You may have thought Madonna was the material girl, but she’s got nothing on Kathie Baumgardner. Kathie has been a one-man (or woman) receiving station for squares of fabric that have been gathered into a memory quilt. Make that memory quilts.

Shortly after the invention of the needle, quilters started stitching together memories of departed loved ones in keepsake quilts. But more ambitious memory quilters, like Kathie, for instance, don’t stop at creating a quilt for a family member or friend. Kathie was the driving force behind five separate quilts that honor the heroes of September 11, 2001.

Kathie’s memory quilting started with two king-sized quilts she organized to memorialize the students who died in the Columbine shootings. After airplanes flew directly into the World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon, and after American Flight 93 crashed into a field in Pennsylvania, Kathie realized her memorial quilt making days were far from over.  The Columbine quilts were only a warm up.

The morning of September 11, Kathie was at her home in Tuscumbia, Alabama, staying out of trouble. Her method for staying out of trouble is keeping her hands busy by cross stitching. Mine is probably something inane like Spider Solitaire.  (It occupies my hands, but at the end of the day, I have nothing to show for my efforts.) Then, terrorists attacked and our country was forever changed.

Kathie, a mother in her early 40s, couldn’t sit back and do nothing.  So, two days after the attack on America, she posted an online request for anyone who wanted to create a square for a memory quilt.  Coming up with guidelines for the squares, she established consistency in the colors and in the style, then she put it out there and waited. Within two weeks, the mail man (or mail person) started delivering the first squares.

Designed to honor the heroes who lost their lives in the 9/11 terrorist attack, Kathie's quilt project received 550 squares from around the world. Stitchers in Italy, Germany Saudi Arabia, Australia, Israel, Canada—14 countries total, plus 47 states went to work and created one-of-a-kind contributions to the quilt. Each square is cross stitched by hand and each one has a story that will remember an individual—a spouse, a fellow member of a J.R.R. Tolkien book club, a former student and hundreds of others.

After 9/11, people didn’t want to feel helpless . Not everyone could board a bus and head to the Big Apple to clear debris from Ground Zero.  Red Cross centers were packed with donors—and while most Americans were eager to roll up their sleeves, not everyone wanted to give blood. (Some are terrified of needles.) Quilters picked up sewing kits and found their own form of contribution—and therapy. Kathie picked up her needle and thread and created five squares for each quilt. (If you’re lousy in math, that means she contributed 25.  If you’re good enough to do math in your head, ignore me. It’s okay.  It happens a lot.)

Eventually, Kathie realized she had a problem. Merging 500+=2 0squares into one quilt would result in one rather unwieldy memory piece. So, Kathie, who is as practical as she is industrious, separated the squares according to where the victims were killed. She ended up with five different quilts—one for each crash site plus one for the New York Fire Department and one for New York’s “finest”—NYPD.

Kathie Baumgardner’s five quilts aren’t the only quilting projects that remember 9/11. There are several. America’s 9-11 Memorial Quilts started small and grew to be a project of multiple proportions. The largest memory quilt, it is careful to include the name of every 9/11 victim. This particular quilt, also known as the Victims’ Quilt, will be housed at the September 11 Memorial Museum that opens in 2010.

Without question, hours of love and best stitches go into every quilt, but for every public piece, there are a dozen kept in the privacy of a home and made to honor one person. We’ll neve r know about them. We’ll never know about the comfort they offer to a grieving mother, wife, or child who lost a son, daughter, spouse or parent on September 11. 

Whether these memory quilts are hanging on display at a museum or carefully folded at the foot of a bed, they all keep alive the memory of those who died on 9/11. And they all share common threads—of love, of inspiration, of courage, and of hope.

Who Needs a Compass?

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay
 
My friend Carol invited me to volunteer filling backpacks with school supplies that went to under-resourced students in inner city schools. She had barely asked when I agreed.  I would jump at an opportunity to be around school supplies.
 
How could I say no to being around boxes of yellow, No. 2 Saratoga pencils finely sharpened to a point that could pierce pigskin. Reach into boxes for thick reams of lined, three-hole punched paper. Dig into bins of spiral notebooks just waiting to be written in. Squeeze fat, pink erasers that said “eraser” in black letters. (Big erasers fo r big mistakes—perfect for any math class I was forced to take against my will.)
 
I used to love picking up my supplies before the first day of school, and not much has changed because I still do. In August when store circulars are filled with sales on supplies for the upcoming school year, I get nostalgic. Something makes me want to run out and buy up Elmer’s glue, 10-cent rulers, Bic pens, and especially notebooks.  They’re handy for adding to my never-ending to-do list, creating grocery lists, and journaling my innermost thoughts.  So school supplies can still come in handy.
 
I vividly remember assembling all my supplies for an upcoming school year, then carefully organizing them, first by size, then by function. Glue went with tape. Pens went with pencils. Pencils went with pencil sharpeners. Sounds kinda geeky, doesn’t it?
< o:p>
As I got into high school, college-ruled notebooks replaced wide-ruled ones and to my rounded safety scissors, I added a compass and a protractor to my repertoire. They went with nothing as far as I was concerned.
 
The only school supplies I never understood were slide rules, protractors, and of course, the compass. It always seemed odd that teachers insisted on safety scissors, but insisted we carried a compass that could multi-task as an eye-poker-outer. 
 
To this day, I don’t know what the purpose of a compass is.  I understand the compass that always points north, but the metal thing-y that holds a small pencil?  What good is it, except to draw a circle? 
 
I work with someone who majored in math, and while that means we don’t necessarily speak the same language, I took a shot and asked him what a compass was for. If anyone could tell me, he could.
 
“Well,” he said, with a faraway look in his eye like he was recalling his first crush or the moment he held his daughter in his arms for the first time, “you can use a compass for all kinds of things.”
 
“Like poking out an eye?” I asked.  “Punching a hole in leather?”
 
My suggestions shocked him from his compass reverie. “Why would you use a mathematical tool for that?”
 
(It’s I easy for someone who thinks a math tools is a gag gift.)
 
I begged him to tell me more.  “Seriously, in real life, what would someone use a compass for?”
 
“Well, lots of things.  For instance, you could construct an angle trisection. You could use it with blah-blah-blah Euclid’s parallel postulate or blah-blah-blah Hippias’ Quadratrix.”
 
(He didn’t really say blah-blah-blah, but I didn’t want to ask him to repeat it, so that’s loosely translated.)
 
“Oh, okay. Well, that’s helpful.  Thanks.  ‘Cause I always wondered.” That was a big lie. I turned to walk away and he kept talking.
 
“And you can square circles using something-something involute spiral.”
 
“Yeah, thanks!”
 
The last words I heard were affine-transformed regular polygon, or so mething like that. Maybe it was “Daphne transformed and Polly’s gone.”  Translating foreign languages can be tricky, so I can’t be certain.  But I’m pretty sure he’s probably still talking.
 
I haven’t purchased a compass since 10th grade. Who needs it? If I need to draw a circle, I’ll place a drinking glass on paper and trace around it. To be honest, I figured out right away I would not need the compass, slide rule, or protractor in my life—and I didn’t even know that someday I would have a 99-cent calculator at my disposal.
 
So, I’ll stick with No. 2 pencils and those notebooks just waiting to be filled with grocery lists, to-do lists, and my innermost thoughts.  Maybe even nostalgic thoughts about my first day of school. You never outgrow school supplies.

The Drive-In

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

For the ultimate movie-going experience, you have to don PJs, get into the car and hit the drive-in. Screens are four times larger than any indoor theatre and the pre-show concession flick is award-worthy. Of course, the movies are usually fourth-rate horror flicks or worse, but you can’t have everything.

My local theatre is a multiplex monstrosity with 30 screens and showings from morning ‘til night. It comes with Dolby stereo and Surround Sound. Concession stands charge five dollars for ten cents worth of popped corn mixed with a quarter cup of iodized salt. Beverages are served in biodegradable cups so large I could wash my hair in it.

Seating is theatre-style, meaning elevated rows. And it0s all designed to maximize the film-goer’s viewing pleasure. Audio headsets available in case the ear-piercing volume isn’t quite loud enough to alert all dogs in a ten mile-radius that the entertainment industry is alive and well. 
With high-tech indoor theaters, thriving video rental outfits like Blockbuster and Netflix, not to mention sales of DVDs for home viewing, it’s no wonder the most American of all movie venues is on its last legs—the drive-in. Sad, too because this year the Drive-in movie celebrates 75 years.

There was a time in the not so distant past when family entertainment included a trip to the drive-in. Kids, dressed in their pajamas, piled into the station wagon and the whole family headed to the drive-in—usually a double feature.

My first recollection of the drive-in was a summer evening when we went to see James Bond. Pure family entertainment and fun for the kiddies what with the spy gadgets, bad guys who are pure bad, and a martini-drinking good guy who is as suave and debonair20as they come.

My brother, sister, and I were more captivated by the dancing hot dogs in the concession video than we were in the movie.  At least until Mom began persuading us to put our heads down so we wouldn’t see the love scenes.  That’s when I turned into a Whack-a-Mole trying to see what I wasn’t supposed to see.

Drive-in movies hit their stride in the 50s when America boasted over 4,000 theatres.  Now there are fewer than 500 and most of those share space with flea markets, drive-in churches, and swap meets.  Flea market by day; bad movies by night.

Richard Hollingshead, Jr., the creator of the drive-in, might not be too upset by that.  Junior, the son of an auto parts store owner in Camden, NJ was not terribly energized by his career, so he mounted a 1928 Kodak projector on the hood of his car and pointed it at a screen affixed between trees on his property. The Drive-in was born. If his concept worked, he figured he could make a quick buck and provide a constant source of inexpensive entertainment for the family. Moms and Dads wouldn’t need to hire a babysitter, nor would they need to worry about their rowdy kids disturbing others by kicking their chairs, talking, and running up and down the aisles. Junior’s original marketing tag line was “The whole family is welcome, regardless of how noisy the children are.”  In other words, Noisy Kids?  No problem.

In 1933, the U.S. patent office granted U.S. Patent 1,909,537  to Hollingshead. Shortly after that drive-ins started popping up like popcorn in a theatre concession stand. (Sadly, 17 years later, a district court in Delaware declared the patent invalid, but that meant nothing to the average movie-goer. They were hooked. Some theatres added play grounds, several even had petting zoos and a few were so large they added runways for private planes.  Those drive-ins became fly-ins. Seriously. At one time or another, all of them transmitted horrible sound quality via those metal speakers that hung on the inside of the window.

Then, just like the dinosaur, the drive-in began to die off. There are still devoted drive-in-ers, called “ozoners”.  Okay, they’re obsessed.  But everyone needs a hobby. 

So, in honor of the 75th anniversary of the drive-in, I’m meeting a few friends and we’ll pile into the car and head to the nearest drive-in, which is about 40 miles away.  It’s a double feature:  The Tomato that Ate Cleveland and Pumpkin Head.  And we might even wear PJs.

The Fan of the Story

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay
 
It’s been awhile since sports kept me awake into the wee hours of the morning.  Four years to be exact.  At 8 p.m. (China time) on August 8, 2008 the revelry of the 29th Olympic Games began in Beijing. The Chinese are big fans of the number eight because in their culture it means prosperity. (This explains why the Chinese did not want to host the 2004 Olympics because four means death.)
 
The Olympics begins with the Opening Ceremony, but as far as I’m concerned, it starts with the Parad e of Nations. That’s when the Olympic athletes march into the stadium.  Not to be disrespectful, but I didn’t care much about the hour-long preshow, the arrival of the Chinese president, raising the Chinese flag, the paper-making demonstration, calligraphy, the Peking Opera or the Tai-Chi demonstration.  During the first 17 events, I shredded junk mail, popped popcorn, channel surfed, and called in an order on QVC.
 
But when the Greek athletes led the way into the stadium followed by more than 10,000 Olympic competitors, I un-muted my TV and listened up. While I am fiercely competitive and a patriotic sap, the Olympics is all about the people—and their stories.  Regardless of what country they represent.
 
Each athlete who made it to the “Games,” has a story and that’s what engages me for the entire two-week span of the Olympics.  Personal stories of triumph in tough times, of overcoming the most insurmountable odds, of d ogged persistence—that’s why I tune in night after night to watch as many of the 300 competitions as are televised. (Or as many as I can stay awake for.)
 
My heart goes out to the seven-member Iraqi team that trained for years in preparation for the 2008 Olympics.  Because of a dispute between the Iraqi government and the Olympic Committee, seven athletes, trained in judo, archery, wrestling, rowing, track and field, are now watching the games from their living rooms. I would feel the same sympathy for any athlete in any country whose hopes were dashed because of a governmental dispute.
 
Four years ago, when the Iraqi team entered the stadium in Athens, Greece during the Opening Ceremony, the entire crowd gave them a standing ovation.  Saddam had long made it a practice to punish athletes who did not win—often to within an inch of death. In 2004, the Iraqi team participated as a free country. I cried.
 
With bittersweet emotion, I watched Pieter van den Hoogenband, the three-time Olympic gold medalist from the Netherlands, announce that his career as an Olympian swimmer is over.  When he finished fifth in the 100-meter freestyle final, he knew it was time. He has experienced the Olympian thrill of victory seven times in his short 30 years, but his life will now look far different.  I know I should have been cheering for the American (who took the Bronze), but I couldn’t help myself.  I was pulling for the Dutch guy.
 
Dara Torres, a “middle-aged” swimmer, led the U.S. freestyle relay to a silver medal. “The water doesn’t know what age you are,” says Torres. She’s won medals before—as early as 1988, but she’s back. I have to say I was shocked to read about he r.  Not because she’s a modern-day Olympian at the ripe old age of 41, but that 41 is middle-aged. Everyone knows middle age is however old I am plus 10 years.  So, let’s just say it’s way older than 41.
 
Had Eric Shanteau, the 24-year-old Texan, qualified to race in the 200 meter men’s breaststroke, I would have cheered for him.  He didn’t qualify. Now, he’ll head home to fight a bigger battle—against cancer.  But Eric is a hero.  He went for it and pursued his dream. 

Of course, there’s U.S. swimmer Michael Phelps who has graced the front pages of almost every daily newspaper in the country for the past week.  Every red-blooded American is pulling for him. Phelps could be the next Mark Spitz.—only bett er. If he wins his next three events, he’ll return home weighted down with eight gold medals.  Spitz only won seven. Only.

And that’s a story.

Leave the Cannoli

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

DISCLAIMER: The following column contains information that is true, however, names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and those with Italian blood. Resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is about 22.1% purely coincidental. The opinions expressed in this column do not necessarily represent the viewpoints of this newspaper. This disclaimer is not valid in Sicily or in places where people say: “Leave the gun; take the cannoli” and really mean it.
Last weekend, I attended an Italian wedding.  As Italian weddings go, it was small—only 70 people.  My Little, Skinny Italian Wedding. There were two WASPS in the room: me and my friend Kris. (I changed her name, too. You can’t be too careful.)
 
Also seated at our table were Chicky Salvatorre and his wife, Cherrie; Mary Solvetti and her date Rocco Loggia; Josephina and Vinnie Barbarino (no relation to John Travolta). Across the table sat Carmela and Dick. (Dick is only half-Italian.) The only way our table could have been more Italian is if a platter of spaghetti had served as the centerpiece.
 
Between the hors d’vores and the introduction of the wedding party (to the tune of Mambo Italiano, I think), I had a chance to learn about my table mates. Chicky makes deliveries, although he was a little vague on what he delivers. Rocco is in law enforcement of some kind. Dick runs a family business. And then there was Vinnie.
 
Vinnie is a busy guy. He handed me four different cards and announced, “I’m a business man.” (Yeah, and Al Capone really was a used furniture dealer.) Vinnie sells used cars (“hot” rods?), he sells insurance, he sells logo gear and, leaning forward, he tapped his index finger on the last card and=2 0explained, “I sell staff incentives, if you know what I mean.”  I didn’t, but the theme song from The Godfather started playing ominously in the back of my mind. 
 
Before the toasts, the mother of the bride tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I would say the blessing before the meal. I could say no or I could bravely face a room full of wise guys and pray. 
 
To be honest, I had started praying when Vinnie told me he’d gone away for a little while.  Turns out he was “pinched” for racketeering and spent 14 years in a gated community where he was engaged in laundering clothes instead of money. So when someone handed me a microphone, I looked into the eyes of the hungry wedding guests and I prayed. Hard.
 
Amen. Let the eating begin.
 
At most weddings, the bride is the center of attention. At Italian weddings, it’s the food. Imagine the quantity of food available on a cruise ship where people are exposed to two-hour feedings, and that comes reasonably close to the quantity of food at this small wedding. We were definitely overserved. It started with soup. Then more soup. And finally pasta fagioli, which is also soup. In all, there were 14 courses before we got to dessert.
 
Over the next 11 courses, I was exposed to a world straight out of Good Fellas. I learned nicknames. Chicky “The Roll,” Rocco “No Mercy,” Vinnie “The Harpoon.” Vinnie dubbed me Susan “The Nun”—either because I prayed in public or because I was dressed in black. 
 
In Mobster World, it’s important to dress the part of someone with status. It’s called “wearing it.” And Vinnie was definitely “wearing it.” A fine Italian suit. Handkerchief in the breast pocket. Gold cufflinks. And a pinkie ring. Vinnie’s pinkie ring, fashioned as the devil with two small rubies for eyes, extended the length of his knuckle. I assume it could double as a weapon.
 
I gained a whole new vocabulary that contained words like juice loan, buttlegging, shylock, and RICO.
 
When dessert came, I was ready to just say no until “The Harpoon” warned me it is bad luck to decline wedding cake. When someone named Harpoon, who has mob connections, tells you that, you find room for dessert.
 
I’m glad I did. Instead of a cake with thick, gooey white frosting that is so sweet it makes your teeth hurt, this wedding cake was frosted and filled with cannoli cream. Take the gun, leave the cannoli.

Confusing or Confucius?

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

Confucius say: You will meet a handsome stranger on a train. Something you have long desired will come true very soon. Your skill and wit make you an unbeatable force.
 
Now those are the types of messages you want to receive when you break into your fortune cookie. I usually get pretty decent, if not pithy, statements when I unscroll the hidden saying inside the twisted hard shell that comes with my bill at a Chinese restaurant.  Occasionally I get a disappointing one, like “Let a smile be your umbrella,” but I’ve had many more of the “All your dreams will come true” types.  Maybe that’s why I like Chinese food.
 
I’m willing to face the fact that I accept the fortunes because they offer hope and hope is always preferable to doom. So, unless my fortun e says, “All your dreams will come true by next Tuesday,” I’m choosing to buy it with a grain of salt. And just so you know, I would disregard the “dreams come true by Tuesday” message. I’m an optimist, not an idiot.
 
But now there’s bad news. It appears the three billion cookies manufactured each year may be stuffed with less tantalizing fortunes. Cookie purveyors want to play it safe with scripts that are closer to proverbs. I have nothing against a proverb, but I don’t want to read one in my cookie.
 
Here are some of the top proverbial “fortunes” Chinese food lovers may unwrap before at the end of the meal:
 
Your smile will tell you what makes you feel good. (Huh?  Like I wouldn8 0t know if I weren’t smiling?)
The night life is for you. (My grandmother used to say nothing good can come from being out at 2 a.m.  Maybe that should be in a fortune cookie.  But who wants to read that?)
Face facts with dignity. (If I unrolled that message, I might signal the waiter and ask for a new cookie.)
Good sense is the master of human life. (Quick.  Alert the media. Or Ben Franklin.)
Maybe someday we will live on the moon.  (And maybe someday I will be scooting around in an airborne vehicle just like George Jetson.)
Endurance and persistence will be rewarded. (With gray hair and crow’s feet.)
Pat yourself on the back for your effort. (Don’t stop here. Rub your shoulders while you’re at it.  If you can.)
You will find something. It may be important.  (That’s like saying:  You will eat something. It may taste good.)
The best year-round temperature is a warm heart and a cool head.  (Can you spell PROVERB?)
In youth and beauty, wisdom is rare. (Two words: Britney Spears. Or Lindsay Lohan. Okay, that’s four words.)
 
I don’t know what’s behind the calmer (more boring) versions of fortune cookies. My guess is the lawyers are behind it. Maybe the writers of fortune cookie messages fear being sued by t he woman who bought a train ticket and didn’t meet a handsome stranger. Or by the man who had long desired that his beloved Cubs would win the World Series and they didn’t.  In a litigious society, clearly these are grounds. Rather than suffer the annoyance of stupid lawsuits, fortune cookie manufactures are playing it safe on the counsel of their lawyers).  Confucius say: Don’t be boring. Take a risk with what you write. Who knows? You might win a Pulitzer. (But not by next Tuesday.)
 
Fortune cookies are found in Chinese restaurants all over the world: England, Mexico, France, India, Italy—everywhere but China. Confusing? I’d say so. According to restaurant owners in China, the cookies are too American.
 
The fortune cookie is of Japanese origin (back when it was called a tea cake), but during World War II, when so many Japanese were rounded up by our country and place in internment camps, Chinese Americans got into the act and a star was born.  And at last...Chinese restaurants had something new on their menu--dessert.  Confucius say: To get good dessert, go to different restaurant.

What’s Up, Doc?

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

Put candles in the carrot cake because Bugs Bunny was officially born 68 years ago.  By officially, I mean he made his first public appearance as a gray hare. A Wild Hare was released on July 27, 1940 and Bugs was born—in his fully developed form. Or to be politically correct, in his evolved state. A Wild Hare finds Bugs face-to-face with hunter Elmer Fudd and for the first time, audiences heard the famous rabbit utter his trademark, “What’s Up, Doc?” Bugs went on to star in over 150 cartoons.

The famous hare was tagged Bugs’ Bunny because he was the brainchild of animator Ben “Bugs” Harda way. Eventually Bugs (the bunny) lost the possessive apostrophe at the end of his name and surpassed any fame Ben could have imagined.  And artists can be very imaginative! Take my word for it.

When I watched Bugs Bunny as I kid, I remember being slightly annoyed in the same way I got annoyed watching sitcoms where someone let a monkey into the family’s house. Nothing good ever comes of that. Bugs and his opponents were always unequally matched to the point that one contestant didn’t have a prayer.  Guess which one. Regardless of the opponent (Elmer, Daffy, Yosemite Sam, Witch Hazel, Tasmanian Devil—you name it), Bugs had the upper hand. It never seemed like a fair fight.

But I’ve changed my mind. Today I love Bugs. While I am still not a fan of the mismatch, I am a huge fan of sarcasm.  In fact, sarcasm might just be my spiritual gift. And Bugs is my mentor.

In 2002, TV Guide, famous for the crossword puzzles everyone denounces but complete anyway, pronounced Bugs Bunny the “greatest cartoon character of all time.” They might even mean “who ever lived.” I know it’s a cartoon, but any rabbit who owns a smoking jacket and can rest his elbow with a certain je ne sais quoi, on the mantle of the fireplace in his rabbit’s den knows how to live—or at least live it up.
 Disney fans were shattered when their beloved Mickey Mouse did not take top cartoon kudos. Although in fairness, when Animal
Planet hosted a survey of the 50 Greatest Movie Animals, Bugs came in third, right behind Mickey and Toto.
While Mickey speaks in a squeaky mouse voice, Bugs comes straight from the Bronx. Actually, his voice (created by Mel Blanc), defined the rascally rabbit’s accent as straight out of Flatbush, which lies in a magical land somewhere between the Bronx and Brooklyn.
The two rivals have both won Oscars and serve as mascots: Mickey for Disney and all its subsidiaries and Bugs for Warner Brothers. Naturally such big celebrities both have stars on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.  Not bad for a drawing. Yet, Mickey and Bugs have met only once—in the film Who Framed Roger Rabbit. No one remembers their cameos because Jessica Rabbit upstaged every other actor—human or cartoon.

When Bugs, the fast-talking rabbit in New York, captured the hearts of Americans during World War II, the government enlisted him to star in a two-minute commercial promoting war bonds. His stock went up because the only thing Americans love more than bunny rabbits is bunnies with a patriotic streak. After a stint in a cartoon where he wore the dress uniform of a Marine, the USMC made Bugs a Marine Master Sergeant.  (An honorary one, though.  Bugs couldn’t get time off to go to boot camp to become a real Marine.)

What has given Bugs staying power is his way with words.  He can quip it up with the best of them. In the face of danger, like when a shotgun is pressed against his nose, Bugs will not panic, faint, or even explode. Instead, he will raise his eyebrows a few times, and borrowing a quip from the most famous quipper of all time—Groucho Marx—he will say to his adversary, “Of cours e, you realize this means war!” Bugs is even known to hold his carrot the way Groucho held his cigar.
Bugs has a long list of famous retorts, but my favorite is: I know this defies the law of gravity, but I never studied law!

The only quip I never heard him utter was “Waiter! There’s a hare in my soup!” 
But Bugs is only 68.  There’s still time.

The Deep Freeze

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay
 
The 95-degree heat and humidity had volumized my hair to the point that I was finding it difficult to get my head through the door. The TV weather man, who prefers the moniker meteorologist, spent his air time focused on a continued hot spell with no relief in sight until sometime in October.
     So I welcomed a week-long conference that would remove me from the exterior elements, in other words, get me out of the heat. It meant an entire week at a hotel where a maid would make my bed every day, I could crank the AC up as high as I wanted, and there would always be a pane of glass between me and the great outdoors. The pace at the conference would be so frenetic that the furthest anyone dared venture might be the pool outside.
      Whether the topic is law enforcement, the latest advancements in the beauty industry, the fine art of necklace beading, or, in my case novel writing, conferences gather participants in meeting areas named after plant life (the Walnut Room) or dead Presidents (the Jefferson Room). And inevitably people will complain about the temperature. No one ever does anything about it because it is, after all, the weather. But there will be complaints.  It’s either too hot or too cold; it’s never “just right.”
      Our meeting room happened to be cold. Hotel executives, in charge of high-level decisions like thermostat settings, decided a comfortable temperature was somewhere between “gee, my nose is cold and I’m beginning to feel like a beagle” and “is that a penguin over there?”
      Since the dress was casual, most people had chosen to wear short-sleeved shirts20and shorts. Fools. An hour in, they were moving chairs closer together to take advantage of body heat. Forget violating personal space; it was get cozy or die.
      I barely noticed the biting wind during the first hour. In fact, it felt normal.  My office is so cold it is commonly referred to as the meat locker.  People have been known to leave refrigerate-after-opening items on my desk because it’s colder than the fridge. Visitors stand outside my door and marvel that they can see their breath when they talk with me. 
     Being that self-refrigeration is an everyday occurrence for me, I had packed long-sleeved sweaters. They’re a staple in my wardrobe, even in July.
      The majority of the women wore sandals. I wisely wore sneakers and white sweat socks. I do, after all, understand the intricacies of dressing for a harsh climate. I figured I could make a li ttle money by renting out my socks.  Maybe at $1 per hour. I had packed a clean pair for every day.  Naturally, by the end of the week, I would lower the fee since the socks would no longer be squeaky clean.  But in reality, it would be a little like the shoe concession at the bowling alley.
      I had a couple of pairs of black socks (to wear with black shoes, of course); however, most women are hesitant to don black socks with their strappy sandals. To that I say…who is going to see your feet?  The tablecloths extend to the floor.  What will it be—fashion or comfort?
      By the end of the first morning, even my fleece hoodie wasn’t much of a barrier against the cold front that had settled in. During a break, the speaker dashed to the gift shop for a sweat shirt. 
      Between sessions, three of us bravely approached the front desk to ask if someone could raise the thermostat in the room before we lost all feeling in our appendages.  The desk clerk, who isn’t trusted with anything as important as the key to the thermostat, paged the hotel engineer. He couldn’t help us, but he could explain why we were cold.
      And he did. In excruciating detail, he outlined the history of air conditioning from cave men who sat on glaciers to today’s technology. When he started employing words like heat fusion, freeze point depression, and ambient pressure, I wondered if I’d stumbled onto some bizarre game show. Maybe Candid Camera Jeopardy.  I’ll take Heating and Air Conditioning for $200, Alex.
      The bottom line? Our room was cold and by golly, it was going to stay cold.  In fact, this could be the very location where the underworld really will freeze over. Any day now.