The Science Habit

My colleague—a medical doctor and infectious disease specialist—judged her child’s middle school science fair today. It’s that time of the year. A judge at my boys’ science fairs was never a position to which I either aspired or ever anticipated being called—and for good reason.

For one, I’m not particularly fond of fungi, elongated soft-bodied invertebrate animals, or food coloring—especially when they all are combined in the same container to prove some point. For another, I have never in my entire life participated in a science fair. In the 1960’s, in my Catholic elementary/middle school, we didn’t have science fairs—our lives revolved around the Baltimore Catechism. The only science project I can remember was a friend’s pickled bologna and Velveeta cheese sandwich, on white bread with mayo, which spent 4 weeks in his desk, in a plastic baggie, in a brown paper bag. Why that experiment, in that peculiar habitat, is a topic for later discussion.

Had we had a science lab with a microscope, we could have learned a lot about bread mold and spore disbursal. But eventually, some joker would have surreptitiously coated the scope’s optical lenses with charcoal, creosote, tar or some other impression-leaving substance, which would have sent the nuns into a frenzy (and that occurred frequently enough already). The nuns knew us all too well, which probably explains, in part, why, instead of a lab, we had a mobile science “cart,” which they locked in a closet and rolled out once a week for what I vaguely recall as a series of demonstrations about the physical world. Frankly, back then, those demos seemed more like magic acts than hard science.

Of course, eight years with the nuns was like one extended-run magic show! They were always pulling peculiar things out of all those secret compartments in those imposing black and white habits. They had a special talent for making n’er-do-wells disappear and then reappear. I’m convinced that they would have liked to have sawed most of us in half, but even the corporal punishment that they faithfully inflicted upon us had limits. That didn’t stop them from throwing things at us—primarily chalk and chalkboard erasers. Thankfully, the parish priests at least had the good sense to lock all the sharp knives, hatchets, blindfolds, ankle clasps, and the spinning wheel in a storage room in the convent.

They could do mysterious, supernatural things that would make us doubt our very impressionable eyes—like emptying the contents of one poor student’s messy desk onto the floor and flinging it, and then him, down the hallway. Or, like a black and white bowling ball upending an array of bowling pins, a nun once knocked over a half-a-dozen students in about 5 seconds en route to grabbing two blabbermouths in the middle of a pew during a church service, and dragging them both out of the church by the tips of their lobes. They never knew what hit them.

With these kinds of random acts of entertainment available on a daily basis, we never really missed the drama or PE classes that were routinely available to our public school peers. Of course, It’s challenging to have PE when you don’t have a gymnasium. But ducking all those in-coming chalk projectiles, or running out of the classroom to see a student belly flopping down the hall on his stomach, or dodging a nun on a mission from a higher order, kept us all on our toes and in good shape.

We did have “recess,” in the school’s parking lot. Although we weren’t permitted to run, so as not to shred our school uniforms, we did spend a lot of time walking, almost always in pairs. School entrances and exits—at the beginning, middle, and end of the day—were always executed in double file. Confirmation and Holy Communion? Everyone had to have a partner. May procession? Grab a partner, round we go. Religious ceremonies at Christmas and Easter? No one walks alone. (R2D2 and C3PO must have gone to Catholic school.)

Getting back to my unfortunate friend and the random science project, had we had a cafeteria or a lunch room, he could have trashed that sandwich without anyone being the wiser and just satisfied himself with the chocolate Ring Ding he had received from Bernadette in exchange for his Twinkies. Instead, all of us ate our sandwiches, slurped our soup from thermoses (I used to hate how the noodles would always get stuck on the bottom of the container), and drank our milk from 5-cent cartons—in silence—at our respective desks, on a table cloth we brought from home. As everyone knew, nuns had eyes in the back of their heads. My friend understood that his only chance of squirreling away that rejected sandwich was to let his science book provide cover for the bag when he quietly placed both securely in his flip-top desk, as Sister wrote with great earnestness her notes on the board for the next class.

All this to say it’s little wonder that I struggled through introductory physical science, biology and chemistry in high school, and opted for psychology over physics in the 12th grade. I steered clear of the hard sciences in college, of course. But if there is one thing I learned in Catholic school, it was how to survive the mayhem. Those skills have served me well in the 20+ years I have been working in Africa. Now if I could just get a side gig as a judge voting some wackos off an Island, I would be as happy as a toadstool in a fairy tale—or a science fair.

Ten Reasons Why You Should Visit Berlin

1. The Brandenburg Gate is so much bigger than the Mona Lisa: to see it you don't have to shout "fire" or stand on the tour guide's shoulders.

2. The Chef's Special at the Esplanade Hotel: braised knuckle of lamb with peppered sweetheart cabbage and pan-fried potato noodles, with a side of Zantac.

3. If you like Pizza, this is the place for you. There are more Pizzerias per square mile here than there are Dunkin Donuts in Boston. If you are looking for a cop, however, I'm afraid you'll have to visit or call the police station. I couldn't find any of Berlin's coffee-drinking finest in the Pizzerias.

4. Berliners' fascination with a fried egg and bacon as a garnish for just about any meal you order. My favorite: fried egg and bacon on my fried egg and bacon.

5. To appreciate how cyclists, pedestrians and drivers can co-exist in the same space without anyone the worse off.

6. The Alton Hotel: stand under the balcony where Michael Jackson suspended his infant in mid-air, while shaking and scratching your head, again.

7. Stand at multipe spots along where the Wall used to be, thinking about all those LeCarre novels and spy movies in which it figured so prominently.

8. Berlin Beer and techno disco.

9. The Berliners can handle just about any language you throw at them: English, French, Spanish and more.

10. Finally, the best thing about Berlin: it's not Frankfurt.

IT'S A SHORE THING, Part II

Parents being parents

Moms tend to do a lot of negotiating on the beach. For example, I overhear one Mom say to her son as they pass behind my beach chair: “Is that a deal?” Moms also do a lot of refereeing: “Oh, stop it, you two, it’s her turn to play with the bucket.” Otherwise, Moms just lay down the law: “Brendan, I said come on.” “Stop throwing sand!” and “Stop throwing the seaweed!” are two commands I hear frequently; both bring back fond memories of my childhood spent on the South Jersey shore.

When parents are not being so litigious, they seem to be having a lot of fun, sometimes more than the kids. Many state-of-the-art sand castles and fortresses I see today bear the distinctive signature of frustrated architect-engineer Dads. I see several Dads still engaged in a big dig long after their kids have moved on to more interesting parent-proof activities. Moms love those photo opps of their children buried up to their necks in the sand. It’s one of those rare moments that they can get them to hold still long enough for a photograph.



Dads also are the source of an unlimited number of improvised beach games. Most commonly, I witness father-son competitions that involve the tossing of balls of all shapes and sizes into holes in the sand, into sand buckets, or into any available receptacle, such as a picnic basket. Unfortunately, these games never seem to end well.

At some point in the competition, an argument invariably breaks out over some alleged misinterpretation of the “rules.” For example, is a point earned if the tennis ball goes into the bucket but then spills out when the bucket tips over from the force of the throw? Amidst much gnashing of teeth, hollering, and screaming, someone usually storms off down the beach, or pleads his case at the Supreme Court of Mom. The kids also throw tantrums from time to time.

Today’s Dad also plays improvised games with his daughters, of course. I watch one Dad counting the seconds his two daughters, in turn, balance on one foot on the base of an upside down sand bucket. While Dad’s eyes are fixated on his watch, Mom regularly peers over the top of her sunglasses, and then gazes over the top of her summer novel, just to make sure none of the other children is drowning.

Grandparents being grandparents

A grand-dad is wearing a Boston Red Sox bathing suit and holding in each hand a large sand bucket—one blue and one yellow. He is trying to get his three grandsons, all of whom appear to be under 10, to accompany him to the ocean’s edge to help fill the buckets with water. Not one is listening to him. They are all furiously digging in the sand. Grandpop doesn’t look too upset. He must be accustomed to being ignored. I watch as he just stands there in the sun, for a long time, with those two buckets in his big, lobster-sized hands, his stomach hanging over his suit like patriotic bunting over the upper deck at Fenway, with a dazed look of bemused resignation on his face.

In a sign of the lengths to which some grandparents will go to please their sons, daughters, and grandchildren, at least a dozen of them are in the water with the kids. The water temperature today is 67 degrees. When I stuck my big toe in, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. These folks are all octogenarians. Why aren’t they all dead by now? They must be aliens. It’s the only reasonable explanation.



At these temperatures, the lifeguards should be obliged to plant, alongside the green “safe to go in the water” flag, a blue one, which indicates the color humans are likely to turn for being foolish enough to heed the green flag! I suppose these grandparents all deserve those “Greatest Grandparent In the World” t-shirts they wear with such pride.

It sure takes a lot of stuff to have fun

A cursory inventory of supplies families “needed” this week at the beach follows: buckets of every size and color, pails, sand molds, short-handle shovels, long-handle shovels, sand trowels, beach towels, personal towels, chairs, loungers, free-standing umbrellas, sport n’brellas, umbrellas attached to chairs, sun protection gazebos, play pens with canopies, footballs, soccer balls, kick balls, nerf balls, Velcro balls and paddle-catchers, lacrosse sticks and balls, surf boards, boogie boards, skimmer boards, Coleman coolers (some with wheels, some without), Igloo coolers, no-name coolers, baskets of food, paper bags with food, cell phones, ipods, cameras, camcorders, books, magazines, and a variety of wheeled vehicles to cart all this stuff from the parking lot to the beach and back!

Fashion statements (and mis-statements)

There’s probably a rule in New England that all adolescents and adult males (for females I heard it is voluntary) must wear a Boston Red Sox cap at the beach. Yet, no two caps are the same. I see green caps with a red B; blue caps with a red B; red caps with a blue B; light blue caps with a slightly darker blue B; and even hunting caps with a pair of black sox on the back and a black B on the front.

Grandparents don’t wear baseball caps much, but many of them should be forced to do so. Every evening, lifeguards should collect all those straw hats, Australian bush hats, fisherman caps, pork pie hats, and other awful things these people put on their heads and just toss the lot of them in a bonfire (the lids, not the people or their heads!).

Shepherding and stewardship

What do you call a bunch of sweaty, freckled-faced kids who complain that they never get to do anything fun? Summer campers, of course!

Well, a trip to the beach is just the thing to improve the dog days of summer and put an end to all that barking and whining. Unfortunately, the New Hampshire State Association of Summer Camps picked my vacation as the week to re-enact the D-Day invasion of the Normandy beaches. The day-campers just keep coming, relentlessly, wave after wave of them, day after day.

On one particularly sunny day, a large group of campers, all clad in orange T-shirts, arrives first. Their counselors stake out their territory by planting in the sand two yellow flags emblazoned with big red hearts. The banners flap furiously in a strong ocean breeze, making it easy for everyone to keep their bearings. These are clever, maintenance-free demarcations of the boundaries of the theater of operations.



The beauty of this strategy is confimed by the behavior of another contingent, which eschewed uniform-colored t-shirts for the campers, as well as the flags in the sand, opting instead for multi-colored shirts for the kids and orange highway cones to establish their territory, respectively. Unfortunately, in their rush to the ocean, several eager campers knock over the cones, thereby calling into question the ability of the group to reconnoiter on the beach in the event of a crisis, such as a jellyfish reunion, Class of 1972.



It is obvious that the “red heart” counselors are the kind of leaders that would never issue a command that they are not prepared to carry out. The blue tee-shirt, surf-based lieutenants lead one brigade of campers into the ocean, where they fully engage with the kids in water maneuvers. At the same time, the turf-based counselors in their pink tee-shirts establish a beachhead: the kids dig trenches and construct fortifications as the counselors supervise the work from several comfortable beach chairs. This is not the first time these counselors have led a beach command.



In contrast, all the counselors from the “conehead” division seem perfectly content to supervise their charges from the shore, using the opportunity to talk and laugh among themselves. In this group there is no division of labor: all the campers are in the water at the same time! The closest the coneheads come to establishing a recognizable beachhead is when they have their kids place towels on the sand before charging into the water. Lots of non-campers leave their towels on the beach (duh!), however, and flat towels on a flat beach are not easy to see, thereby calling into question the wisdom and experience of the coneheads, as well as the judgment of the poor parents who entrust their children to these well-meaning, albeit uninspired leaders.

Although I’m not a betting man, I would be willing to wager that I could guess, with a high degree of accuracy, which campers were smothered with sunscreen before pouring out of their respective buses on this brilliantly sunny day!

*****

I suppose that a week like this every few years reminds me of how good I’ve had it in on that serene, tranquil North Carolina island, where I plan to return next summer. I’ll be sure to pack a copy of this posting, however, just in case I catch myself complaining about those relentless black flies that annoy on windless days in the mid-90s. If my wife must bear the burden of my whining, I won’t blame her if she buries me in the sand while I am napping, places a bag of pretzels on my head just as the fishing boats pass, and then posts a picture on Facebook of me with my new "trashmen with wings" friends.

IT'S A SHORE THING, Part I

It is Labor Day, the unofficial end to summer. My wife and I are fortunate to have enjoyed two beach vacations this year: one on Martha’s Vineyard, in July, and the other on the coasts of New Hampshire and Maine, in mid-August. Having spent the last twenty-five years vacationing in August on the North Carolina coast, on a sleepy, relatively deserted barrier island, I had forgotten how entertaining a crowded beach could be. Mind you, that it was entertainment was not immediately apparent; there were a few “opening acts” that we were obliged to endure, all of which had me longing, at first, for those Carolina blue skies, sea turtles, and dolphins to which I have become accustomed at the end of every summer.



For example, at several New Hampshire State-owned beaches, I spent a lot of time scooping sand out of every bodily orifice each time someone picked up his or her towel en route to lunch, a better spot next to friends, or the shower. Even when vacationers don’t mean to kick sand in your face, they do. There are just too many bodies squeezed into a parcel of beach the size of three postcard stamps.

According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, in 2008 approximately 17.0% of the adult population in New Hampshire smoked cigarettes. That same year there were 34 states with higher smoking prevalence rates. Comparatively speaking, the “Live Free or Die Prematurely State” fares better than most, and prevalence has been declining since 2000. If this trend continues, perhaps the State’s one million plus citizens will vote to change their motto to “Smoke-free: Live Long and Prosper” and send Mr. Spock to the State House in Concord. Unfortunately for me, all those adult smokers bring their butts to the beach during the second week in August.



And where are the fashion police when you need them? Men and women of a certain vintage who ignore the extended Shakira rule—hips, upper arms, mid-sections, and thighs don’t lie—are lucky to leave the beach without any indecent over-exposure citations. And what’s with all the tattoos? As for our dear friends to the north, I heard that they frequent New Hampshire beaches in August because on the Canadian coast it is a felony to wear speedos, dark socks, and Birkenstock sandals, all at the same time, in public, in the middle of the afternoon.

Finally, in case you haven’t heard, New Hampshire - seagulls are scavengers! They can locate even a temporarily unattended bag of pretzels, tear open the plastic, and litter the beach with my favorite snacks faster than water freezes in Vermont in January. Those aggressive birds are equally adept with bags of potato chips and chocolate chip cookies.

I suppose there is a silver lining to all of this. According to the Bird News Network of the American Bird Conservancy (I am not making this up), these “trashmen with wings” perform a valuable service: they consume dead animals, organic litter, and other materials—such as snacks high in salt and transfat—that could pose a health threat to humans.

Perseverance does have its benefits. In just a couple of days of rubbing elbows, literally, with all these White Mountain-turned-beach- enthusiasts, a visitor can walk away with much more than just sand in his trunks, second-hand smoke in his lungs, and life-scarring memories of sloppy, cheap tattoos in private neighborhoods. I had the good fortune of sampling some delicious seasonal American pie, New England-style. I’m happy to share a few slices.

Girls being girls

A little girl, about three years old, is wearing a white bonnet that is tied under her chin and a butterscotch-colored bathing suit. She is carrying a pint-sized plastic yellow pail. She meanders about 20 yards down to the ocean, opting for the scenic route. It takes her a good five minutes to reach the water’s edge. Her mother, taking baby steps, never leaves her side.

Upon reaching her destination, the little girl bends over, letting several gentle waves of water splash into her pail. The pail is about one quarter full when she begins her journey home. Upon reaching her family site, she pours the water in a hole. The sand absorbs the water immediately. Quite satisfied with her effort, the little girl returns to the sea.

This activity goes on for a very long time—so long, that Mom eventually turns over escort duty to her husband, who is also well-schooled in babystepping. Eventually, apparently satisfied that her mission is accomplished, the little girl settles down on her blanket and takes a nap. Inspiring!

Four elementary school girls with flamingo-thin legs are each squeamishly clutching a part of some unrecognizable creature from Davey Jones’s locker. They are in a mad, synchronized dash to the ocean, squealing at the top of their lungs. They unceremoniously dump the beast into the surf. Holding hands, they immediately turn and run to their beach spot, reaching decibels unknown to modern acoustic science en route. I am guessing that they imagine the beady-eyed creature is already in hot pursuit with the aim of exacting his revenge.

As this freckled foursome rushes by on my left, my attention is drawn to my right, where a pogostick of a young girl with a ponytail is turning cartwheels down the beach. I lose count after ten; an acute episode of vertigo forces me to direct my attention elsewhere. The truth be told, I’m down-right afraid to look over my shoulder, half expecting a herd of baby elephants with interlocking tails coming my way in search of peanuts. They are not going to be happy when they discover the seagulls have already cleaned up. All I am missing is my worst nightmare: some clown with blue flippers and a big, red, sun-burned nose! This is becoming a very scary place.

Three middle school girls giggle for thirty consecutive minutes as they bury themselves up to their necks in the sand. After a few minutes, two of the three, Lazarus-like, emerge from their self-imposed tombs. The other, still giggling, realizes she doesn’t have the strength to escape her self-imposed interment. Immediately, the other two, without consulting, dig her out. They all titter.

I can’t help but think that if these were three middle school boys buried in the sand, the weakest of the three might still be on Rye Beach, as I write, struggling to secure his freedom, minus the new sunglasses and baseball cap he was wearing when he started.

While this “Thriller” drama unfolds, a girl of about the same age walks by with a curious look on her face, pulling behind her the smiling, albeit gritty visage of Hannah Montana on her skimmer-board.

Unlike their younger counterparts, the three teenage girls who lazily stroll back and forth along the beach in their micro bikinis and macro shades have no task today other than to “be seen” by their contemporaries of the opposite sex. They are immersed in what appears to be an incisive conversation that I am guessing addresses, at some point, the mind-boggling immaturity of boys their age. Otherwise, they are completely oblivious to everyone and everything around them. Whatever!

Boys being boys

First-born son (with great emotion): “Mom, some little jerk with a yellow truck crashed into our sand castle and destroyed everything we have been working on all day. He just took off and didn’t even say sorry.”

Middle son (calmly and earnestly): “We could build another one.”

Youngest son (resolutely): He’s not interested in discussing the case; he’s already in hot pursuit of the perp, NYPD-like.

Pre-school boys spend most of the day chasing seagulls and other aquatic birds and otherwise running aimlessly in circles. They never seem to tire or come close to catching the birds. Parents probably don’t approve of this behavior, but will tolerate just about any kind of physical activity that will guarantee that these still-evolving, quasi-human dynamos fall asleep by 8:00 pm that evening.

Too-many-to-count elementary school boys are digging in the sand and building sand structures, in relative quiet. But when the time comes to knock everything down (either to begin anew or to move on to something else), Braveheart-worthy cries of conquest, death, and destruction can be heard from one end of the beach to the other.



Kids this age also spend a considerable amount of time imitating their older siblings. Two brothers, one after the other, rush by me pushing yellow dump trucks across the tightly packed sand. The size of the trucks is proportionate to the size of each child. I am guessing the older brother tried losing his tailing sibling earlier in the day, but by now has given up. He recognizes, reluctantly, that his younger brother is not only persistent, but also lightening fast.

Kids this age also get temporarily lost a lot. I see them wandering around the beach after a swim or some other activity in search of their parents and siblings, some on the verge of tears. I watch one Dad, who is supervising his younger son, doing his best impression of a Southwest Airlines flagman, elaborately signaling to his older, red-headed boy, about seventy-five yards down the beach, where to turn to find his mother. Each shrug of the shoulders and palms-up gesture by the lost boy, however, triggers an even more elaborate series of gestures from Dad.

After a time, however, flocks of seagulls and other lost boys from other families are paying so much attention to Dad that he is forced to abandon his rescue operation from afar. Of course, just when he convinces his younger son to leave behind all those undiscovered treasures among the rocks, the prodigal son falls into the arms of his mother.

Two middle school boys are goin’ fishin’. They each have a rod, one tackle box between them, and are both wearing camouflage baseball caps and long shorts. The shorts have more pockets than the sea has fish. As they walk by, I hear the taller boy tell his friend that he had a catch “this long” last week. At first, I think the smaller boy is looking up to his friend simply because he is taller. But then I realize, from the twinkle in his eye, that he is in awe.

Three teenage boys throw a football for about thirty minutes. When they return to their beach site, they ostensibly feed the seagulls. In reality, they are competing to see who can be the first to strike a bird with a gluten projectile. They are thoroughly enjoying themselves and completely engrossed in this contest. The triad of disdainful bathing beauties has not registered on the boys’ radar screen. The guys are also blissfully unaware that their present actions are providing further evidence for a failure to reject the immaturity hypothesis.

To be continued…

Your Cheating Heart

Since moving to the DC area in 1997, I have publicly professed to a monogamous relationship with one newspaper: the Washington Post.

Every morning I pick her up at the end of my driveway, in plain view of my neighbors. Five days a week she accompanies me in the car on the drive to the train station, where I resist the temptation of not one but two free commuter “express” dailies that two guys are always trying to push upon me. We sit together quietly on the train to and from work. Anyone seeking proof of our intimate relationship need look no further than my fingertips.

It hasn’t always been like this. When I was young, I ran around with several rags. Every day I would read the Philadelphia Bulletin, Daily News and Inquirer. Back then, everything I learned about the pleasure of reading I learned from these three. It was a difficult juggling act, however, and once I moved to North Carolina I decided to go cold turkey, taking up with only the Sunday NY Times, which was a satisfying relationship that usually lasted an entire week.

Although those days of messing around are over and I find myself largely fulfilled by my Post, I have to admit that similar to the former POTUS and Georgia peanut farmer, from time to time I do lust in my heart for another. When I travel by air, both domestically and internationally, I occasionally hook up with Miss USA Today. I feel so much better now that this long-guarded secret is out in the open.

She has the perfect format for cheaters such as I who are fearful of getting caught by the Circulation Manager from the Post—who, undoubtedly, flies in airplanes from time to time—and therefore are looking for a quick read. Most articles start and end on the same page. Most are heavy on description and light on analysis. Each page is crammed with multiple stories. There are even sidebar summaries of the highlights of each of the four sections—Newsline, Moneyline, Sportsline, and Lifeline—for those of us who are particularly worried about who might be looking over our shoulder.

She has other attractive features as well. The publishers liberally use color throughout. Page one always carries a creative graphic that summarizes survey results on a topic of interest under the heading “USA Today Snapshots.” For example, a recent edition shows adult parents’ reporting of “must-have” accessories when on a family driving vacation. A pie chart of the results—a GPS and a DVD player were the leading vote getters at 28% each—is displayed on the front headlight of a car.

Her colorful weather map is stunning with multiple-day forecasts for the largest US cities. During July and August, however, all that burnt orange is a bit garish—kind of like that nightmare I had once about being locked in the University of Texas bookstore for two months. I cannot resist spending a bit more time reading the Sports Section, which in the Spring even publishes rankings and scores of college and high school baseball from around the country!

Every day in Section A there is a half-page summary of news from every state, titled “Across the USA.” These are one-paragraph blurbs of often obscure news items that would normally be buried in the metro or regional section of a major metropolitan newspaper. During my occasional trysts over the years, I have only perused those states where I was a resident at one time in my life—Georgia, North Carolina, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts—or where I have spent considerable time—Delaware, District of Columbia, Maine, New Jersey, Texas, Vermont, Virginia. I don’t believe I have ever read anything about the states that I cannot locate on a map—places like Kansas, Iowa, Missouri, Montana, and Nebraska.

On my way back from Atlanta this week, however, early in the flight I finished a novel I was working on, and had nothing else to read but my USA Today. Feeling a bit wicked, I decided to read the entries from all 50 states, D.C, and the U.S. Virgin Islands. Now I understand why the paper has no comics. Some of this stuff is so rich that not even Dave Barry could make it up! A sampling from a few states from the Wednesday, July 14th edition, with my opening editorial comments, follows. I swear they are all true.

Obviously, bananas played a central role in this drama.

Ohio: Medina – A truck crash left animal carcasses all over a county road and the driver’s pet monkey stranded atop a utility pole. The State Highway Patrol said the frightened monkey scampered up the pole after the truck, hauling carcasses for a meat-processing plant, flipped over while going into a curve Monday. The driver was unhurt, but the monkey had to be coaxed down.

I guess I won’t be using my brand new pair of paddle flippers this year.

Massachusetts: Orleans – A 15-foot great white shark has been spotted just south of Nauset Beach on Cape Cod. Chatham Harbor Master Stuart Smith said a spotter plane saw the shark Sunday chasing seals into breaking surf. A spokeswoman for the Office of Energy and Environmental Affairs said there is no need to avoid the beach but people should avoid swimming near seals.

Did anyone check the trunk for marshmallows?

Maine: Belfast – A man is facing charges he set a 1982 Mercedes-Benz on fire two weeks ago, then posted photos of the burning vehicle on Facebook. Police said Asgard Gilbert, 36, told officers he saw the car with a “small campfire” in the back seat. Gilbert was arrested Monday on a felony arson charge after police scrutinized surveillance tape from a local store.

What happens in Jefferson City stays in Jefferson City.

Missouri: Jefferson City – State residents soon could have more chances to play bingo. Gov. Nixon, a Democrat, signed a law letting bingo parlors open earlier, close later and offer games twice a week instead of just once. The law also increases the amount of money bingo operators can spend on advertising.

Not yet he isn’t.

D.C.: An investigation into the theft of a Metrobus is still ongoing, but officials said they are already taking steps to enhance security at Metro facilities. William Jackson, 19, was charged with un-authorized use of a vehicle and fleeing an accident after he entered a bus facility Friday in a driver’s uniform, drove off, picked up passengers, then crashed the bus. Jackson is not a Metro employee.

Sounds like a roller derby team to me. I would have gone with “Chips.”

North Dakota: Jamestown – What officials here bill as the world’s largest buffalo statue now has a name. The Buffalo City Tourism Foundation on Tuesday said that Dakota Thunder was the winner of a naming contest of the 26-foot tall, 60-ton bison statue that has stood near Interstate 94 for a half-century. Runners up: Dakota Spirit, Benny, Sir James and Beauford. An official naming ceremony is set for July 24.

Only in Utah

Utah: Salt Lake City – A man claiming to run a religious order is soliciting “ministers” to sign over their assets to his church and take a vow of poverty to avoid paying income taxes, the U.S. Justice Department said. Federal lawyers are seeking a court injunction against the Orem-based operation headed by Kevin Hartshorn, who said he’s unaware of the government’s complaint.

Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

When the high and mighty powers fall, their descent is often hard and fast. There’s no need to look any further for our latest examples than this year’s World Cup in South Africa. In the 2006 tournament, the Italian and French teams played one another in the final. The match ended in a draw, or, as the Brits prefer to say, “level,” with the Italians eventually winning the penalty shoot-out, 5-3.

According to Wikipedia, 715.1 million fans around the world watched that game, which is a mere 27 shy of the number of shoppers I tangle with at my neighborhood Home Depot on any given Saturday morning. This year, however, neither team made it past the first round. To make matters worse, the French exited the tournament with their collective tails between their legs.

First, a player was dismissed from the team for insubordination and refusal to apologize to the coach following a shouting match. The next day, the remaining players went on strike, refusing to practice two days before their next win-or-go-home match. Of course, anyone who has traveled to or through Paris, usually during peak tourist season, should not have been at all surprised. “Striking” is to the French—be it airline pilots, baggage handlers, grounds crew, rail operators, bus drivers, or taxi drivers—what baseball is to Americans: a national past-time.

When asked his opinion about the players’ decision not to practice, the French coach, drawing upon the rich French heritage of diplomacy, was quoted as saying, “An imbecility, a stupidity without name.” In French, it sounds much worse!

Then, just prior to the match against South Africa, the French Minister of Health and Sports, not to be upstaged by the coach, gave one of the most memorable pep talks in the history of athletic competition. Expecting a rousing version of “Come on, guys, let’s win one for the Sarkozy, or at least for Carla Bruni,” the players must have been mortified when they heard her tell them: “You have tarnished the image of France.” They went on to lose to the South Africa side, 2-1, which eliminated "Les Bleus" from the competition. To top it off, the French coach refused to shake hands with his South African counterpart. Mon Dieu!

Hoping to limit the blow to his country’s national honor, President Sarkozy took immediate and firm action. He called an urgent meeting with the Prime Minister and the Minister of Health, Sport and Inspiration to consider options. He consulted with Thierry Henry—the former captain of the French team and guy who no one in America recognized in those Gillette shaver ads a couple of years ago with Tiger Woods and Roger Federer. What was the marketing division thinking? Finally, he ordered instructional videos on motivational speaking for all his cabinet members.

It didn’t used to be like this. I happened to be in Paris in 2006 on business, when the French were at the top of their game and on top of the world. The highlight of that tournament came well before the final match: in the quarterfinals, the French beat Brazil 1-0. I watched the game on television in my hotel room and ran down to the Champs-Elysees immediately after to witness the massive and exuberant celebration that followed, a merrymaking second only to the outpouring in Philadelphia in 2009 following the Phillies World Series triumph. Interestingly, both celebrations had one thing in common: lots of cops trying to keep people from lighting themselves, their fellow humans, and random four-wheeled vehicles on fire!

Of course, there’s far more to do in Paris at this time of the year than watch soccer matches. The Eiffel Tower was way bigger than I expected. The Mona Lisa was way smaller than I expected. The Parisians were way nicer than I expected. Going for a walk in Paris, particularly on the Champs-Elysees, is a serious pre-meditated affair, requiring exquisite preparation. I felt as though I had been dropped into the middle of one continuous, outdoor fashion show, where people are most definitely walking to be seen.

There are far too many attractive women squeezed into one city—like a concentrated epidemic of beauty—far too much kissing in public, and an over-abundance of delicious wines and cheeses—the French may be on to something here. The motorists drive and park curiously, far more peculiarly than their counterparts in New Jersey. I didn’t think it could be possible, but I’m afraid it is true.

I still don’t understand why any woman would pay $500 for a Louis Vuitton handbag or $300 for a microscopic-sized purse that won’t even hold a pair of magnifying glasses. I may understand, however, why any woman would feel obliged to buy a new pair of shoes, even if she didn’t need them. (Come to think of it, when did “need” become a criterion?) There is a well-appointed shoe store about every ten steps, or so it seems, each with a dazzling array of fashionable styles and colors featured in the window. The pressure is enormous!

Paris is also home to the best-dressed and best-groomed salespeople in the universe. It’s far more entertaining to look at them than at the over-priced merchandise. I’m guessing that the salespeople in the stores on the Champs-Elysees outnumber the shoppers 2 to 1—and there are a lot of shoppers!

As for the World Cup, I hope former President Clinton is successful in his advocacy to bring the tournament back to the States in 2018 or 2022. I do have one piece of advice, however, for the US World Cup organizing committee. Please don’t schedule any games in Florida in June. My son, who was ten years old at the time, and I drove from Atlanta to Orlando to see Belgium play Morocco in the Citrus Bowl on June 19th, 1994, when the U.S. hosted the tournament.


The air temperature was about 98, it was about 110 on the “pitch,” as the Brits would say, and 120 in our section of aluminum bleachers! The North Africans ran the Belgians crazy all day but could not overcome an early goal and lost 1-0. Partly out of sympathy for the Belgians, and partly to stave off my and my son’s own dehydration, I spent about $200 on drinks alone that day! Once again, I should have listened to my wife and followed her lead: she and our younger son spent the day at Sea World.

Mightier Than The Sword

If I hadn’t had first-hand experience using this implement from time to time during the last twenty years, I might not have believed what I read in an article in the April 21 edition of the Washington Post. I can unequivocally confirm, however, the essential facts of that story.

It really does write upside down.

I’ve written with it while lying on my back in bed, under a mosquito net, by the flickering light of a Chinese candle, after the oil lamp ran dry in many an African town that are still waiting for electricity’s arrival.

It really is dependable.

I’ve used it in the Central African rainforest, under a blazing East African sun, and even in the middle of a Saharan dust storm that blew through a West African village in which I was working.

It really is versatile.

Even though it costs less than 60 cents to manufacture, I never hesitated tucking one into the breast pocket of my dress shirt in combination with a Jerry Garcia or Vineyard Vines tie. Not once was I ever ticketed by the GQ fashion police.

Nevertheless, there was quite a bit of information about this unassuming five-inch government-issue item in the article that surprised and amazed me. Apparently, it can stand toe to toe with the specifications (16 pages!) of the best federal government procurements.

“The ink cartridge shall be capable of producing, under 125 grams of pressure, a line not less than 5,000 feet long.”

Wow! That’s about 16 football fields!

“Blobs shall not average more than 15 per 1,000 feet of writing, with a maximum of 25for any 1,000 foot increment.”

Where do they teach this kind of technical writing? I would love to meet the official “blob” testing team. “Good afternoon, Mr. Naimoli, I’m the Main Blobster, and these are my assistants, Mr. Blobble Head and Just Call Me Blob. By the way, we happen to be blobbers who blog. We’re blobber-bloggers.”

“Writing shall not be completely removed after two applications of chemical bleach.”

Say what? This product should carry a consumer warning, like the kind on cigarette packs: “Caution! Wear with expensive dress shirts and ties at your own risk!”

“It must be able to write continuously for a mile and in temperatures up to 160 degrees and down to 40 degrees below zero.”

I guess they had to come up with some exotic travel perks and sturdy walking shoes for the poor entry-level staff responsible for ensuring compliance with this spec.

What is this tungsten carbide-cobalt Superhero?

Move over, Ironman!

It’s a ballpoint pen, with the white-lettered words “Skilcraft U.S. Government” stamped on the plastic barrel.

According to the article, blind workers in Wisconsin and North Carolina assemble them as part of a 72-year old legislative mandate. Although production has declined precipitously during the last two decades, many federal agencies, particularly the military, are still procuring them.

Frankly, I had no idea so many people were still placing pen in hand and putting both to paper. By the look of some of the chicken scratch I’ve witnessed over the years—primarily among physicians—I’m surprised there isn’t better regulation of this activity.

I would enthusiastically endorse a public writing test, for example—kind of like a driver’s test. To obtain a writing license, the applicant would have to compose three legible sentences on a 3x5 index card that any random state trooper with cool shades or a Catholic nun could read in the dark, with only the aid of a flashlight and votive candle, respectively.

On second thought, it’s probably better that most humans have either abandoned the pen by now or by-passed it entirely in favor of the keyboard, the keypad, or both.

Curiously, as I was writing the draft of this posting—with a ballpoint pen that was not a Skilcraft, on a yellow legal pad, en route to Texas from Maryland via Southwest Airlines—the passenger next to me leaned over at one point and said, “I haven’t seen anyone write longhand in a long time.”

“In fact,” he continued, “I don’t think I or my kids could do it anymore,” as he tapped away on his laptop keyboard.

A quick glance around the cabin revealed he was in excellent company: the only people using pens were the stewards, who were taking beverage orders, and I.

“Well,” I said, “I am writing a little nonsense piece about writing and thought it only appropriate that I pen the first draft,” as I gradually released my grip on my rubber comfort, Pentel Hyper G07 (which, by the sound of it, should probably come with protective goggles, an insurance policy, and a permit to operate).

He smiled and nodded approvingly, and then added: “You know, Stephen King wrote a draft of one of his novels with a #2 lead pencil.” “I can’t remember which one,” he continued, “but you should ‘google’ it.”

‘Google’ it I did. It appears that King prefers to write many of his drafts in longhand, on a steno pad, with a #2, just as my traveling companion indicated.

Of course, forty years ago, I wasn’t allowed to use any kind of ballpoint pen, permit or no permit.

In St. Kevin’s parochial school in the 1960’s, the good Sisters of St. Joseph limited our writing options to the #2 pencil, a la Mr. King (whose novels, by the way, are only a tad bit scarier than life at St K’s back then); a fountain pen; or bloody knuckles (a great name for a heavy metal band, I might add!).

Think about Meryl Streep’s character in the movie “Doubt” and you get a fairly accurate picture of daily life, or should I say strife, as I experienced it in the
60’s.

Handwriting, or “penmanship,” as the nuns preferred to call it, was a very serious business at St. K’s. The wooden-ruler-packing Sisters, in those menacing long black habits, which hid hundreds of interior pouches perfect for squirreling away contraband confiscated from Catholic adolescents during what must have seemed to the nuns like interminable days in the asylum, saw to it that we mastered this fine-motor skill.

We were graded on penmanship. We actually had a handwriting class that met several times a week, during which we learned to write longhand according to the “Palmer Method” handbook.

Everything we needed to know about writing was contained in that thin handbook, which the school loaned to us. To protect the school’s property, we were obliged to cover this and every textbook. Most of my classmates’ parents bought plastic covers, available in different colors, each with pre-fab sleeves into which the front and back covers would slide effortlessly. It took all of 30 seconds to complete the job with these covers.

In contrast, my father insisted on covering Palmer’s primer and all my books with brown paper, which he cut from A+P grocery bags. He had a special knack for pulling the paper taught around the binding and back and front covers, without a single wrinkle, with the exception of the natural creases in the bags. He wrote the title of each book on the cover with a black magic marker.

It was time-consuming and an old-school routine, but all my books were original works of art! He was way ahead of his time with respect to saving the Earth.

As I remember it, good penmanship, according to Palmer, began and ended with good mechanics, chief among them resting the wrist flat on the paper, knuckles turned up. I always wondered whether the nuns had signed a pact with Palmer: “You position those knuckles; we’ll take care of the rest!”



We were taught to resist the temptation (oh there were so many we were taught to resist back then, it was difficult keeping straight what did and did not buy us a ticket on the express train to hell) to roll the wrist on its side. When you finish reading this, pick up a pen, if you can find one and remember how to use it, and observe how naturally the wrist rolls over.

The Palmer handbook provided a series of wrist-down exercises to foster proper technique and discipline. Of course, handwriting wasn’t the only discipline-inducing activity at the K, but that’s another story for another time.



I still remember all those repetitive “push and pull” strokes and “oval-making” exercises we used to practice with the wrist flat on the paper and the pen nestled between the thumb and fore-finger. Not an easy task!


The last time I remember practicing those exercises was in 1984, in an OBGYN’s office, in Durham, North Carolina. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t the kind of place the nuns envisioned us applying our skills when they first introduced us to Palmer.

I accompanied my wife to one of her first appointments with her doctor early in her first pregnancy. We were sitting in the examining room—well, I was sitting; she was reclining, resplendent in her white Gucci examination gown, on the paper-covered stainless steel table,staring at the ceiling above. Too bad I didn’t have a Skilcraft with me; she could have written, upside-down, her thoughts at that very moment!

In any case, I don’t remember why the OBGYN and I started talking about handwriting once he came into the room, but it turned out that he, too, had learned the Palmer method when he was young.

To prove it, he took out his pen and started doing “push and pulls” on the examining paper upon which his patient was reclining. Next to his push and pulls I demonstrated some of my best ovals. In turn, he repeated my ovals, and I his push and pulls. Once we got started, we couldn’t stop.

I’m sure we punctured quite a few holes in that thin paper, with all those repetitive motions with our dueling ballpoints. Once we finished, we stood there for a time admiring our work.

By this point, you can imagine how agitated the patient had become, her initial bemusement with our adolescent manipulations now nothing more than a distant memory. I suspect she would have kicked us both, if she could have.

Needless to say, that was the last time I set foot in an OBGYN office with my wife. To her credit, she did allow me to chew some gum—an infraction that trumped poor handwriting at St. K’s, and usually resulted in an after-school supervised session of blackboard eraser clapping—while I watched her give birth to the first of our two sons, neither of which, I might add, have any chance whatsoever of obtaining a handwriting license.

In the birthing room that night in February twenty-six years ago, as I chewed away without fear, it was my wife, the OBGYN and his assistant who impressed everyone with their own version of pushing and pulling.

Although I enjoy cursive writing—I am fairly certain the nuns never called it that—I don’t have much occasion to use it. Almost all my correspondence is via email or text messaging these days.

I type the annual holiday letter, but do address, by hand, all the envelopes. It is an end-of-year tradition to which I always look forward.

My daughter-in-law asked me to write her “Save the Date” wedding announcements and envelopes two years ago, a task I accepted with great honor and pleasure. Of course, some people thought it was my wife’s handiwork, but that didn’t bother me.

I also must confess—another exercise we practiced diligently at St. K’s—that I don’t adhere to all the Palmer method techniques when I write in longhand today. My penance: “Thank the nuns for your better-than-average penmanship!”

Thank you, Sisters of St. Joseph.

Soon I will have access again to those extraordinary Skilcraft ballpoints, thanks to a modest job transition. But I don’t want the Sisters or Stephen King to find out.

I might end up being forced to watch “The Shining” in a dark, musty cave reeking of sulpher and chalk dust with nothing more than a #2 to chew on.