PETA priorities, who sets ‘em?

Is PETA an organization created by the meat industry, or at the least highly infiltrated by it? Is there a saboteur high in the PETA ranks that makes certain to mix in over-the-top ideology with the more or less sensible press releases? (Yes they have sensible releases, but they are clearly over-shadowed by the nonsense). Think about it. In the week one of the PETA offices is going to release a statement about local chickens waiting out their pitiful “lives” in the dark with less than an inch of space around them, the PETA home office releases a statement condemning the President for killing a fly on national television.

The latest press release to get media attention dealt with a PETA objection over the use of Punxsutawney Phil to predict weather. This is the same organization that protests the needless torture of animals in a stockyard. For me, this is the problem. Organizations that start out with one objective that could seem sensible to many people and would end up being realized, are steered off course headed in too many directions. It’s as though they’re trying to find reasons to be exclusive, or ridiculed.

In the past, most charities relied on growing in scope to support a heavy infrastructure through more and more donations; it’s like the restaurant that keeps adding crap to it’s menu rather than concentrate on what it does best. But with what we saw with respect to Haiti, I think this might change. Through small donations via Paypal or cell phones, people will be able to make a difference by directly supporting specific causes they believe in, rather than large organizations that merely reflect a percentage of what they believe.

That brings me back to the discussion of PETA and animal rights. While I am totally in favor of humane treatment of farm animals (something like the shepherd guys mentioned in the Bible), I don’t believe that raising animals, or hunting them, for meat is inherently bad. Nor do I think that the screwy opinions PETA occasionally expresses lets me off the hook when it comes to giving a damn about how living creatures are treated. I support the SPCA where I can, because they more closely reflect my beliefs and because they focus on things that can be done right now-in the real world.

Now, here’s my favorite recipe for oven cooked baby back ribs:


What you’ll need:

  • Heavy Duty Aluminum Foil
  • Shallow Pan
  • Broiler Pan
  • 1 Rack of Quality Baby Back Ribs

(Dry Rub Mix)

  • 3T
  • 2T Brown Sugar
  • 1T Chili Powder
  • 2t Garlic Powder
  • 1t Cayenne
  • ½t Allspice

(1st Liquids)

  • ½c Basic OJ
  • ½c Lime Juice
  • ¼c Honey

(2nd Liquids)

  • ¼c Catsup
  • ¼c Kahlua
  • 1T Worcestershire
  • 1t Tabasco


Advance Prep:

(The night before is good)

  • Rinse the ribs and pat dry.
  • Cut a sheet of the HD aluminum foil that is ten inches longer than the rib rack.
  • Center the ribs, meaty side up, on the foil.
  • Cover the meat with the dry rub, lightly pat it down.
  • Flip the ribs over to put the meat side down.
  • Bring the two long edges of the foil over the meat and fold them together to form a seal.
  • (The only openings are now on either end of this “packet.”
  • Fold the narrow ends up, leaving them closed but not sealed.
  • Place the packet in a shallow pan and refrigerate overnight (or at least 5 hours).


Ready to Cook?

  • Take the pan and rib packet out of the refrigerator to let the chill go away.
  • Preheat the oven to 350 F.
  • Mix the OJ, lime juice and honey.
  • Open one end of the packet and pour the mixture in.
  • Close the end back up and tilt the pan a few times to distribute the liquid.
  • When the oven has reached 350, slide the whole thing onto a rack near the center of the oven.
  • Let it cook at 350 for an hour, then reduce the temperature to 250 and let it cook for 2 more hours.


Last Step:

  • Remove the pan, open one end of the packet and pour the liquid from it into a small saucepan.
  • Add the rest of the liquids (catsup, Worcestershire, Kahlua, and Tabasco to the saucepan.
  • Bring to a boil while constantly whisking until it is reduced to a nice, thick, shiny sauce.
  • Remove the sauce from the heat.
  • Position a rack one down from the top of the broiling element and turn the broiler to high.
  • Remove the ribs from the packet (careful, they’ll be ready to fall apart) and cut them into 3 or 4 equal-sized sections.
  • Brush on the glaze (meat side up) and broil for 2 minutes.
  • Reglaze and repeat broiling for 2 minutes. Do this at least 4 times, but more can be better.
  • Finally, give a glaze to the bony side and broil that for just 1 minute.
  • Remove from the broiler.
  • By now the kitchen will have people hovering around. Hold ‘em back at knifepoint to allow the flavor to settle and the ribs to cool just 2 or three minutes.

Eat, maybe with some beans or potato salad.

 

I’m a Supermarket Club Member

Coins dropping into a piggy bank with a question mark next to them.

While I’m in a ranting mood, I want to say something about the current marketing strategies of supermarkets, in particular their “sale” pricing programs. It’s obvious to anybody but the most blithering idiot that the sale price is the price the product ought be sold at and the regular price is there to make the sale price look like a bargain.

Nobody can convince me that the can of tomato sauce that’s being sold this week for $2.09 can be sold next week for 99 cents. $2.09 for a can of tomato sauce? Give me a flippin’ break. But I’m forced to play the game and only buy my tomato sauce every other week.

The idea is to make us think that we’re saving all kinds of money by stocking up when the price is low. We’re part of a club. We get a card, which, if you don’t have with you they’ll even let you use the phone number you have on their file to get your rightful savings as a member. Then, the cashier will hand you your receipt and say something like, “You saved fifteen dollars and forty cents today, Mr. Dunca.”

Saved? Not really. I just wasn’t overcharged fifteen dollars and forty cents today. Hopefully I won’t need toothpaste on regular price week. Otherwise, stand back when you talk to me.

 

QUIET Please!

A horn crossed out to indicate no noise allowed.

I live on a busy street. Fair enough, it was busy when I moved here. But I still wonder why so many drivers use their horns for so many things that they encounter every day. Why honk your horn because you have to pause while someone backs into a parking space—don’t these people ever park themselves? Maybe not, maybe they stay in their cars, driving around all day looking for things needing to be honked.

Or, there’s the idiot who honks because someone is stopped at a green light, but doesn’t think that maybe there’s someone still in the crosswalk. In fact, a woman was just killed at an intersection on our block by a driver who blindly changed lanes to pass a stopped car from the right and ran over the woman just finishing her way across the crosswalk. The report said he was sorry, he couldn’t see why the other car had stopped.

The worst of them all have to be drivers who honk when traffic is backed up. They’ll do in front of houses, hospitals, it doesn’t matter to them—they’ve got a horn and nothing to do until cars start moving, so they honk. What magical powers do these buffoons think that their horn has been attributed with? Perhaps, like Moses, they wish to part the path so they may pass—unfortunately God doesn’t seem to rank their travels as being quite as important to his plan.

Horns are useful to warn someone about to change lanes, or back out of a parking spot without seeing your car. Horns after a particular team wins the Super Bowl, or at midnight on January 1? I’ll go out on a limb and say that’s acceptable too. Even once—but only once—to let someone inside a house know that the car is waiting outside and the driver is too out of shape to get out and ring the doorbell. But honking just because you’re annoyed is in no way acceptable human behavior.

Maybe you’re one of these horn blowhards, but otherwise a nice person. If so, I beg you to think about how annoying random horn blasts are for someone watching TV, nursing a cold, riding a bike, walking a baby, or just looking for peace and quiet.

Of course, if you’re one of the guilty but don’t see any reason that you should change your behavior to suit others, you probably haven’t thought through the mathematical probability that one day you’re likely to honk your horn at a person nursing a hangover he got from getting drunk the night before because he just lost his job, and is on the way to hock the gun sitting next to him in the passenger’s seat. I’m not saying it’s likely you’ll end up in the morgue; I’m saying, it’s a mathematical possibility if you needlessly honk your horn enough times.

Enough. I’ve got to get to the pawnshop.

 

Sage’s Had Everything

The S and H Green Stamps Logo

It was the first store I remember going to in San Bernardino, and it seems that we lived around it for a good chunk of the time until it closed. I think the store on Baseline was the main one, but I’ll always consider the Del Rosa store as the real Sage’s.

Until we found a house to buy, we lived in an apartment complex just a block away from Del Rosa and Highland, the corner where the Sage’s complex was. I vividly remember the first time I went through the front door of Sage’s with my parents. There were some candy/gumball machines and one or two mechanical rides by the front door. There was also the smell of comfort food that hit you, because just inside, to the right, was a coffee shop—the Copper Cupboard. I seem to remember the food tasting good, but I won’t trust my judgment back then because I also thought McDonald’s tasted good.

We found a house, what seems to me fairly quickly, and it was just across the street from Sage’s, on 21st Street. Our new neighbor’s, both husband and wife, worked for Sage’s—which I remember thinking was really cool. It was here, when I was allowed to go to Sage’s on my own, that I developed an almost daily habit. Sage’s had a toy and comic book store, separate from the main building—a precursor to the Toys-R-Us concept, but smaller. Still, I’d never seen so much space dedicated just to toys, and being that it was just across the street, I was a frequent visitor. I was a huge Lost in Space fan and that Christmas found the ultimate gift at Sage’s to beg for, it was a replica of the robot. (I’ve since learned what that exact toy robot now sells for and it’s depressing that mine probably ended up in some landfill.)

We moved to Tippecanoe, putting Sage’s out of my independent daily routine. But we still did our shopping there; it feels like we bought almost everything at Sage’s. Behind the Copper Cupboard they sold household goods, across the aisle on the left was the grocery store, at the hardware and garden shop was at the back. We bought our first swamp cooler there: a darn good investment for the San Bernardino sun.

Eventually we moved back to Del Rosa, this time to a house on East Eighteenth Street. Once or twice a year a small section of a carnival would set up in the back parking lot at Sage’s. A few rides, games and even a couple of freak show style exhibits; giant rats, or a doll in a jar made to look nothing like conjoined twins. I’ve always liked carnivals, but there’s something special about one being built in your backyard.

It was somewhere around there that Sage’s went bankrupt. The reasons rumored included internal theft and embezzlement, over-expansion, or even labor costs. Too bad, it had a business model similar to another little chain at the time, called Wal-Mart. On the other hand, I doubt that I’d ever be nostalgic about Sage’s if it had become Wal-Mart.

I suppose everyone has strange places that they’re nostalgic for, and kids nowadays will have their own (although for the life of me I can’t imagine what those will be). For me, it’s the places doing business in San Bernardino at a time when the country was in major transition: Sage’s, Wheelin’ ‘n’ Dealin’, Two Guys, and White Front, are some names I remember. But it’s Sage’s that I remember best.

 

The Ramones Played 2.3 Songs—Not 1

Sign with an airplane headed for the Swing Auditorium

The people who say the Ramones played only one song that night either weren’t there, or weren’t Ramones fans at the time. Whoever it was that decided to have the Ramones open for Black Sabbath must not have thought it through, and that became pretty obvious. As far as I know, the only time that the Rolling Stones were booed off of a stage was at the San Bernardino Swing Auditorium in the sixties, so what chance did a band playing that new “punk” music stand?

The crowd was what you’d expect in 1978 at a Sabbath concert. Except for a few punky kids in the front—so new was punk to California that most of them were dressed like Brit punks instead of the more appropriate New York state of mind—the audience was a mass of long hair, long coats, steel-tipped boots and metal attitude that was still suffering growing pains but hadn’t reached the ridiculous glam rock stage.

They sold beer at the Swing—in bottles. I’m not sure, but this may have been the last time. Black Sabbath fans would drink beer if Jack Daniels wasn’t around, or if they’d finished what they’d snuck in with them, so there were plenty of bottles in the crowd when the Ramones came on stage.

I was there for both sets. I liked Sabbath, and I’d a Ramones fan since I discovered their first release on the advice the cute punk girl working at Licorice Pizza in Riverside. (That was pre-Musicland, pre_Sam Goody; the real Licorice Pizza.) But even I didn’t have much hope for the Ramones debut to a San Bernardino crowd. The poor little punks in the front didn’t seem to realize—well, maybe they were in from LA or Orange County.

At this point it’s worth noting that the tough-punk didn’t really exist yet; it was mostly clothes but you wouldn’t be afraid of getting in a fight with a Ramones fan. It was just a little trendy. And where the Black Sabbath fans all seemed over six feet tall and at least 200 pounds, the punks were kinda small—kinda really small.

Well that was it. The Ramones hit the stage playing, in the way the way everyone is used to Green Day doing it now, but nobody started with that much energy back then. Before the Ramones were twenty seconds into the first song the booing started, the green-haired kids in the front didn’t catch on—neither did Joey Ramone.

Other than noise, there wasn’t anything being hurled to the stage to start—maybe someone spit or something because they’d heard that’s what punks do—but by the middle of the second song (probably three minutes into the whole show, if you know the Ramones) the bottles started. Lucky for them the crowd was well stoned and had terrible aim, but by minute five—ten seconds into the third song—a bottle hit Johnny.

Joey, bless his heart, actually tried to talk to this mad crowd of cranked up alcoholics, and reason with them. But for Johnny it was enough; he pulled the plug from his guitar and walked—followed closely by the rest.

When I looked down to the front, where I expected the punks to be, it was packed with black. Whether the Sabbath fans had just stepped on top of the Ramones fans—who were now under boot—or the punks caught on seconds before Joey did and made their escape before the crowd noticed them, I’ll never know. I do know that the Ramones went on to better things and became quite famous in America. It’s even likely that some of the bottle-throwers in the audience now brag about having gone to an early Ramones concert.

I also know that the Ramones were on stage for well over five minutes because I’d smoked a whole cigarette. This clearly means that they had to have played more than one song. Five minutes was certainly enough for the Ramones to finish two and start a third; which is what happened. If you check this out on Wikipedia it’ll say 1 song, but I’m telling you it was 2.3 songs.

The Swing? Well, it stayed open for a number of years after that, but eventually someone flew a plane into it and closed it down forever. I guess that’s how it goes.

 

The Civil Contract

A wrench being thrown into a set of gears.Pretty much from the start we are all trained how to behave in society. We learn that we can’t take things that belong to others, among other “moral” concepts. Obviously, the people who fare best ignore that principle when it’s of benefit to them.

Why don’t homeless people break windows and take what they want or need? Most of us would kill an animal if we were hungry or cold, why not a person who has far too much? Again, there are many who do very well by effectively killing those with far too little—but they’re not the question—they’ve found their way.

A few French dared to protest German occupation by breaking the windows of collaborators and throwing a metaphorical wrench into the Nazi machine when they could do so without being caught. America’s own patriots used similar methods to get done what they determined needed to get done.

It would seem hard for any government to ignore 30, 20, or even 10 percent of its citizens if they were so dissatisfied that they started smashing things when no one was looking. Particularly since a resolution would be of interest to business. But that’s not how we do things in a civilized society—we grin and bare it.

 

Government and Religion Can’t Be Mixed

Red shield with white cross

There always seems to be some drive to argue that America is or isn’t a nation of religious faith: it isn’t. America is a nation of choice when it comes to God, and there’s good reason to be happy about that.

Many nations have an official religion, which means they have no religion at all, because their citizens aren’t operating out of faith but out of force. If people are coerced into worship, either by a government, a social group, or a parent, then there is no act of faith. If, say, the fundamental basis of Christianity is that a person must come on their own to Christ, it is impossible to ever do this when one is partially there because of outside pressure.

So the next time someone suggests that America is truly a Christian nation because the majority of people who believe in God also claim to accept portions of Christ’s teaching, inform them that we are a Christian nation only because so many people here do not really live within any religion at all. If everyone was a “real” Christian it would be instinct, or a mandate, but it wouldn’t be faith.

 

Layt nyhte taulkshoh whores

People dying under the beams of a television tower.

Risk of Deadly Transmissions

I’m decidedly uncommited about who should be hosting which late-night time slot. Perhaps I just miss Johnny, perhaps I like to do other things once my wife’s in bed and I’ve gotten half of the house to myself, or perhaps I just don’t find anything appealing about any of these jokers (term used for insult and not praise of their professional skills).

I like Jimmy Kimmel. I laugh out loud at some of Craig Ferguson’s stuff from time to time. But the big names mentioned mostly in the press are seldom funny and always horrible in interviewing styles.

All of them had their day of course. Letterman had his morning show, and the first year on late night NBC. Leno had solid stand-up routines that he’d polished over a number of years playing the casinos. Conan had the year 2000. But now they’re all as relevant as SNL.

The strangest part is that this reveals just how clueless big bosses are. Someone high up at NBC actually decided, “What the heck, let’s experiment with moving things around—see what happens.” I mean, someone who is paid a ridiculously large amount of money didn’t have a hint on how to test whether or not putting Jay Leno and Conan O’Brian back to back doing the same thing they’ve been doing for over fifteen years would be interesting to an audience. Nothing new—just the same show, only earlier and with a new set.

Hmm. Weakens the impact of banker bonuses doesn’t it?

 

Healthcare Debate

Hospital Sign: White H on Blue BackgroundThere is no serious debate when it comes to healthcare; America is doomed to failure. The problem is that we are a large nation with many people too stupid to understand the benefits of universal coverage, so national coverage will be impossible to get off the ground in any meaningful way.

What we need is a multi-level system: federal, state and local, with the local being the most reflective of what the people in that community want. For example, let’s assume San Francisco wants a full-coverage plan, California wants an assistance plan, and the federal government wants a sort of voucher plan. As a resident of SF I pay a higher tax but get full coverage, the city claims what it can from the state and fed on my behalf to reduce the tax.

A debate involves thoughtfully researched arguements presented to propose the correctness of either one side of the arguement or the other. There are just some issues which can’t be seriously debated because the only people participating in the “debate” are the ones who already have their opinions/values set. I don’t care how well-defined your pro-choice arguements are, you will not change the mind of a person arguing against abortion. Of course the reverse is true as well.

California will never agree 100% with any other state on the best healthcare plan. But it’s not just California—New Jersey and Pennsylvania won’t even agree, and they’re basically the same people. So why try to force a watered-down medocre plan on everyone? We need to create a sensible framework that allows every government down the chain to customize it for their own citizens. That way, if you don’t like the San Francisco plan you just move to Concord where the plan suits you better.

 

Refusing Submission to Cooked Broccoli

Large person patting smaller person/child on the head.

Yield to Domination

They cooked the broccoli. She only liked raw broccoli; they knew this, but they cooked the broccoli anyway. They were the only things—except a small streak of catsup—remaining on the plate: two dark-green, wilty, pieces of broccoli. Megan pushed her plate to the center of the table.

Dad pushed it back. Mom had given up long ago; she was in the living room reading. It was a two-person battle now.

“Uh uh.” She said. This time, pushing the plate all the way to the other side.

“Guess again,” Dad said. He pushed the plate back.

Megan saw that the broccoli was bigger; it was growing on her plate! She pushed it away; it came back—bigger still. This happened with each volley, until the two pieces of broccoli were practically falling off the edge of the dish.

“It’s too much,” Megan argued.

“It’s two bites,” Dad lied.

“But I’m full.”

His face turned red. “You ate everything else.”

“Well, everything else tasted good.” She scowled, and pushed the dish back.

It returned as a mountain. There was no way she could eat it all now.

She was trapped inside a forest of broccoli. Running among the huge stalks, she searched desperately for a way to escape. But there was only one way. She needed to stop it from growing and smothering her in green.

She grabbed a piece, so big she could hardly hold it in her hand, and started to scarf. She felt like she was going to throw up, but she finished it.

Her throat was dry and rough. She rinsed it with the last of her chocolate milk, and then begged Dad for more.

“After,” he said, gripping the carton tightly in his hand.

She’d fallen into a pit of choking, dry dust, and her father was shoveling more dirt over her. Megan held her hands to her throat, pleading for just a few ounces to be added to her empty glass.

“After,” he repeated.

She quickly forced the remaining tree into her mouth, breaking it down with rapid bites. It felt like eating a dirty sock, and probably tasted worse, but she finished chewing the last of it. Then, holding the empty glass high, she waited for him to keep his end of the bargain.

But instead of filling it, Dad begrudgingly poured the brown liquid barely a third of the way up.
She drank the soothing chocolate cream.

Both warriors, exhausted, collapsed on the floor.

Dad felt proud. He’d retained the helm of control.

Today it was his victory; she admitted her defeat. But they were both getting older; Megan knew that this worked to her advantage. Eventually, she would take control; broccoli would never be cooked again.