[A repeat from March 9, 2014] Two guys are in an airplane flying at 35,000 feet. Suddenly there’s a loud “BANG.” The pilot comes on the intercom “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just lost one of our four engines. We have three other engines and it is no problem to fly.  But we’ll be about one hour late getting to our destination.”

A little while later – another loud “BANG.” Captain comes on “Folks, we have lost a second of our four engines. But this plane can fly on two. But we’re going to be about two hours late getting to our destination.“

A few minutes later, there is another huge “BANG.” The captain comes on the intercom and says “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve never had this happen but we’ve lost a third of our four engines. This plane is designed to fly on one engine so we’re fine.  But we’re going to be about three hours late getting to our destination.”

So the one guy turns to the other and says “Man – if we lose that fourth engine, we’re going to be up here all day!”

[A Holiday repeat from July 2, 2017]
On this Independence Day eve, here’s a distillation of a few prior posts on this holiday week.  

Fireworks? Firecrackers? Cherry bombs? Should they be legal? In Wisconsin, fireworks stores seem to outnumber cows.  Weekend festivities are often punctuated by the staccato of firecrackers or the magnificent boom of larger devices.

In 1956, the Hungarian Revolution began.  My 9 year old pals and I learned about “Molotov cocktails.”  So we thought – why not?   We filled pop bottles with gasoline, stuffed a rag in the top and lit it — tossing the bottle into Weller creek.  WOW!!   Spectacular eruptions of flames (not to mention the bumblebee whiz of shards of glass and rocks).   

We’d break open firecrackers, shake out the fulminate of mercury powder into cigar tubes with homemade fins, balance them on an incline and then light a fuse sending the “rocket” skyward or sometimes just bouncing along the ground.  Sometimes we put “Lady Finger” firecrackers in the nose.  Wow!  These would end with an airborne explosion.  We would grab handfuls of match books at the local pharmacy and snip the heads off.  And stuff match heads into thin pipes, shaking in the fulminate powder for more incendiary displays.  And bombs.  We made a cannon stuffed with BB’s held in place by dripping candle wax.  And once a hand grenade – using Slaymaker lock dial.  Every boy had a supply of firecrackers, cherry bombs, M-80’s and such.  And my neighborhood was frequently ripped with massive explosions. All thanks to 9 to 12 year old boys. . . . .  

Yes – there are arguments and laws in Illinois against fireworks (one of only 3 states that ban all consumer fireworks). But Wisconsin, Indiana and most other states allow them. I mean – why not?

[A repeat from October 28, 2012] I was in the Felony Trial Division of the States Attorneys office for several years.  My daughter was born in the middle of a brutal two week murder jury trial in Room 504 at 26th & California. Donna went into labor at about 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning.  I called my friend and partner in the case and said “Charlie – Donna’s having the baby. You’re gonna have to handle things today.” His response “Congrats but be here tomorrow.”   

The next day, I showed up at the office with my arms packed with files and three boxes of cigars.  So picture this — I’m in my office passing out cigars, smiling, yabbering, guys wandering in and out when suddenly a large chap appeared at my door.  He was wearing bib overalls, high rubber boots, thick shirt and a hat.  He leaned against the door frame.  “Is there a Scott Petersen here” he asked.  We all turned.  I raised my hand.  “Yeah.  That’s me.”  “You missin’ anything?” he asked.  I felt pockets.  Jacket.  My checkbook!  It’s gone.  “My checkbook” I said.  He held it up waggling it between two fingers.  “I found it on the street.”    Oh my gosh!  “THANK you” – I said taking the checkbook.  I pulled out my wallet and started to pull out a twenty. “Here – I really apprec. . . “ “No.  That’s okay,”  he held up his hand.  “I’m with Streets and Sanitation.  I want you guys to know” he paused and looked around “we have a lot of good people at Streets and Sanitation.”    I then said “My wife just had a baby.  Can I offer you some cigars?”  He looked at the open box.  “That I will take.”  He grabbed a large handful of stogies and disappeared.

It’s funny how things happen – and there are moments of intense clarity.  Obviously I’ll never forget the birth of my daughter (I was there :). I’ll never forget the trial (guilty all counts). But I’ll also never forget the integrity of that stranger.  Streets & Sanitation . . . . .  

I just celebrated a birthday. I moved from “76 Trombones” to “77 Sunset Strip.” Next year it will be 78 rpm [for those too young – that relates to record player speed]. I have a lot of company — college pals, golfing buds and celebrities. Many of us born in the year 1947. The biggest and most prominent celebrity born in that year is my wife Donna – born exactly 30 days after me. 

Among the heavyweights born in that year, I’m in pretty good company. My brethren and sisthren include: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Barbara Bach, David Bowie, Glenn Close, Albert Brooks, O.J. Simpson, Emmylou Harris, Meat Loaf, Ted Danson, Camilla Parker Bowles, Elton John, James Woods, Carlos Santana, Farrah Fawcett, Sam Neill, David Letterman, Stephen King, Teri Garr, David Mamet and Hillary Clinton.

When I look at myself in the mirror – and at the assembly of college pals, golfing buddies and celebrities, I have to wonder just why I’m here. I got to thinking about that – and looked up those special events that occurred in 1947. And then it dawned on me. . . .

In 1947, an alleged Army Air Force balloon crashed near Roswell, New Mexico. It was said that it had been operated from nearby Alamogordo Air Base as part of the top secret “Project Mogul.” However when debris was recovered, it was determined that it had been a flying disc — and likely a UFO. One has to wonder about the numerous alien life forms that likely escaped that space ship in 1947 into the . . . . never mind. . . .

[A cold weather repeat from December 15, 2013 – perhaps one to share]

My friend Al reminded me that in cold weather, it’s a good idea to check car tires since the cold will contract air pressure and tires can flatten out.  So, wisely I did.  And sure enough – my front two tires were low. Really low.  It was night.  Freezing cold.  So I drove to a gas station where they have one of those air pumps where you have to pop in 75 cents. I unscrewed the valve caps, had my air gauge at the ready and dropped 3 quarters. The machine kicked in and I applied the hose to the tire valve. Nothing happened.  The hose and valve were frozen.

This is not an issue that I had dealt with before so I went into the gas station where a lone clerk sat behind a thick glass partition. I explained the problem. “Valve’s frozen,” he said.  Hoookayyy. . .  “Stick the hose up your exhaust for a few minutes while the motor’s running and . . . . [he grabbed a lighter from the shelf and passed it under the window] warm your tire valves.”  “Bring back the lighter,”  he added. 

I went out and slid the hose a couple feet up the exhaust.  And let it sit for a few minutes with the car running.  And warm.  Then I fired the lighter and warmed the tire valves.  After a couple minutes, I took a breath, dropped in another 75 cents and applied the hose to the tire valve.  “PFFFFTT.”  It worked like a charm.  Whew!  The tire inflated and I brought the lighter back.  I thanked the clerk (offered him a tip – he declined).  “I used to drive a semi” he said.  “Used to happen all the time.  It’s one of those little tricks you learn.” 

Now you all know the trick.     

[A repeat from May 7, 2016] “Death was bad enough. The death of a child, unbearable. But the murder of a child? There was nothing worse.”

“The hurt was too great for crying—tears belonged to a realm of earthly physics, but the murder of her son had transcended the coordinates of her world.”

Jill Leovy nailed it in her classic work Ghettoside:  A True Story of Murder in America.  This bestseller deals with the poisoned soul of gang violence which is endemic to inner city, poverty-stricken neighborhoods in Los Angeles.  She targets the horrific black-on-black murder rate that soars in these communities (witness Chicago with its thousands of victims of gang violence – the vast majority – black).  I don’t need to “review” the book.  Suffice to say I recommend you read it.  

To me, the big question is what do we do about this blight of violence?  One political party profits from poverty — because the poor are a voting block.  The other political party is accused of coming up with only tough love solutions.   And – like certain other issues today – no one is allowed to discuss the root causes of poverty lest they be accused of racism or bigotry.  So it goes on.  And gets worse.  Wouldn’t it be great if caring folks with pure hearts and sound minds could deal with problems in America unencumbered by politics, social agenda and political correctness?  Nahhh.   That’s way too much to ask. . . .

[A repeat from August 20, 2013]

“Avocados for Breakfast” sounds like the title of a steamy romance novel set in Northern California.   “Hey Martha, would you like an avocado for breakfast?”  “Oh Henry, you sweet talker. . . . ”  

I have breakfast every morning.   For my breakfast, you might make a face – shake your head – and say “Are you kidding.”

I try to eat a healthy breakfast.  Oh I know – if there’s leftover pizza or spaghetti carbonara in the fridge, I’d likely grab that and some coffee.  But that stuff does not make for a sparky day.  Usually it’s high fiber (bran) cereal, blueberries or banana and coffee. Lotsa coffee. . . .  Maybe once or twice a week, I have an avocado (with a little Newman’s salad dressing) and a banana. And the obligatory coffee.  More and more though I’m drifting toward avocados for breakfast. . . . . 

Avocados are a magnificent food.  One of the healthiest you can eat.  And avocados are among the least contaminated so there is really no need to buy organic (see post of July 12, 2012, for the “Dirty Dozen” foods which you do not want to buy “conventional”).  And avocados are simply delish.  I make my own guacamole (smooshed avocado, finely-chopped cilantro and lime juice – that’s it) and have it for a meal.  Heck – guacamole for breakfast?  It doesn’t get any better.   

I like spicy food. Jalapenos. Curry. Peppers. Sichuan. Hot sauce.

Fast backwards about 35 years. Donna, Lauren and I went out for dinner to a new Indian restaurant on North State Street in Chicago. The waiter – kind gent – walked over and asked for our order. And I – macho man – order a vegetarian dinner. Then our server narrowed his eyes and asked “would you like light or medium spice” to which I paused – looked him in the eye – and replied “I want it as hot as you make it.” To which he paused . . . and asked seriously “are you sure?”

Now most intelligent people would take that “are you sure” as a caution. A warning. A red flag. But me? OH NOOOO. . . . . The meal sounded like it would be right up my alley.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, the waiter approached our table with a tray bearing three innocent-looking meals. My vegetarian plate consisted of perhaps six small bowls filled with – yes – veggies. I have a feeling that as the waiter pushed the door to exit the kitchen, a dozen eyes peered out the small square window to see who in the world ordered his food “as hot as you make it.”

I took a bite. And began to perspire. Donna and Lauren looked at me like the man is bonkers. The meal was really quite an experience. And frankly so were the next two or three days . . .