I Am Not In Malaysia...

In an odd twist of internet goofiness, someone or something has hacked into an email address of mine. What's at least a bit amusing is that the address is from a web-based email provider that went out of business years ago, that's when it was absorbed into another provider.

A couple things:

• I almost never use that hacked address for sending or receiving. I haven't looked at it in ages. If anything, the addy is sort of a collector's item, since it is sixteen years old, and most people don't have computers that are that old. Sixteen is ancient in terms of the internet.
  

• I am not stranded in Malaysia trying to get to the airport to fly home. I've never been to Malaysia, have no plans to be there any time soon, and although I could always use your help, it isn't to get home from a faraway land.

Sorry about the rogue email. Wish you were there, I'm sure not.

Now, Just Where Was I?

The last time around I was being all snarly, having tried on my crankypants for size. They fit just fine, thank you.

Shortly thereafter, I took a fall. Saying that the mighty had fallen has a nice whiff of megalomania to it. Gratefully, I still have traces of modesty restraining me.

I did take a fall. A nasty fall. The planets Clumsy, Klutzy, and Stupid were in perfect alignment one frigid Sunday night. I went down fast and hard like a sack of stones. Front walk, two feet from the door, nice glassy patch of rock hard ice, that's when molecular physics denied my feet an ounce of traction. The wrong shoes at the right time, or maybe the right shoes at the wrong time.

The short and worst of it was a fractured ankle. The long and not-so-much fun of the rest of the damage was made up of bruises, sprains, assorted welts, and even a few minor cuts. The ankle did me in.

For five never-ending weeks I was a shut-in, and not in the figurative sense. I was housebound, unable to get in or out of the house without the assistance of a couple able-bodied people, like EMTs, who lugged me around no fewer than three times early on in my convalescence.

A few weeks into the healing ordeal there were complications which took me back to the hospital, where this time around I was admitted. With that over and done, it was back home to get better.

So time all but stood still as I sat home and watched the world go by. I suppose the biggest change was winter's final, slow, fitful, and grudging surrender to spring. It was a painful process, not unlike me stumbling around on a walker, or thumping into furniture, doorways, and the corners of counters with my wheelchair.

Little things came to mean a lot. I need to remember that.

I will.

Mr. Crankypants...

I get cranky. More and more, it takes less and less to get me there these days.

Age? Sure.

Cabin Fever? No doubt a factor.

The growing realization that so much of life is nonsense? That could be the root cause of cranky.

The older I get, the more I get Andy Rooney. The reasons why the visage of a cranky old man has achieved iconic status almost worldwide have been revealed as the years have come and gone.

Watching coverage of the Chilean tragedy, I couldn't help but notice there was more emphasis placed on the tsunami that could result from the earthquake than on the death and damage we already knew did. Perhaps it was due to the ease with which a series of huge waves heading towards Hawaii can be covered effectively, what with several TV stations there to engage and all.

The coverage was good, no mistaking that. Good, solid information delivered in a timely fashion by network anchors and local anchors and reporters on the islands of Hilo and Hawaii.

Then it came time, as it inevitably would, for someone to step up and explain the dynamics of a tsunami; how and why they form, how they move, what they might and might not do.

"Let's now go to meteorologist Lisa Isotopi for just what it is we're looking at here. Lisa..."

Lisa commences to posture, reaching outside meteorology, now assuming the guise of a geologist, a seismologist, an oceanographer, and a hydrologist as well. Brakes on, put it in Park, set the emergency, we need a reality injection here.

The old saying, "If you can't dazzle them with your brilliance, baffle them with your bull." comes immediately to mind. That saying, as is above, is allegedly the verbatim from W.C, Fields, not the more scatological version that has emerged through the years. Why feign a high standard of false propriety when, really, we all know that bull is neat and tidy for bullshit. (Although classifying it as usually vulgar, Merriam-Webster does indeed recognize the word, giving it legitimacy.)

Why is it that staff meteorologists assume the role of de facto earthquake and tsunami experts? Any connection between meteorology and the other disciplines mentioned is loose at best, non-existent at worst. Why pretend they're all one and the same happy scientific family?

Admittedly, here in the US, our National Weather Service is a bureau of NOAA - the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which climbing to the top of the food chain, is part of the United States Department of Commerce.

In view of that, how come you don't trot out meteorologists to, let's say, discuss the GDP, or explain economic analysis in layman's terms, or even do daily updates on the 2010 Census. Never happens. What should also never happen is these people, expert in one field, presenting themselves as expert in another, when they are simply and undeniably not.

Dazzle or baffle. Whatever works, it's really all you need to know...

Habemus Episcopum!

Thanks to an old and dear friend, I not long ago learned the Latin for "We have a bishop."

Like many, I've been awaiting the announcement with some interest, especially since I'd long been convinced of who it was going to be. In fact, I was certain and would have wagered respectable money, if I could have found a taker.

Last night I learned that my guess was wrong. At least I lost no money on the deal.

News spread when the diocese scheduled a news conference, with many reporters thinking it had to be one of two things, 1) A new bishop; 2) The diocese was filing for bankruptcy protection. With it being the former, we know that:

"Monsignor Joseph Bambera has been appointed the 10th bishop of the Diocese of Scranton, the Vatican announced this morning."

I was wrong, and please, that carries no disrespect for bishop-elect Bambera.

Since the announcement has been made, I feel comfortable in saying that my accomplices in drawing the now clearly flawed conclusion as to the next bishop were many. In short, there were sources, plenty of sources. Good, solid sources within the diocese, sources reaching as far as the Archdiocese of Philadelphia.

All of those insiders pointed to the same individual whom I personally speculated would become the next Bishop of Scranton. The sure thing was no sure thing at all.

Habemus Episcopum! I wish nothing but greatness for Monsignor Bambera and all the good people of the diocese.

As to the priest I believed would be elevated? I'm not giving up yet. I'll make another prediction: He'll be appointed Bishop of Harrisburg.

If I'm wrong again, I'll be happy to come back and say so again.

Cheap Cheeseburger In Paradise...

That great American convenience, the drive-thru, is one place you'll not see much of me. Whether it be bank, restaurant, pharmacy, or even beer distributor, the drive-thru has always made me twitchy.

The reason is about as simple as it gets; way too often, they don't work, they don't do what they're supposed to do, they save you no time at all.

Who among us hasn't had the feeling that you caught the burger joint crew by great surprise when you pulled up and had the temerity to order food? I knew the drive-thru had abundant weaknesses that first time I was asked to pull ahead and someone would bring my order to me.

"Huh? Why don't I just park here and come in and help you make it?" says me to the young lady hurrying to slide the window shut before I could warm up and get my brilliant sarcasm firing like a Lamborghini piston.

And so it has been that I avoided the drive-thru as a matter of routine for more years than I feel like counting.

I've come back. All is forgiven.

Enter the dollar double-cheeseburger.

Whatever name or guise it takes, it's a buck for a burger, and a mighty good little burger at that.

It's an amazing piece of American marketing.

It works. It works too well. I've bought into it.

While standing at a counter to spend a buck and six might make one look a champion tightwad, the anonymity of my truck offers enough protection from the accusation.

Therein the dilemma faced several times a week, those times when hunger falls on you from nowhere, leaving you empty, hollow, with a maddening pang for something carby, unhealthy, fast, and nearby. Oh, it need be a bit greasy, too. And now, sweet matriarch of all that nourishes and fattens, it's cheap!

You know the chains, the franchises. No need here for me to name names. Just about all of the big corporate joints have something right around a buck now. The temptation is frightening.

Not to be outdone, one non-burger place can offer you five sandwiches for about six bucks. A sack of sandwiches with condiments, paper napkins, all awaiting an arm's length away, right there at that little window, the one that might as well be a tollbooth along the Tubby Turnpike.

Negligibly priced and good, satisfying, filling the comfort-food hole in your soul, this is truly a good deal. We all know that there are moments, and yes they do pass, that the hole needs to filled, the monster demands to be fed.

Well, by God, there I was, sitting no more than seventy feet from the far too conveniently located drive-thru one day last week, eyeballing the signs in the window telling what taste of our cultural gastronomy is now available for one dollar and six cents. A pair of discreet binoculars, maybe opera-glasses, might have been helpful. That way I'd not miss an item before succumbing to this devilish temptation.

Please know that there are those times I do not cave, I embrace denial successfully and drive off hungry. Who's keeping score?

I'm not a cheap man, not one to pinch pennies, to nickel and dime any situation. If anything, the opposite be true. Spendthrift is a good word, it fits me well at times.

It's not about the money, but the money plays an evil role in it all. Those ugly twins of greed and avarice are at work. Satiation for a buck, a belly fuller still for two bucks. This is temptation not easily ignored.

If that double baby was regular price, pffffffttt, no thanks. At a buck, irresistible, fetching, and appealing aren't strong enough words.

The bigger mountain to climb is that those offering dollar menus seem committed to their continuance.

I'm in trouble...and I doubt alone.

All Talk, No Train...

I've gotten grumpier and grumpier about this topic with every year's turn of the calendar.

By my accounting, it's been roughly twenty-five years since the train to NYC has been a done-deal, and today it's no more done than it was in 1985. My recollection is that the in-earnest talk began the day Steamtown announced it was relocating to Scranton. It was almost a joint announcement, making it a given that NYC/Scranton rail passenger service was maybe a couple years away. That was 1984.

How many follies, fads, and delusions have come and gone while we wait?

When you get right down to cases, all we've ever had have been hopes and dreams, and even those flimsy traces are vanishing right before us. The pain lies in having those hopes and dreams perpetuated by some really important and powerful people. What I've found enormously fascinating is that, should you gauge optimism for the return of rail passenger service over in New Jersey, you'll find that there really isn't any. On the other side of the Delaware, they know better, they think it's kind of comical that we keep on waiting for some train that's never coming.

Isn't the time for that over? Doesn't someone need to step up and admit that, if this ever does happen, we are now looking at another twenty-five years before it does? A child born today might set foot on Mars before a steel-wheel turns.

Each time a feeble and wobbly step forward is made, five enormous shoves backward immediately follow.

For those at all interested, I wrote about this some time ago, then explaining the situation.

The latest news is not good. In fact, the latest news is dreadful.

With eight billion federal dollars up for grabs, neither PennDOT, nor our senators, nor any other interests involved, managed to come up with eight dollars in furtherance of this project. Nothing, zero, bupkus, not a nickel out of eight billion dollars. Did I say dreadful? Add pitiful and jaw-dropping as well.

Failing so miserably when there is that kind of money available is enough to justify finger-pointing. Even that might be a waste of time.

For all the assurances that this project has been alive since Cagney&Lacey lit up our TV screens on Monday nights, I've believed that to be less and less true with each passing year. Waiting since 1984, I sort of figured it to be largely meaningless talk about eight years ago. My skepticism has now turned to a granite-solid certainty that there will no passenger rail service between Scranton and NYC for decades to come, and that there may never be any such service; a claim I've made before.

Never is indeed a long time. So is twenty-five years.

There are those who've already begun spinning this as a setback. One congressman has called it a "...bump in the road." Yes, and the Grand Canyon is just some old hole in the ground.

Maybe all involved should come clean and recognize the project for the trainwreck it's long been.

We Survived YTK and Its Infant Decade To Date...

I wrote the following on the last day of 2009, before the Haiti earthquake. Does it change my mind? No, not at all. Please forgive the wagging finger, but although I firmly believe we should help the Haitian cause, for the love of all humanity, make sure who you're giving your money to in this tragic time.

___________________________________________________________________


New Year's Eve 1999. The world waited, watched, and held its breath, expecting all computer systems around the planet to crash, and take civilization along with them into some black silicon hole from which there was no escape.

Never happened.

The only survival kit I needed January 1st, 2000, was a long winter's nap to sleep off the beer of our partying at home with neighbors the night before. We can't ignore the fact that the new century really didn't get underway until a year later. Yeah, alarmists tended to overlook that.

Even my GW2K G2 did nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. I sat nearby while the ball dropped. Nothing. The 1999 technology, then sitting in a corner of our kitchen, is about what you can now slip on your belt, as most of us do. The machine is still in the basement waiting to be reborn as a big doorstop or a small anchor.

Ten years later and some are looking to 2012 as a pivotal year. Nostradamus alleges to have singled out 2012 in one of his quatrains as the year that the world now known will end. It's unclear, in my view, whether or not a new world will emerge, only that the one we're now calling home is finished in 2012.

Why, even the Mayans, that mysterious and brilliant tribe that once ruled the Yucatan and Meso-American culture, are said to have nailed 2012 as doomsday, or is that doomsyear?

Mathematical and astronomical systems, art and architecture, were all in full and practiced use by the Mayans. A bit beyond twenty years ago, I had the great good fortune to see Tulum and stand on the very sand of that breathtaking beach you see right here.

Somewhere, there's a photo of my then fiancee and me, arm in arm in the brilliant Caribbean sunshine of a January day. All smiles for the camera, I couldn't take my eyes off of her, yet the ruins and the "it-can't-be real-but-is" blue of the water, and the significance of where we stood was not lost on me.

We had a tour guide that day, a gentleman of Mayan descent, who walked us through the ruins. The one thing that forever stuck in my mind is his saying the Mayans, despite their advanced state, had yet to discover and/or invent the wheel. Even today, that sounds suspicious to me.

Sitting here on New Year's day 2010, it seems to me he never mentioned that our world was in its final decades, either.

Despite many swearing that the Mayans predicted 2012 as at least the beginning of the end, factual information argues strongly to the contrary. Put another way, they never said any such thing.

The Mayan calendar apparently ends with 2012, does that mean it's over? For good measure, it's now also said that the Mayans set the date, that would be December 21st, 2012, which means we'll miss Thanksgiving by one day, while many will have finished up Christmas shopping before Earth goes spinning out of its orbit and tumbles off into the cosmos. December 21st is also the Winter Solstice, so will winter have begun, not begun, or be just beginning at the very second the world comes to an end?

See, I love a good conspiracy theory, so much so that my belief is that one day, some theory will turn out to be true. What then will happen is that no one will believe it's true, because there are so many conspiracy theories to choose from that the very one that proves true will be dismissed as just another crock.

Will the world end in 2012? Given the ignored fact that the Mayans observed several different calendars, all of which appear to reset and recycle upon expiration, and that what they observed changed frequently, odds favor a big disappointment for all local chapters of The End-Is-Near Club.

Also ignored is that pesky little fact that no Mayan calendar matches up with the calendar we use, the Gregorian Calendar.

Had enough? One more bothersome fact. There is ample proof suggesting that the Mayan 2012 matches up with the Gregorian 2007, meaning that it already happened, we're still here, and not to worry.

Will it all end in 2012? Betting huge money against it would be pretty safe. If our world is still here in 2013, you could win, win big. If it's not here, you can't collect, you can't pay. A genuine win-win.

Happy New Year!

The Center of The Universe and the GPS...

Did you ever hear the one that Scranton is the center of our universe?

The sense in the nonsense on this claim is grounded in the allegation that most everyone in at least the USA has some connection to Scranton. Many would take it beyond our borders.

Personally, I've found it to hold some water, plenty of leaks, mind you, but some water. For example, try the following on for size:

My first adventure far west took me to Idaho. It was a long day.

My memory's a little fuzzy on the details. What I do know is that it began at AVP, took three airlines, four flights, nearly nine hours before landing in Idaho. If you don't know Idaho, first get comfortable with the fact that Iowa and Idaho are not the same place. Then let me say that Idaho is one of the most beautiful states in our union, maybe not so much as Utah, but really close. Gorgeous, lightly populated, and simply spectacular. Wide open spaces? A four-hour round trip just to have dinner is not uncommon among Idahoans.

Within an hour of landing in Idaho, at Pocatello Airport, I'd met a guy who was born and raised in Edwardsville, which would be the Edwardsville right next to Larksville. I mean Kingston, Edwardsville, Larksville. True story.

Several years ago, the "Scranton" bubble burst.

It was Announced that Olyphant, Pennsylvania, very close to Scranton for those unfamiliar, was really the center of the universe. Start here and join the enlightened.

If that doesn't shove your oars in the water nice and deep, do this one.

There's more, but that's an ample start. Once you get good, then we can talk the Carbondale UFO controversy.

Let's not achieve overload here.

For now, the matter at hand is a recent drive to Olyphant.

An easy trip for most in these parts, especially for those who've been through Olyphant uncountable times, like me.

I've known Olyphant since family trips to Eynon Drug/Sugarman's in dad's '54 Packard.

When 12 or 13, I used to ride my bicycle up the Boulevard, take a right at Dickson City Corners, and pedal on out to Olyphant and come on back home in under an hour.

Then there were high school events at "d'urn," alternately known as The Urn.

The Urn was right down Olyphant's Lackawanna Avenue from "d'anker," which also has an alternate name, that being The Anchor, a vets and war monument from WWII that sits at Blakely Corners. Got any or all of that?

Olyphant is home to Bosak's, Blakely is the same to Kutsop's, both said to have wonderful kielbasi, smoked of course. I will attest to such.

There was positively no need for me to use my GPS to get to Olyphant and Bosak's. But, really, why have a toy if you can't play with it? I punched in Bosak's address before pulling out of the driveway at home, then ignored the voice - I use the female - until forty minutes or so later when I pulled into Olyphant, whereupon things got strange in a hurry.

Any GPS can be wrong, as indicated in a previous post. Given the enormity of what that little box stuck to your windshield can do, it's not surprising that mistakes happen.

What I had here, though, was mistake after mistake after mistake. Once in Olyphant, my GPS couldn't get a street right. Just for squats and chuckles, I kept turning the opposite of where it told me to turn. It would then recalculate quickly.

Each time, it was wrong.

Each time, I kept hearing to "Turn right at..." Invariably, there was no such street.

Knowing full well where Bosak's is, on the Burke By-Pass, my earth to satellite communications were severely confused. Should I be circling Mars looking for a landing, I'd be screwed.

Streets that were nowhere to be seen, 500 feet to a non-existent intersection, turn left where there is no left, and several times the directions took me away from my destination, not towards it. I loved every second of it.

And I loved the kielbasi, both Kutsop's and Bosak's. The delightful young lady at Kutsop's was right about the horseradish and red beets (known by serious old country adherents as "hreen." You'll need to roll the h and the r to pronounce properly.). It was hotter than the hinges of Hades. I loved every spoonful.

Away from kielbasi and back to Olyphant, is this a town with some mystical powers? Is this a borough placed upon the planet by beings beyond ourselves?

Heck if I know.

My GPS seems not to know, either.

Go for the kielbasi, anything else is a bonus.

The Litter Box - 2010's First Stinkies...

I Like the Lawrence Welk Show...Working up the nerve to make that admission takes time. Visiting my grandparents as a kid, they'd sit and watch and smile as the show wound its way through one piece of corn after another, with a couple of Geritol commercials thrown in by Mr. Welk himself. All the while I squirmed and itched on their couch. Going out in the yard and running face first into an iron hinge on their garage door would have been more fun for me. Today, the show reminds me of simpler and uncomplicated times, times when a couple of smiling dufuses dancing across a sound stage floor could excite the imagination. I've been thinking about how old my grandparents were when I sat there on their couch...I don't want to talk about it right now.

Are you ready for Christmas?...You hear that a lot each year. Each year, I'm not ready. Each year, Christmas happens anyway.

Are you ready for New Year's?...Why, is there some approved list I should be checking?

Any New Year's Resolutions?...No, I'm quite fine the way I am, except for that one time I made a negligible mistake, which was driven solely by my desire to relate better to, to Joe Sixpack, or Frank Frontporch, or Mr. and Mrs. Anytown, USA. American futility at it's best; the New Year's Resolution. Make 'em to break 'em. Honestly? I want a great year for our SPCA.

Tiger Woods...Can we all leave this one alone? To say that I couldn't care less is the very definition of understatement. If his "stock" falls, it means that the leeches who were sucking his financial blood are thirsty, maybe drying up. Tough tees. Mr. Woods, I am certain, is fine. Go forth, sir, and do what you do like no other; golf.

Luzerne County's Newest Commissioner...I don't know Mr. Cooney. My assumption would be that he is a man of honesty, integrity, decency, and that he has no intention of trying to run for the seat next time around. That being true and said, could not this court en banc have selected someone, anyone, who has absolutely, positively, undeniably no connection whatsoever to Luzerne County and its recent administrations? Apparently not. For the record, no, I had no interest in the job under any conceivable circumstance.

Jumping Into Ice Cold Water on New Year's Day...Oh, that I had the nerve. I do not. Good cause or not, has anyone ever died doing this? The shock to some human systems has to be deadly. They call him "Crazy" Chris Concert. Chris, you've now earned the title.

Kathy Griffin Drops the F-Bomb Again...That's what she does, get it? Stop paying attention, she'll stop doing it. While we're practicing an ounce of common sense, something show biz isn't real good at, how about CNN and others deny her the venue to let it fly? Oh, some have called it a "curse" word, even wire services and major news outlets have called it a curse word. It's not. A curse word involves asking a deity to hurt someone. The F-Bomb is about as human as it gets. Remember, we made up the word. No one ever came down from any mountain with chiseled stone telling us not to arrange those four letters in that order. Griffin is an obnoxious clod. She does make me laugh a times. At others, I really wonder how she can do that routine non-stop. If I were her, I'd get on my own nerves.

Everyone Wanted 2009 Done and Gone...Just why is the question. Most all folks I've bumped into over the last couple weeks were looking forward to getting this first decade of the new century behind them. Splitting hairs about the new decade not really starting until 2011 notwithstanding, it seems that the last nine years have been unkind to many. A free admission; my lows since 2000 have been the lowest. I don't blame an arbitrary calendar. The only villain is life itself. It's one hell of a journey.

First Night Celebrations are "Dry" Events...Yes they are, and no they are not. Any First Night sponsored event, indoors or out, is dry. At the very same time, every saloon and restaurant in town is open for business, just waiting for you to pop in for a couple pops. This might be filed under clever packaging.

"...side effects may include strange dreams."...Have you ever had a dream that wasn't strange? Aren't dreams by their very nature strange? I keep hearing more and more prescription pharmaceuticals listing longer and longer disclaimers, often being lengthier than the part of the commercial pitching the drug.

Stranded By A GPS...Over the holidays, a Nevada family found itself stranded for three days because their GPS sent them down a remote forest road. A short cut, obviously, a quicker way to grandma's - literally over the river and through the woods instead of using the interstate. About a week before these people got in this jam, my GPS tried sending me up a steep dirt road, one covered with snow, while I was out just poking around over in Wayne County. One glance and I thought, "Kathy Griffin that!" and dismissed making the turn immediately. Brillliant? No. Again, it's that thing called common sense? Try it, it works.

Diocesan School Super Takes Leave...A personal or personnel matter? I suppose both, but since no one's talking as to why the man is gone, I'll speculate. The diocese is clearing the way for a new bishop, who could be announced as early as this weekend. In an effort to make clear the path of that new bishop, many will fall. It's all about that new broom sweeping clean. Bigger by far is the need to get all of the former bishop's allies and accomplices off of the new guy's landscape, that's to further dissociate then from now.

Judge Muroski...A little patience would have prevented a lot of grief.

And so I end for now.

So, Who's It Gonna Be?

There's plenty of talk out there about just who the next bishop of the Diocese of Scranton will be.

Yes, I am opinionated, long a believer that an unexamined life is not worth the living, so I've been thinking, and all thoughts and speculation, at least for my money, lead strongly to one conclusion.

I know who it's going to be.

If you have any connection to the Diocese of Scranton or any of its parishes, you've probably heard the name recently, meaning you, too, know who it will be.

Out of my obvious respect for all parties involved, mentioning a name would be indelicate and irresponsible. Even the photo is generic, I didn't want to take any chances.

That said, his name could be posted right here, right now, and with little doubt...that's the little doubt in my head, not necessarily in the head of he who'll ultimately make the decision.

So, who makes the decision? Well, officially and by Canon Law, Rome, the Pope himself, decides.

Surely Rome will stamp its hearty approval, maybe even seal in wax, the choice of the next ordinary of this Roman Catholic See, but Pope Benedict XVI runs a big outfit, and doesn't have time to micromanage. Recent estimates say a billion worldwide are Catholic. A staggering number.

Time for the usual disclaimer, the short version; born and raised Roman Catholic, I have not practiced as such in many, many years. That doesn't mean my Catholic strings are all cut, gone, and forgotten. Not at all.

I'm an avid and consistent observer of the Church and its many twists, turns, and missteps. The recently resigned bishop would be among the missteps, with now being the time to correct it with an appropriate choice for the episcopacy of NE PA.

So, if not Rome, the Pope himself, or even the curia, just who does make the decision? It's not exactly a secret that the metropolitan of the archdiocese in which any diocese is situated gets to make the call. That doesn't for a second mean it's an uneducated decision. Hardly.

It's easy to believe that a lot of thought, prayer, input, homework, reflection and introspection goes into choosing a bishop. With plenty of damage here to be repaired, it's an extremely important decision, likely the most important one Cardinal Justin Rigali will make during his tenure.

Scranton, being a suffragan see of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, Cardinal Rigali alone will decide, if he hasn't already, who'll lead and heal this diocese for a good many years to come. His decision, subject to Rome's almost guaranteed agreement, will be respected without question.

I've been convinced which priest would be the choice since the very second I heard of Bishop Martino's resignation. I think the same today. A handful of friends I have within the diocese confirm that my long-held guess is indeed the most solid rumor out there. Rumors, while possessing the potential to be nasty, are often based in truth. So it is that we shall see.

It might be worth noting that I also guessed that Cardinal Rigali would bring the new bishop-designate home with him as he celebrated Mass on Christmas Day at St. Peter's Cathedral. He did not, disappointing, from what I've been told, more than a few people. Do great minds think alike? Perhaps it's more accurate to say that idle minds think alike.

Somewhere in the near future St. Peter's will be the site of an episcopal ordination, the making of a new bishop. What a great day that will be. I wonder what the chances are that a "lapsee" like myself could somehow wrangle an invitation?

If my guess is wrong, and right now I doubt that will be the case, look for an immediate admission of my inaccuracy right here. And do remember, you can expect full disclosure from a former altar boy and Boy Scout.

1/03/10 - P.S. I did fail to mention that there is an age-old process that must be followed for the selection of a bishop, one involving a number of people and formalities before a decision is announced. That being true, my statement about Cardinal Rigali appointing his choice still stands.

A Failed Mission - Kielbasi Unfindable...

Someday we'll have solidarity. Someday we'll come to the same table and agree just how we spell, and of weightier import, how we pronounce that particular Polish sausage, smoked or fresh, commonly called kielbasi. It'll be tough getting all parties to any such table. It'll be sort of like the Paris Peace Talks.

One matter for very serious dialogue will be the actual national origin of this sausage. While we think of it as being Polish, it would appear that all Eastern European cultures and tribes have, as a staple, a ground and stuffed casing meat product that sure looks like kielbasi. And, yes, kil-BAH-see is indeed my favored pronunciation, so going with kielbasi as a favored spelling only makes sense. I know no one, and remember the bride is Ukrainian, who calls it kil-BAH-suh, yet many insist on the spelling of kielbasa. It's America, a free country...so far.

Even The Plymouth "Kielbasa" Festival, three days of devoted celebration of the sausage, spells it with an "a" and not an "i." Yet I'd wager a half dozen rings of Bosak's finest smoked that, if you could find three people at the festival who call it anything other than kil-BAH-see , that's pushing things.

And while we're at it, how about a Lackawanna County kielbasi maker winning this competition again? Bosak's is in Olyphant.

Luzerne Countians, mostly Wyoming Valley-ites, are pretty confident about having the best when it comes to ethnic dishes, and rightly so, yet a northerner takes home the prize again. Born and raised in Lackawanna County, now making my home in Luzerne County, I am not about to take a side here.

There is likewise the bologna versus baloney controversy, a discussion for another time. For now, though, do remember that bologna, or baloney, is also a smoked sausage, as is the beloved hot dog.

It wasn't baloney or hot dog I was after, it was kielbasi. I needed smoked kielbasi. The yearning was kielbasi, and the palate wants what it wants. Smoked kielbasi, nothing else could fill the void.

Two times a year, the taste for kielbasi is irresistible. My guess is that you can figure when those two times might be. One of them just passed, and with it, the urge diminished some but not altogether. Come Christmas, come Easter, I just want some good smoked kielbasi. See those dangling beauties over there? That's what it should look like, needs to look like.

There is nothing fancy about kielbasi, it couldn't be more peasant if it were made of barn sweepings mixed with moat water. Kielbasi is the essence of peasant, using cuts of meat those privileged in ages past wouldn't touch. What's in the sausage? Right. Don't ask. With genuine kielbasi, it has to be pork. Those serfs who somehow created this thing we love, created it with pork. Again, don't ask what's in that sausage.

Contest winners aside, it was too far a drive to Olyphant. My timing was bad. Should timing have a face, it would now be giving me the stink-eye. If timing is indeed everything, I was again with nothing. Mid-afternoon, on a Sunday nonetheless, is not the time make a kielbasi run in any direction.

Just so we'll all be in the same culinary pew, the kielbasi of which I speak is not what often passes for the same in large chain supermarkets, vacuum-packed and mass-produced and all. Although that "Smoked Polish Sausage" ain't half bad, it's not kielbasi to me. While not necessarily homemade, real kielbasi is undeniably handmade, then smoked with real wood in a real smokehouse. It's not born of extrusion from a machine, then soaked in some smoke-flavored brine and pronounced the real deal.

Without time to go north, I turned south.

Nanticoke sounds like a reasonable place to start, and with any luck, find what I need. The Park Market's kielbasi is a legend unto itself. Whether award-winning or not, it has a solid and vociferously defended reputation. Sounds good to me.

Closed.

I missed Park's early shut-down on Sundays at 1:00 PM by little more than an hour. If it were by five minutes, could be I would have tried the door, knocked on the window, been the kind of annoying clod I myself so dislike. Kielbasi deprivation is nasty. The store was dark. Me, too.

I remembered another family-owned Nanticoke store famous for kielbasi. That would be Swantko's. Great! Where is it? I didn't know.

It was there this past weekend, right on the north side of Patriot Park in Nanticoke, that old world Europe met late 2009 technology. I wanted that kielbasi. Googling Swantko's on my BB was easy, so was punching its address into my GPS. Swantko's was but a five or six minute ride.

Closed.

Sadly, closed for good. A sign in the window of Swantko's narrow white wood frame building, sitting in a residential neighborhood in the Hanover Section of Nanticoke, thanked loyal customers for their years of patronage. Good-bye. Swantko's is no more, apparently having turned out the lights for the last time not long ago. Did they survive through Christmas?

What's a kielbasi-loving Celt to do? Duryea! Komensky's on Main! Turn north, make the run.

Closed.

My own fault, again timing is the key, a couple hours earlier and it could have been kielbasi for dinner.

What I won't mention by name are the family-owned markets I did check that didn't have anything that even looked like a ring of kielbasi. One market almost always has it, Thomas' Family Market on Rt. 309, it's their own and very good, but they were sold out by the time I came manically panting in the door. My problem, certainly not theirs. If you can't sell out kielbasi at Christmas, just when can you?

Maybe this coming weekend.

Smoked kielbasi - not exactly the Breakfast of Champions, but worth whatever drive it takes.

Incident on A Christmas Eve Day...

The phone rang.

Well, it didn't ring, it bleeped or chibbled or deedled or whatever my general ringtone is. Not being crazy about any of the seven thousand that came with my "device," I picked one that was the least annoying. Oh, I could have chosen the "old rotary phone" ringtone, but hasn't everyone recently?

Not exactly startling to hear the phone, just unexpected. Christmas Eve morning had been quiet, at home and quiet. Me, fresh ground coffee beans, an Italian blend, surrendered their intense flavors to my basic drip maker, and there we were. We being me, the cats, the dogs, and the morning paper.

I hadn't even checked email yet, it was that early in the beginning of my day.

On the other end of the chibbling phone, our shelter manager. She's called, bringing news of a what could be a problem.

I hear, "Seems we have a potential incident in Swoyersville."

Great. Christmas Eve day, in my sweats, one eye half-open, the other half-closed, and we've got an "incident." Being the executive director of the SPCA of Luzerne County carries with it, among other duties, that of being notified of incidents, or any incident that falls outside the boundaries of normal everyday incidents. Of the latter, we have our share.

One of our humane police officers was about to roll to Swoyersville, our shelter manager rolled along with her. I was out the door in five minutes myself.

You'll have to look very closely at the photo above. To the far right of the photo is an ordinary utility pole of the variety still standing across our neighborhoods. This particular pole carries an energized 13,000 volt electric line. This particular pole also has a cat sitting plop on top of it, and I mean cozied up right there upon the circular upper end of the pole.

No need to strain too hard, below is a tight shot of that kitty. It's a Tom tabby. To his right and left, a scant few feet away, lines carrying enough power to mean end of the line for Tom if he makes the wrong move.

To me, he looked annoyed at the crowd gathered hoping to see him come on down alive and well. At one point, he started taking a bath, all the while never moving from his seat roughly thirty or so feet above Kossack St. I imagine he was fine with where he was, maybe enjoying the view.

Neighbors told me a squirrel had chased him half way up the pole.

Then, when well-meaning neighbors tried to coax him down with food, and a big old pile of "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...", our pole sitting cat shot right to the top and hadn't budged in what was claimed a day or more.

We did what we could, which was to call the utility and see if they could push a bucket and a man up to the cat and get him down, all without anyone getting hurt. That's the key here - without anyone getting hurt. High power lines and good intentions are a very bad mix.

Yeah, of course, everyone wanted a happy ending, but could that happen given the circumstances?

At one point, an onlooker, a man, approached me in what could best be described as a state of moderate agitation.

"Why doesn't someone do something?" He wasn't quite yet to the snarly level, but working his way there steadily.

With the best assurances I had within me at the time, I said, "We're working on it, sir, we're doing all we can."

(Isn't that how we got where we got here in Luzerne County, by waiting for someone to do something? Now, someone is, that would be the FBI.)

Most important, we we're doing something, we were in contact with UGI, the power utility serving Swoyersville, trying to get them on scene. In short order, and with great effort on their part, they did indeed arrange for a bucket truck.

To a round of applause, the gentleman brings bucket to cat. At the right, you can already see Tom, as with most cats, really didn't want to bothered, never once considering anyone was saving him. Were we saving him? I don't suppose any of us really has an answer to that, other than to say all we wanted to do was get him away from those 13,000 volts.

He did that on his own, thank you.

Here he is beginning to move down the pole at the sight of the approaching bucketed good Samaritan, which he probably would have done in time without any help.

In the nanosecond I took my eye from the viewfinder, Tom flew into the pine on the right like he was hiding wings beneath his fur. He could have done that all on his own, but only when he felt like it, not on our schedule. Is that not a cat's prerogative?

And that was that.

Cat saved? I'd like to think so. If he's your cat, keep him in the house, please. Even at that, all of us at the SPCA were happy to be of whatever help we were. We thank UGI for coming to our assistance.

Hey, Nice Set...

In the parlance of the rail-weenie, often in derision called a "foamer," you actually have two sets here. Nice "quad" doesn't quite cut it, so set it is.

The theme of trains and Christmas continues and it does so with a bit of shame and ignorance on my part.

Snow on the windshields indicates they are not running. When they last did run, I'm not sure.

To your left at left, the somewhat famous, at least among the weenie crowd, the tangerine and blue Central Railroad of New Jersey (more commonly and alternately known as the Jersey Central or CNJ) A-A set of GM EMD F3s.

You're right, it's a lot of tekkie mumbo-jumbo for two old and tired diesels that likely 95% of Americans don't give a damn about, and understandably so. What may lend importance to these locomotives is that the Jersey Central was once a major player in NE PA railroading. Its presence in the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre area, while not as enormous as other railroads, was sizable.

The CNJ had a roundhouse, turntable, and yard within a short walk from where Steamtown now sits.

These CNJ units are not real, not in the sense that they are CNJ in origin. They actually began life on the Bangor and Aroostook railroad in Maine and presently have twin owners, one rail historical group owns one, one owns the other. If you've been to Jim Thorpe, you may recall these deisel-electrics sitting right there in the middle of town alongside the CNJ station, which is restored and in daily use.

The green units are real. They are, in fact, the first passenger diesels ever purchased by the once mighty Reading Lines, which is the same Reading you find on your Monopoly board. In a way too foamer of a move, let me say that the Reading locomotives are FP7 diesel-electrics, as opposed to the CNJ's being designated as F3 locomotives. Again, very historic and worthy of a visit to Steamtown.

Being a huge Steamtown booster, I just thought you might like a reason to go for a visit, maybe have a look around, see things you like, and truly appreciate what a gem this place is.

Scoop and Toss...The Litterbox

It's time.

Does David Letterman golf? I have no idea and don't much care. If he does, maybe Tiger Woods could give him a lesson or two. Letterman could then give Woods some guidance on how to handle a major life misstep. Letterman's control of his situation was on a level with the best public relations firms on the planet. Woods' chose the amateur route. Before this, how many even knew Woods' was married? Few, I'd say.

Sarah Palin is extremely likable. Yep, she is, really. If Palin had pursued a career in front of a television camera, my money says she would have been a hit. She lights up a screen. If she's on my TV, I watch. She's a grandmother at 45. I can't get my mind around that. I suggest most Americans cannot either. She wants something. President? Could be. I won't vote for her. She governed fewer people than live in NE PA. And she walked away from even that relatively minor task short of her avowed term. Sarah may be grandma, but she needs some growing up.

Empty seats mean no one cares. Here's how it works; if no one directly affected cares enough to show up at a "news" event, then it's not a "news" event, except for mentioning that no one cared enough to be there. Covering news is just that, covering it, not creating it. If no one cares enough to be there, THAT'S the story. Better yet, if no one is there, turn on your heels and go elsewhere.

The embarrassment of corruption in NE PA. To be honest, I'm not at all embarrassed. Yanking corruption out by its ugly roots continues, and I find that to be a good thing, a really good thing. NE PA has needed an enema for generations. It now looks like its time to let it flow. Great. Bring it on. I hope the feds work at this for twenty years. Any county could be next, and if there is justice in life, many will be. NE PA's need for cleansing extends to the whole of this commonwealth.

Facebook has value, right? Although I kind of get FB, what I don't get are "old friends" who seek you out, make a big fuss over reconnecting, promise to write lots more, then seemingly leave the planet. The mothership must be making more frequent stops these days. Remember, you reached out to me, not me to you. If you don't want to catch up, fine, keep to yourself. I'm like opportunity, I knock but once.

Facebook Causes. Not everything in life needs a cause, nor is it worthy of being a cause. Some of the "...join my cause" requests I get on Facebook are stupendously worthless. How about a Facebook Cause to Put An Immediate and Permanent End to Facebook Causes? I'm in.

Rewriting history should be a high crime. Recently, I read where some wannabe political candidate's solemn goal was to return this country to the conservative principles set forth in our Constitution. Our country's creation, the documents that laid its foundation, and the men and women who made it happen, were far from conservative. Set against the backdrop of time and place, these United States of America were founded on screamingly liberal principles. You don't have to like that idea, you just can't change it to suit your agenda, whatever it might be.

"Judge" Cosgrove. This means nothing, my support or confidence is of little consequence or value to the man. Admitting that, I will also say that Joe Cosgrove is one hell of a great choice for "interim" judge.

The first snow of the season. It was encouraging to notice that life didn't come to a full stop because of some plow-able snow. Looking out at my deck, I see three inches. Could it be that us citizens of NE PA are finally getting over snow fever, that delirium which causes great fret and sweat over the mere mention of snow? Hey, another idea for a FB Cause - Put An Immediate and Permanent End to the use of the term "white stuff?"

Time to go play in the snow.

It's Not A Lionel...

Trains and Christmas.

Inseparable.

Inextricably intertwined, like mistletoe and holly, like Macy's and Gimbles. Whether running in circles 'neath your tree, or the real deal holding you up at a grade crossing when you're in a hurry, trains say Christmas and Christmas says trains.

I suppose we have Lionel to thank for that. We might also owe some gratitude to A.C. Gilbert Co., maker of American Flyer.

Toy trains are pretty darned cool. Me, I love the real thing, the prototype upon which those miniatures are modeled.

Keeping the relationship alive means a thank you to Steamtown and the Canadian Pacific Railway Company.

This Saturday past, Steamtown was the starting point for the CP's Holiday Train, a train that begins in Scranton, and get this, ends its trip in Port Moody, British Columbia. That's one heck of a trans-continental run, all by rail, rail existing right here in NE PA. The possibilities for rail travel are amazing. The realities are pathetic.

It's a bit sad that the railroad that brings us the Holiday Train is a Canadian corporation, not American, even though America all but invented railroading as it was practiced at its peak. Even at that, thanks are due Candadian Pacific.

The peak of the American railroad was no more evident than it was in NE PA, and more particularly, in the City of Scranton, where the Delaware Lackawanna and Western Railroad, one of the nation's finest, was begun and headquartered in Scranton for beyond 100 years.

Just wanted to toss some photos of this great event out there. If you think you see any ghostly figures, sorry, they ain't. These three photos were the result of long exposures with my camera on tripod, during which time people moved in, out, and through the shot, while the locomotive was static.

The locomotive is CP 9824, a General Electric AC4400CW. A diesel-electric built by General Electric in, I do believe, Erie. That's foamer stuff.

How Black Was It?

With all the palaver about Black Friday, I find comfort in knowing that the madness has nothing to do with me, for I do not, will not, shop on Black Friday.

I doubt much I'll ever see that movie over there either, never heard of it. However, a man-made monster on the loose does sort of sound like Black Friday, no?

Give me some plain old Monday or Tuesday afternoon, about 2:00 or so, and I can glide like a misplaced Santa Ana wind on a cold Mid-Atlantic day through whatever Christmas shopping needs to be done.

Indeed. There have been years when all of mine was done under one roof. And I don't mean an array of stores under a mall's roof, I mean in one store with several floors, one roof, one credit card bill. If there was a stack of receipts for returns, they were all from the same retailer. Real easy, it's fine way to do business.

There was a year before we were married when my wife was somewhat dazzled when I took her along to the aforementioned Globe Store, where I wheeled through departments and floors in under ninety minutes, doing every bit of my Christmas shopping save for hers. The very next day I did come back, alone, and did literally finish the shopping by grabbing what I'd eyeballed for her the day previous. If I'd had the good sense, and been a bit devious, I could have sent her in search of some bogus item on another floor, that way I could have knocked off Christmas with one trip.

Happily, those days are not all gone, we still have Boscov's right here where we call home. I suppose other parts of our country have their department store here or there. Really big cities do have them. Small to medium cities may not.

About the only concession I make to the day itself is in wondering just why so many assume the persona of someone, some thing else the day after Thanksgiving.

We know them. We're related to some of them. Others of them are good friends, maybe neighbors, maybe even people we don't much care for, and maybe we don't because their shopping gene ran off its tracks long, long ago. One such derailed sort couldn't give a respectable answer when I years back asked as to why he busted his hump all day Thanksgiving entertaining a houseful of family and friends, then got out of bed long before the sun rose to stand salivating while waiting for a door to open at some store or another. He had no answer. Fact is, he seemed shocked anyone would ask.

If you like it, do it.

I don't, so I won't.

The term Black Firday allegedly is east coast in origin, dating back to the mid-60s or so. Consider this newspaper clipping:

JANUARY 1966 -- "Black Friday" is the name which the Philadelphia Police Department has given to the Friday following Thanksgiving Day. It is not a term of endearment to them. "Black Friday" officially opens the Christmas shopping season in center city, and it usually brings massive traffic jams and over-crowded sidewalks as the downtown stores are mobbed from opening to closing.

How true? Haven't a clue. A short twenty or fewer years ago, the epicenter of Black Friday madness was Sugerman's, where it is said certain cars were seen to drive in, never to drive out until somewhere in early Spring. It was also once observed that whatever happened to you on Black Friday, should you enter Sugerman's property, you had it coming, it was your own fault, that if you went anywhere near there on Black Friday, you deserved what you got.

So, what did I do this fine Black Friday?

Well, I'll tell you this, my first thought was to stay home. Giving it a second and third think, a tour seemed like a fair idea. No shopping, mind you, not even a consideration, mind you, just a look at what should be "prime" locations for Black Friday overload. An inspection tour, if you will.

A couple of disclaimers here; 1) There was little thought given where to start or where to end, 2) The tour commenced mid-afternoon, by which time most pre-sunrise Black Friday adherents were likely snug in their beds, or on their couches, or wish the hell they were.

Starting in downtown Wilkes-Barre, there were no crowds. The Square was empty, no traffic tied-up, backed up, no hustle, no bustle. All was calm, all was bright, since the city's tree and lights on Public Square looked pretty darned good.

Swinging on down South Main and then on up Blackman Street, I came at the arena hub and mall area from the south. No traffic jams, no long waits at lights. Strange and unexpected.

Highland Boulevard, Mundy Street, then actually into the mall's parking lot, no problems. Sure, there were plenty of people out and moving around, but not in the abundance I'd anticipated. Not a delay to be had. They just don't make Black Fridays like they used to. I took a second to grab a shot at the west end of the mall, where there was plenty of parking. Not exactly my finest moment in photography, unless storm drains and parking lot painting were a specialty. You do, though, get the point.

Does plenty of parking on Black Friday mean anything? I really don't know. Possibilities might include that shoppers are rolling the dice, figuring better deals lie ahead if they hold out, maybe next week, the week after. Could be that the dizziness of Christmas spending is perhaps beginning to slow a little after countless runaway years.

For me, it was an OK way to spend a couple hours. And I didn't come home with a headache.

It's An Annual Affair...

Ever year it happens, and it happens right about this time.

Thoughts of Christmases past don't wake me deep in darkness, they don't haunt my dreams, they don't rise from the mist of a bowl of late night gruel. I haven't heard any chains rattling.

These are warm and fuzzy thoughts, ones that clearly and routinely march right on through my consciousness every single season.

The Globe Store, seen at left in 1991, was the center of our universe way back when, at least at Christmastime. In acknowledgment of my Boy Scout Oath, let me level with you in saying that I poached the photo, having no idea whose it is.

As with so many other damned shames in my life, it's a damned shame I have no photos of my own of The Globe, even though I had to have passed the store on a regular basis for well in excess of twenty years with camera gear in my car or truck. Heck, I grew up no more than a twenty minute walk from the store. As a kid old enough to go "downtown" on my own, three different cranky old Scranton Transit Company buses passed near home hourly, each one could have dropped me at The Globe's front doors, and there were many front doors, revolving and standard, one of which was a direct connection to store's basement and the world that awaited there.

You'd have to suppose that most of us never bothered to take a picture or two because, well, because of one simply stupid notion - The Globe would always be there, right?

In 1994, all holders of the same notion were disabused of that foolishness when The Globe shut down, cutting loose 400 employees, its assets seized by a bank that for generations had literally been the store's neighbor.

Although it might be a bit hard to believe, here and now after fifteen years of being Globe-less, The Globe was initially an anchor tenant of the newly built Mall at Steamtown, connected to the mall itself by the walkway that still spans Lackawanna Avenue.

In an act that now looks like no more than appeasement, the mall's builders, or maybe backers, or maybe city leaders, insisted The Globe be included in the deal and become an easily accessible extension of the mall. Or, when you really take an honest look at things, it might have been little more than a gesture of fondness, of sentimentality for an institution that had played such a major role in the lives of Scrantonians for nearly one hundred years.

So, why no Globe? That's not all that tough a question to answer.

We could pick over the bones of The Globe's failure to stay current with merchandise, to stock that which people were demanding by the late '80s and early '90s. To make that statement would be no lie. So much in our society is bound tightly to relevance. Once those bindings come undone, relevance slips away. The Globe was yet one more victim of slipping relevance.

A movement that had begun over twenty years previous finally caught up with and consumed The Globe, and hundreds of others like it across the country. The shock is not so much that they failed, but rather that Scranton's Globe Store sustained as long as it did.

We've all heard about "...no stopping an idea whose time has come." That sentence needs a second phrase, which should be, "...and there's no saving an idea whose time is up, over, and done."

The great American downtown department store is largely gone, save for our very own Boscov's in Wilkes-Barre. Here's wishing all there a prosperous and very busy holiday shopping season.

I still want to walk up to The Globe's Toyland and see Santa sitting with a pile of kids all goggle-eyed waiting to sit on his lap. No doubt about it, I'd tell a grand jury this under oath; The Globe always had the best Santa Claus in town.

With no shame, I miss The Globe, and miss it very much.

Merry Globe Store memories to all...

I've Tried...I Can't...I Give Up

Anything homemade beats anything out of a jar, or a box, or a can, or a package of any kind.

That's an immutable, a given, a fact of life as we've been told over and over again by cooks, chefs, gourmets, gourmands, and moms and grandmas since our ancestors found fire.

Before fire, everything tasted like dirt and twigs.

After fire, maybe everything tasted like chicken.


"How's that gator, Dave?"


"It tastes like chicken, Ed."


"Why we eatin' gator, Dave?"

Is your gator lacking that certain something you've come to expect in a reptile? If so, what won't help is my not-at-all-famous and not-very-good homemade barbecue sauce. And, yes, gator tastes like chicken.

God Lord, I have tried and tried; then tried again and again. I can't do it. It's beyond my reach. I simply cannot make barbecue sauce that's any better than what comes in a bottle or jar.

Sometimes, it's not nearly as good as what comes in that jar or bottle. Sometimes, that cheap house-brand sludge that's mostly molasses tastes better than the stuff I slow cook right there with loving affection in my home.

You go with what you got, right? And what I got is that I am pretty darned good in the kitchen. No false display of modesty for me, it's true, it's an acquired skill. I worked at it, I learned basics over the years. I can cook better than most, although many cook better than me.

I heard it once said that, if you can read, you can cook. True? Nearly but not entirely. Reading, patience, caring, and attentiveness are also necessary to cook. You got all that, you got it made.

Since the '70s, I have studied, I have read. I have watched, I have listened. I have learned. Among the secrets is balance. Balancing flavors, complimenting flavors, knowing what works together, what does not. You must be smart and humble enough not to force together those that do not work. You build a dish. You build it layer by layer, layers of flavor. I know this, accept this, practice this.

To be clear, there is no formal training involved, and I surely could never run/manage a kitchen or a restaurant. But there is not a dish made in any restaurant, fine or otherwise, that I cannot make as well or better at home...then I hit that barbecue sauce wall.

Not all that long ago I gathered up the ingredients, while conjuring up the balance of flavors that would make for a genuinely good barbecue sauce. Layer by layer, I built the sauce element by element. Gently tinkering with apricot preserves which would play off the sharp edge of the crushed tomatoes, wedding the balance with sweet onion and next the tomato paste.

Then, just enough fresh garlic so that the palate would notice should it be missing. Fresh ground pepper, kosher salt, trace amounts of cumin and Worcestershire, a dash of turmeric to linger and nip at the tongue, and all then readied for a slow simmering. A few splats of a Louisiana hot sauce, a pinch, no make it two, of cayenne, the symphony was about to begin.

Wielding the baton to make beautiful the melody of barbecue sauce is that standard of standards when it comes to condiments. We're talking good old fashioned tomato ketchup, or catsup should you prefer. Good, finest quality, American ketchup. Heinz, what else? Many barbecue sauce makers don't want you to know the dirty little secret, but it's the ketchup that can put the magic in that gently bubbling dark red velvet.

Deep crimson, dark and smooth. Appealing to the eye, a very important ingredient itself, for the Chinese say you eat first with the eye.

Hours later...

"I wasn't crazy about the barbecue sauce." That's my wife. She's quick to praise my cooking, slow to criticize.

"Yeah, me neither." That's me. She was right. No need to feel at all deflated.

End of conversation on the barbecue sauce. End of me making barbecue sauce.

The next night it was Gruyere stuffed pork medallions with a balsamic port reduction sauce, sitting alongside a rutabaga carrot soufflé with a saute of shittake mushrooms? Tremendous, worthy of compliment, maybe could even win me a prize of some sort.

Barbecue sauce? Never made one worth a damn, but I have made my last, and that's a promise. Oh, my spaghetti sauce needs work, too.

Autumn's Finale...

I suppose last weekend was it. We drove. We looked. We searched. We made due with what was to be found.

The foliage just never got here this year, as has been the case for quite some time, which I did grumble about before.

Finding apples and pumpkins was a plus, it helped to fill in the gaps left by the lack of that precise mix of water, temperature, warmth and chilliness, that can force the stunning show it sometimes does.

For good measure, and with really no thought given to the approach of Halloween, we stopped and walked a small graveyard, lingering in imagination at the lives long ago begun and ended by some of the original settlers in this particular piece of Luzerne County, very near the Wyoming County line. Some of the dead here have been such since before the Civil War.

The surname upon most markers is Dymond, a familiar name to many of us. Dymond's strawberries, blueberries, and hayrides bring an annual trip to the country for a lot of folks in the Wyoming Valley. Right down the road from Dymond's farm is Brace's Orchards. Brace is likewise a name to be found on some markers in this small family cemetery. Those are baskets of Brace's apples up there. Spectacular.

This place, before I forget, is Dymond Hollow. If you're ever of a mind to make the trip, it's not far from Fitch's Corners, on Creamery Road. You'll know you're there when you spot the Dymond Hollow United Methodist Church, a pretty little place with a very active congregation, I'm told.

Personally, I'd like to offer thanks to the deity that places like these still exist and that folks still live nearby and gather for chicken and biscuit suppers in small country churches.

I had to have said this before, but America isn't New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. America is everything else in-between.

I like living in-between.

The Cliches of Autumn...

It's really hard to avoid the photographic cliche when the days again grow short.

Earth-tones, water, sky, late afternoon light, they all say the same thing - it's Fall.

Looking for newness in Fall subject matter takes work, work I'm willing to do, and willing to travel to find. The net result, though, seems pretty much the same.

You drive to where the apples are, search out a blanket of pumpkins, find that looking glass lake. It's pretty much the same.

Getting the right mix of clouds and deep blue skies is a big boost and the only thing you can do to achieve that effect is be patient. You wait, you watch, you'll get what you want. Or you can Photoshop. Nothing here has been "shopped."

Photographic or otherwise, the cliche is a cliche, I think, because there is some truth to it.

Not all that long ago I was listening to "The Girl from Ipanema," the original hit version done by Stan Getz with vocals by Astrud Gilberto.

If ever a song became cliche, that was it. Grammy Award or not, cliche it is, still to this day, the song is cliche.

It became such because so many people loved the song which, in turn, forced countless entertainers to cover the song. Good, bad, somewhere in the middle, hundreds, thousands, did "...Ipanema" at one time or another, making it cliche. You don't play or listen to a song over, and over, and over again because you hate it. If you do, try adjusting the aluminum foil hat a hair to the left and back.

Challenging "...Ipanema" might be McCartney's "Yesterday." It's been reported that "Yesterday" has been commercially recorded over 3,000 times. Cliche? Sure. Great? Absolutely.

My point? Cliche doesn't mean bad. Quite the opposite, really, cliche more means well-liked, maybe even loved. You might be tired of hearing something, looking at something, or listening to it, but that's because it was once popular enough to be elevated to the level of cliche.

Know this, there is nothing in the world of the cliche that didn't earn its position. It takes years of repetition for the patina of cliche to slowly accumulate on any given object, phrase, tune, or even a way of life.

People can be cliche. I was a TV weatherman for over twenty years. Does it get any more cliche than that?

Sad to say, cliche or otherwise, this year's foliage was simply unspectacular. By the looks of it, roughly a week before November, we'll get no breathtaking show this year again. By my reckoning, it might be as many as ten years since Autumn's wow-factor turned heads. Nice, to be sure, but not up there at knockout level.

It's the last weekend in October. From here at home, the day is slowly turning from drippy and overcast to low clouds breaking for some sun. There are way more leaves on the ground than in the trees. Pieced together, it's a somewhat forlorn sight.

The location of each photo, top to bottom, is:

• Brace's Orchards, Franklin Township.
• Darling Farms, Dallas Township.
• Frances Slocum State Park, Kingston Township.
• Ford's Pond, RD Clarks Summit.
• Brace's Cider Mill, Franklin Township.
  

It's 2009's last weekend to capture even more Cliches of Autumn. I'll give it a good try.