Monday, August 31, 2009
Sic Semper Tyranus — Water Bottles
I am no longer a fan of water bottles purchased by the case, thrown in the shopping cart as an afterthought, and left in the trunk of the car just in case someone gets thirsty. I am not interested in the fact that the walls of said bottles are really thin, and thus use less plastic. I care even less about the recuperative powers of artisan spring water, considering that the supposed spring water is pumped from city water supplies in factories, the water being drawn from Lake Michigan. I know I have peed in Lake Michigan more than once, and I don't swim there very often. And I think fish pee there as well.
Using my own family as the basis of all my research, we as a society have gotten lazy and stupid about drinking water. Hydration is important, but not important enough to remain a part of the insanity that is the bottled water industry. It's marketed as being important and affordable, but when they started adding vitamins, as they did with Lucky Charms, to make it seem healthful, then they are turning back on the original premise of bottle water being more pure than tap water.
When I was a kid, my brothers and I often got thirsty in the car when driving around with our parents. We would complain. My mother would tell us to hold up our cup, and she would press the imaginary button on the non-existent fountain in our car, and she would make a hissing sound intended to remind us of water poring into a cup. But we didn't have a cup. The cup was imaginary, just like the fountain and the button. Her worry and concern for our thirst was also non-existent. We didn't have water in the car, so we were going to have to wait. The only things we had were thirst, sarcasm, and my mother's bad sound effects.
We survived, though, in spite of these deep hardships. Granted, we as a society spend more time in vehicles. We also use seat belts more regularly than when I was a child, so there's an increased chance that we'll survive a crash, especially one where the car rolls down the side of a ravine and is not found by rescuers for several days. In that scenario, it is important to have fresh water with you, preferably by your side in case you are pinned into your seat and unable to access the trunk where there is a shrink-wrapped case of water bottles at the ready.
Wall Drug, the tourist trap somewhere in South Dakota, exploited the no-water-in-the-car mentality with cryptic, intriguing signs placed along interstate 80, encouraging children to nag their parents during road trips to go drink the "free" water at Wall Drug. The venerable bumper-sticker slogan, "Where in the World is Wall Drug" can be reasonably replaced with "Who Cares About Wall Drug" simply because every middle-class car in America has a three day supply of bottled water in the trunk just in case of a roll-over accident.
So what's my point? I am now using a more permanent water bottle, one with a wide mouth that should be easy enough to clean. I keep it hanging around the house for those moments when I'm going for a ride, and I think I may want to use the trip for hydration as well as travel. If I'm truly around the house, I use a glass and maybe crack a little ice into it for style.
If given the chance, Nestle, or whichever greedy corporate entity it is that has set up water bottling factories in the Great Lakes States, would likely pump every drop of water out of the Great Lakes, and send that water, one bottle at a time, to whoever is willing to pay for it. If that happens, the land bridge between America and Canada will be established, and we'll be at risk for invasion by the Canucks. Although that nightmare scenario is unlikely, I'm still tired of paying more for water than I do for gasoline when I stop at Speedway.
I know my mother would have brought water along if it were socially acceptable back in the 1960s. She did her best, and the lousy sound effects distracted us enough that we forgot about our thirst for the moment. My mother, God rest her soul, did take us to Wall Drug. Once there, we had a cool drink of water. It was yummy, perhaps because we had waited, and had the opportunity to anticipate what that water would be like. She also bought the bumper sticker.
Using my own family as the basis of all my research, we as a society have gotten lazy and stupid about drinking water. Hydration is important, but not important enough to remain a part of the insanity that is the bottled water industry. It's marketed as being important and affordable, but when they started adding vitamins, as they did with Lucky Charms, to make it seem healthful, then they are turning back on the original premise of bottle water being more pure than tap water.
When I was a kid, my brothers and I often got thirsty in the car when driving around with our parents. We would complain. My mother would tell us to hold up our cup, and she would press the imaginary button on the non-existent fountain in our car, and she would make a hissing sound intended to remind us of water poring into a cup. But we didn't have a cup. The cup was imaginary, just like the fountain and the button. Her worry and concern for our thirst was also non-existent. We didn't have water in the car, so we were going to have to wait. The only things we had were thirst, sarcasm, and my mother's bad sound effects.
We survived, though, in spite of these deep hardships. Granted, we as a society spend more time in vehicles. We also use seat belts more regularly than when I was a child, so there's an increased chance that we'll survive a crash, especially one where the car rolls down the side of a ravine and is not found by rescuers for several days. In that scenario, it is important to have fresh water with you, preferably by your side in case you are pinned into your seat and unable to access the trunk where there is a shrink-wrapped case of water bottles at the ready.
Wall Drug, the tourist trap somewhere in South Dakota, exploited the no-water-in-the-car mentality with cryptic, intriguing signs placed along interstate 80, encouraging children to nag their parents during road trips to go drink the "free" water at Wall Drug. The venerable bumper-sticker slogan, "Where in the World is Wall Drug" can be reasonably replaced with "Who Cares About Wall Drug" simply because every middle-class car in America has a three day supply of bottled water in the trunk just in case of a roll-over accident.
So what's my point? I am now using a more permanent water bottle, one with a wide mouth that should be easy enough to clean. I keep it hanging around the house for those moments when I'm going for a ride, and I think I may want to use the trip for hydration as well as travel. If I'm truly around the house, I use a glass and maybe crack a little ice into it for style.
If given the chance, Nestle, or whichever greedy corporate entity it is that has set up water bottling factories in the Great Lakes States, would likely pump every drop of water out of the Great Lakes, and send that water, one bottle at a time, to whoever is willing to pay for it. If that happens, the land bridge between America and Canada will be established, and we'll be at risk for invasion by the Canucks. Although that nightmare scenario is unlikely, I'm still tired of paying more for water than I do for gasoline when I stop at Speedway.
I know my mother would have brought water along if it were socially acceptable back in the 1960s. She did her best, and the lousy sound effects distracted us enough that we forgot about our thirst for the moment. My mother, God rest her soul, did take us to Wall Drug. Once there, we had a cool drink of water. It was yummy, perhaps because we had waited, and had the opportunity to anticipate what that water would be like. She also bought the bumper sticker.
Labels: story
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Ultimate Sacrifice
The house where I grew up was small, but we were happy. Relatively happy, I should say, because we didn't know any better, and pretty much everybody we knew lived in the same size house. There was, however, a problem that was difficult to ignore: one bathroom for five people. Looking back, I now believe that one drawback to indoor plumbing is that the things you do in a bathroom have to be done in the house.
The real question, though, is how did my mother survive all of those years amongst four men? The house was built in the late 1940s, and was of a simple design. A square foundation, 30 feet on a side, for a 900 square foot home. The main floor was divided into four rooms: kitchen, living room, master bedroom, and an "other" bedroom. Part of the space that would have made the "other" bedroom decent sized was devoted to the bathroom.
It was difficult for that many adults to live in that amount of space in the 1960s. If we were Mexicans then, yeah, sure, no problem, or if we were Eastern European immigrants in the 1900s—but we were neither of those things, so my father converted the attic into a bedroom for his three sons. We each had our own bed and a dresser for clothing. With the problem of sleeping space corrected, that other bedroom was converted to "TV Room". In it we could fit a sofa, an end table with a lamp, and a television—and that was all that we could fit.
We would pile into that room as a family: some sitting on the sofa, the rest recumbent in front of the television. It seemed comfortable and serene. We were warm, and cozy, and together. But there was a problem.
The problem with togetherness is that we all emit odors. Teenage boys especially. We also expel gas. It can be a very serious problem. Oddly enough, amongst family, you achieve a certain familiarity with these various bodily functions that does not cause embarrassment (although perhaps it still should). At times the stench would be so great that we would tell each other, "Hey, go to the bathroom, because I think you just shit your pants."
The bathroom, however, was no escape. The shared wall would not mask the various noises one makes on a toilet. Because of its age, that bathroom also had no vent the way modern homes do, so the air could only circulate back into the house. (There was a window, but, during most of the year, it could not be opened.) That bathroom and our TV room shared a heating vent, in fact, so if the furnace was not blowing hot air, then smells were wafting forth and back between the rooms.
And yet we recall those days fondly. We do not linger on the unhappy moments, unlike the smells that lingered in the air during Mary Tyler Moore and Bob Newhart. We didn't know it at the time but we had invented Smellivision and, unfortunately, it was tuned to a station featuring a forever-length movie about Uranus.
The real question, though, is how did my mother survive all of those years amongst four men? The house was built in the late 1940s, and was of a simple design. A square foundation, 30 feet on a side, for a 900 square foot home. The main floor was divided into four rooms: kitchen, living room, master bedroom, and an "other" bedroom. Part of the space that would have made the "other" bedroom decent sized was devoted to the bathroom.
It was difficult for that many adults to live in that amount of space in the 1960s. If we were Mexicans then, yeah, sure, no problem, or if we were Eastern European immigrants in the 1900s—but we were neither of those things, so my father converted the attic into a bedroom for his three sons. We each had our own bed and a dresser for clothing. With the problem of sleeping space corrected, that other bedroom was converted to "TV Room". In it we could fit a sofa, an end table with a lamp, and a television—and that was all that we could fit.
We would pile into that room as a family: some sitting on the sofa, the rest recumbent in front of the television. It seemed comfortable and serene. We were warm, and cozy, and together. But there was a problem.
The problem with togetherness is that we all emit odors. Teenage boys especially. We also expel gas. It can be a very serious problem. Oddly enough, amongst family, you achieve a certain familiarity with these various bodily functions that does not cause embarrassment (although perhaps it still should). At times the stench would be so great that we would tell each other, "Hey, go to the bathroom, because I think you just shit your pants."
The bathroom, however, was no escape. The shared wall would not mask the various noises one makes on a toilet. Because of its age, that bathroom also had no vent the way modern homes do, so the air could only circulate back into the house. (There was a window, but, during most of the year, it could not be opened.) That bathroom and our TV room shared a heating vent, in fact, so if the furnace was not blowing hot air, then smells were wafting forth and back between the rooms.
And yet we recall those days fondly. We do not linger on the unhappy moments, unlike the smells that lingered in the air during Mary Tyler Moore and Bob Newhart. We didn't know it at the time but we had invented Smellivision and, unfortunately, it was tuned to a station featuring a forever-length movie about Uranus.
Labels: memoir
W8 Monitr is dead -- Long Live W8 Loss
This is a notice that my interactive web site, w8monitr.com, will no longer be available at that address. I'm pulling it down for re-tooling.
However, I have also had a series of articles there that discuss my weight loss, nutrition, and healthy lifestyle. Those I want to persist, and they'll be available here at MickeyHadick.com in the articles section.
However, I have also had a series of articles there that discuss my weight loss, nutrition, and healthy lifestyle. Those I want to persist, and they'll be available here at MickeyHadick.com in the articles section.
Labels: administrative, personal growth
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Big vs. The Wizard of Oz
I caught the ending of "Big" the other day as I was flipping through channels. To quote a wiser man than myself, "Big" is one of those movies that, if you happen to stumble upon it as you are getting dressed, even if you are just-out-of-the-shower-bare-ass naked, you will sit on the edge of the bed and watch whatever remains of that movie.
In the final fifteen minutes, as Tom Hanks's character (Josh) finally confronts his dilemma, I noticed some subtle things I don't remember. He's making the presentation for his interactive comic book, and is describing how the child playing with the comic book will run out of options and finally discover what he has to do to win the game. That's when the light goes on for him, and he makes his final choice.
Maybe everybody in the world noticed that, and keeps it fresh in their memory, but I had not, so I was struck by the elegance in the story telling. Perhaps it was a bit heavy-handed to unplug Zoltan the Fortune Teller before making his wish, but embedding the solution to his problem within the context of his work is pretty clever.
They attempted the same thing in "The Wizard of Oz", but I always found it dissatisfying that the ruby slippers had the power all that time while Dorothy absolutely, positively, wanted to get home. In today's parlance, Dorothy had every right to say, "Are you f***ing kidding me?" She embarked on the journey for the sole purpose of getting home, whereas Josh resists going home; in fact, once he became intimate with Susan, Josh seriously considers staying. All of Dorothy's trials during her journey were contrived to delay her; Josh's adventure made plain to him what he needed to do.
Both movies suffer from Ex Deus Machina in that Glinda and Zoltan hold magical powers that start and stop the action. Well I can forgive that. But if forced to choose, I'd watch "Big". I might, however, flip over to "The Wizard of Oz" to catch that scene when the hair stylists in the Emerald City are giving the Cowardly Lion the old once-over—those babes were put together.
In the final fifteen minutes, as Tom Hanks's character (Josh) finally confronts his dilemma, I noticed some subtle things I don't remember. He's making the presentation for his interactive comic book, and is describing how the child playing with the comic book will run out of options and finally discover what he has to do to win the game. That's when the light goes on for him, and he makes his final choice.
Maybe everybody in the world noticed that, and keeps it fresh in their memory, but I had not, so I was struck by the elegance in the story telling. Perhaps it was a bit heavy-handed to unplug Zoltan the Fortune Teller before making his wish, but embedding the solution to his problem within the context of his work is pretty clever.
They attempted the same thing in "The Wizard of Oz", but I always found it dissatisfying that the ruby slippers had the power all that time while Dorothy absolutely, positively, wanted to get home. In today's parlance, Dorothy had every right to say, "Are you f***ing kidding me?" She embarked on the journey for the sole purpose of getting home, whereas Josh resists going home; in fact, once he became intimate with Susan, Josh seriously considers staying. All of Dorothy's trials during her journey were contrived to delay her; Josh's adventure made plain to him what he needed to do.
Both movies suffer from Ex Deus Machina in that Glinda and Zoltan hold magical powers that start and stop the action. Well I can forgive that. But if forced to choose, I'd watch "Big". I might, however, flip over to "The Wizard of Oz" to catch that scene when the hair stylists in the Emerald City are giving the Cowardly Lion the old once-over—those babes were put together.
Labels: memoir
Monday, August 24, 2009
Gizella's Torte Cake
This is the recipe for my grandmother's (Gizella's) torte cake, scaled down for eight inch pans...
Top and Bottom Layers
8 egg yolks
8 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp vanilla
8 egg whites
4 Tbsp flour
Preheat oven to 375. Beat the egg yolks, sugar, and vanilla for 12 minutes (and we mean BEAT).
Fold the flour into the beaten egg yolks (slowly).
Beat the egg whites until fluffy. Fold the egg whites into the above mixture. When combined, pour evenly into two greased, eight inch pans. Bake for 25 minutes at 375.
Middle Layer
4 egg yolks
4 Tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
4 egg whites
1 Tbsp cocoa
4 Tbsp ground walnuts
2 Tbsp bread crumbs
Beat the egg yolks, sugar, and vanilla for 25 minutes. Fold in the cocoa.
Beat the egg whites and fold into above mixture. Add the walnuts and bread crumbs. Bake for 25 minutes at 375 in an eight inch, greased pan.
Filling
1/2 lb. sweet butter
2 cups ground walnuts
1/2 cup milk (scalded)
6 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
3 Tbsp bread crumbs
Beat the butter and sugar and vanilla. Pour the scalded milk over the walnuts and combine. Add sugar and bread crumbs.
Use the above mixture between the layers of the cake. Then frost with chocolate frosting.
This cake is very dense, and can be savored in small portions.
My grandmother, and then my mother, made this for family celebrations. It has been made with as many as 42 eggs, and can be used to feed an army. In fact, if Kaiser Wilhelm had enlisted the Imperial Chef of the Hapsburgs, and served Viennese Torte cakes to the Wermacht, they would have marched through Moscow before winter set in, and the world would be a very different place. Instead of Little Debbie Devil's Food Cakes, we'd all snack on "Kaiser Willie Tortes". But what do I know? It's not like I'm happy or anything.
One additional note is that I have no idea how they made this before the age of electric appliances. The above can take three hours, and tears apart the kitchen. How Gizella did it with just a wooden spoon is beyond me.
Top and Bottom Layers
8 egg yolks
8 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp vanilla
8 egg whites
4 Tbsp flour
Preheat oven to 375. Beat the egg yolks, sugar, and vanilla for 12 minutes (and we mean BEAT).
Fold the flour into the beaten egg yolks (slowly).
Beat the egg whites until fluffy. Fold the egg whites into the above mixture. When combined, pour evenly into two greased, eight inch pans. Bake for 25 minutes at 375.
Middle Layer
4 egg yolks
4 Tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
4 egg whites
1 Tbsp cocoa
4 Tbsp ground walnuts
2 Tbsp bread crumbs
Beat the egg yolks, sugar, and vanilla for 25 minutes. Fold in the cocoa.
Beat the egg whites and fold into above mixture. Add the walnuts and bread crumbs. Bake for 25 minutes at 375 in an eight inch, greased pan.
Filling
1/2 lb. sweet butter
2 cups ground walnuts
1/2 cup milk (scalded)
6 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
3 Tbsp bread crumbs
Beat the butter and sugar and vanilla. Pour the scalded milk over the walnuts and combine. Add sugar and bread crumbs.
Use the above mixture between the layers of the cake. Then frost with chocolate frosting.
This cake is very dense, and can be savored in small portions.
My grandmother, and then my mother, made this for family celebrations. It has been made with as many as 42 eggs, and can be used to feed an army. In fact, if Kaiser Wilhelm had enlisted the Imperial Chef of the Hapsburgs, and served Viennese Torte cakes to the Wermacht, they would have marched through Moscow before winter set in, and the world would be a very different place. Instead of Little Debbie Devil's Food Cakes, we'd all snack on "Kaiser Willie Tortes". But what do I know? It's not like I'm happy or anything.
One additional note is that I have no idea how they made this before the age of electric appliances. The above can take three hours, and tears apart the kitchen. How Gizella did it with just a wooden spoon is beyond me.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I tried to make a 21 egg torte cake, but used the wrong size ns and they didn't bake through. The lesson: follow the directions even if the recipe is vague.
Labels: mistake
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Beer Heals All Wounds
In light of the recent "Beer Summit" I told a story from my past that resulted in a similar settling of differences over beer. This one is posted to my articles section, and is itself called "Beer Heals All Wounds." It's about me, the cherry tree I climbed as a child, and a dispute with a stranger that resulted in a fist fight.
Many years ago, men frequently settled disputes with fisticuffs. That doesn't happen nearly as often. I'm not saying we should have a Fight Club or anything, but maybe we should have a "Raise Your Voice and Bare Your Teeth" club; we are primates, after all.
Many years ago, men frequently settled disputes with fisticuffs. That doesn't happen nearly as often. I'm not saying we should have a Fight Club or anything, but maybe we should have a "Raise Your Voice and Bare Your Teeth" club; we are primates, after all.
Labels: memoir, story, toastmaster
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