What's in a name?

Since becoming a member of the Nutmeg state, I've always wondered how Connecticut earned its unusual nickname. Well, thanks to a back issue of the fun publication Hog River Journal, my questions have been answered. Many of you lifers probably know this tale, but for those who don't, read on:

During the years surrounding 1800, Connecticut sea captains actively traded Wethersfield onions—used largely to feed Caribbean slaves—for much-sought-after nutmeg, a spice grown only on the West Indian island of Granada and in the Mollucas islands of Indonesia. Also during this time, young Connecticut men ventured in ever-increasing numbers to the American South and Midwest to peddle the clocks, buttons, needles, and other sundries being produced by a host of small, new Connecticut manufactories.

These Yankee peddlers loved having the hard-shelled nutmegs—durable, light, and profitable—among their goods. They were highly desired and always easy to sell. So easy that, so the story goes, some of the craftier—and less ethical—of these Connecticut lads took to mixing wooden nutmegs in with the real ones, simultaneously increasing both their profits and their “nutmeg” supply. They, of course, counted on the fact that the purchaser wouldn’t discover the difference until the trader himself was back in the Land of Steady Habits (or was that the Provision State?). As a result of these and similar trickster-like practices, Connecticut Yankees’ reputation for clever-but-not-fully-principled trading spread widely and quickly, and the homeland of these likeable but shrewd hucksters became known as “The Nutmeg State.”

Just as their forefathers had done when they adopted as their own the song “Yankee Doodle”—a tune originally intended to ridicule Yankees for being crude rustics—Connecticans took to “Nutmeg State” the way “snake oil” took to “salesman.” At an early and quite formal dinner gathering of the Connecticut Historical Society, one of the dignitaries—following a numerous and extended series of toasts preceding his own—offered this salute to the assembled guests, “To the Nutmeg State,” he said, lifting his glass yet again. “ Where shall we find a grater?”

Yes, it's true. The nickname comes from bad businessmen. From deceit. And from people too daft to know that they were being mocked. Ah, New England. You've got to love it.

You can read the full article over here.

Old Gloria

I was six years old (almost seven) when Hurricane Gloria hit New England back in September of 1985. I remember what you'd expect a little kid to remember: the noise, being scared, seeing trees cut in half, not really understanding exactly what was going on when the eye of the storm hit and everything was calm; that sort of thing. 

Our power in Massachusetts was knocked out for about two or three days. It was fun at first, then the reality of the situation took hold. My mom grew angry because the food in the freezer went bad. My dad became frustrated and convinced that the electric company ignored small towns like the one where we lived. And I was panicked because of a television show. You see, the series premiere of Steven Spielberg's Amazing Stories was to air that Sunday. And Gloria was going to make me miss it.

Amazing Stories wasn't just any show to me. It was the show, a program my father and I were waiting to watch with baited breath since we had heard of its creation earlier that summer (Needless to say, Indiana Jones and E.T. were rather big in my household).

But big, stupid Gloria had to come and spoil the party.

I remember that Sunday evening almost more than the storm itself. Evening was beginning to roll into town. Still no power. My dad had all but given up hope. We figured, "Hey, they'll rerun the episode sometime around the holidays. We'll catch it." But we were disappointed. Stupid Gloria, I remember thinking. Ruined everything.

And then, right before the program was to start (I can't remember if it was a 7 or 8 o'clock show), boom, the lights flickered on. We were dumbstruck, like we had never experienced electricity in our lives prior to that moment. My father and I scrambled to the television and flipped it on. We turned the rotor box to adjust our antenna. It clicked into place. And there it was. Amazing Stories. The power came back just in time.

It was a miracle! It was an amazing story!

For about five minutes.

The power went back out after the opening credits. The story wasn't so amazing, after all.

We did eventually get power back that night. Of course, by then Amazing Stories was over and I was headed off to bed.

Now, you're probably wondering why I'm writing about this. Well, there's two reasons. First, this Sunday is Father's Day, and thinking back on this story reminds me of some of the fun times I've had with my father over the years. And two, I came across this funny (mostly because of its age) compilation of Connecticut news broadcasts during the peak of Gloria's wrath.

So, to all the fathers out there, enjoy your Sunday. And for all the storm enthusiasts, here's a video for you to watch: 

 

Scenes from my new office

It wasn't until I unpacked that I realized how many toys I have. Most are from when I was a kid, though I will admit to getting some as an adult. Here are a few:

Biting my tongue

Today the dog and pony show began. Our landlord brought out the first victims to look at our apartment. And, although she thought she told me about this, I was unaware of the festivities until receiving a "reminder" email 40 minutes before the first knock on our door. The Professor had a meeting and got to skip out on the fun, but I didn't have to go into work today, so I was around for the awkward meet and greets, the handshakes, and then the quick slip into the office, hoping no one would ask the fateful question:

Why are you moving?

I had come up with a few answers, none very truthful. "We want to be closer to where my wife works," was a good one, I thought, since it's technically true (we're currently only a few miles from where she teaches, however). "We're looking for a change," was another possible answer. Mysterious yet completely diplomatic. Then, if all else failed, I planned on saying "We certainly aren't moving because our neighbors seem to be drug dealers and we live near a busy corner and our car was broken into or anything."

Thankfully, in round one, I escaped any questioning. This was mainly due to the fact that, once I shook hands, I stared angrily into my computer monitor, where I brought up a live NYSE ticker. Of course, I know nothing about the stock market.

On a completely unrelated note, while sitting at my computer, letting strangers trounce around my apartment, I began thinking about Dr. Fad. I found the theme music for his show online, as well as a clip from an episode. I loved wacky wall walkers. Enjoy!

 

The green mile

I sent a friend over to the other side today.

It was my 13" Orion TV/VCR combo unit that my parents gave me as my high school graduation gift.

Sad day. In a very odd way, it was like losing a friend. I'd had it for 13 years.

The death of the Orion was slow and painful. About two or three years ago, it started to eat videotapes. Then, shortly after moving to Connecticut, it started to hum in a strange way. 

A month or so later, it wouldn't turn on. The hum turned to a scarier, electric buzz. That's when I unplugged it for good.

I spent a day looking online to try to diagnose the problem. I looked at parts to fix it, but the truth is I would have no idea what to do if I did get the right pieces.

So it was time to let the Orion go. And I wasn't about to ditch it in the bottom of a trash barrel.

                   

I strapped it into the passenger seat. Buckled it in for safety. Then I started the drive to Best Buy.

Along the way, we reminisced about the good times. The group that huddled around the television's glow for Super Bowl XXXI, when the Patriots got crushed. The mass amount of movies my budding cinephile mind watched over that tiny tube. The travels it made. Dorms. Apartments. Different states.

No more. Now the Orion was to be eCycled.

As I watched the Geek Squad tech carry the Orion away, I gave it a little salute. It's in a better place now. Maybe the plastic from its shell will become something important.

So long, friend.

Where my Foofur people at?

About once a year, Foofur comes up in conversation between myself and my wife. She claims to have never heard of the big blue dog, while I not only plead his existence, but also sing the annoying theme song from his cartoon.

This leads to the question: Do any of you remember Foofur, or was I the sole watcher of this (admittedly poor) Hanna-Barbera offering from the late '80s?

Here's the opening credits, to jog a few memories:

 

A funny related story, found on the Foofur Wikipedia page:

Foofur played a role in the case Nationwide Insurance v. Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois, 116 F.3d 1154 (7th Cir., 1997). The case dealt with an insurer's duty to defend an insured party in light of the insured's intentional acts of property damage. The insured, a drunken college student, tried to spell out "Foofur" on the football field with lighter fluid, and then burn it permanently into the astroturf. Although he did not manage to spell out more than "Foo", he did succeed in causing $600,000 damage to the astroturf. The court held that such an act was not within the insurance policy's liability coverage.

Guess this means at least one person remembers him.

Rambles while trapped in the snow

We're snowed in here in West Hartford. The Professor's college has closed. My work will be opening late. What better time than now to ramble on about a few things:

Last night, while watching the newest episode of Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels on VH1 (the guiltiest of guilty pleasures, the "I can't look away from this horrible carnage" of guilty pleasures), the Prof and I began to verbally express concern over the carbon footprint Mr. Michaels and his "ladies" are leaving traveling on tour with three large buses (which, at this point, carry only 8 people). Now, my query is this: By questioning the environmental impact left by Bret and the girls, are we, by default, smarter than everyone appearing (combined) on Rock of Love? If so, do we get a prize? Also, bonus points here, does it mean we're thinking too hard about something as stupid and vapid as a program where young women with severe daddy issues throw themselves at a faded, double-their-age rock singer with hair extensions solely to become said faded rock singer's (who, by the by, seems to keep writing songs using the same basic chord progression as his biggest hit) arm candy?

Hey, I just saw someone skiing down the road.

The passing of radio personality Paul Harvey brought back a flood of memories. Sitting in the old Chevy Citation with my Mom. Waiting to pick up my Dad at work. Hearing Harvey crackle over the AM dial (the Citation did not have FM). The rest of the story. Always waiting to hear him say that line. Most of the time I didn't care much for the stories, being as I was 4-years-old. But that voice was like a friend. Mr. Harvey will be missed.

Our upstairs neighbor, the Emperor, did not take kindly to the fact that we called him on his noisy stomping and girlfriend-pleasing. A good natured note left on his door, using words like "please" and "thank you," turned into the Emp calling the Prof "piggish" and stomping off into the night. Of course, since then, he's been quiet as a baby. We'll see where this leads . . .

Happy snow day, New England! 

Last late night

Last night marked the final episode of Late Night With Conan O'Brien. As a fond farewell, I found the clip of one of my favorite moments from the show, the "Clive Clemmons Inappropriate Television Station." I don't know why, but this sketch has stuck with me for over a decade.

I once got to see a live taping of Late Night, and I even got to sit in Conan's personal set of reserved seats, but that's a story for another day.

Fuzzy faces

As a kid, I was always amazed when my parents fumbled stories about their younger days. It just didn't seem possible that one could forget the name of a high school classmate or a childhood friend. Of course, I was in the middle of high school at the time. It was easy to remember every classmate I ever had.

Fast forward 13 years and I'm beginning to know what my parents were struggling with. And I owe this crippling annoyance to Facebook.

I really need to go to my parents' house and dig out my yearbooks. Who would have thought that social networking sites would make one want to dust off the old, hardbacked green and gold, the "stay in touch" messages and awkward senior photos? 

What's happening is I'm beginning to get random "friend" requests from people I'm pretty sure I've never met but, apparently, I graduated with. Is my mind that fuzzy? My graduating class was not that large. I would think I'd remember at least MOST of the people.

I think there needs to be rules for these kind of random blasts-from-the-past. The person requesting should, at the very least, provide some sort of relationship recap in the form of a message. Something like, "Hey, remember when we worked together that one summer?" or "Remember when we hid from that giant sloth monster in that old windmill together?" 

I'm not asking for much. Just something to jog the memory.

I realize I could just accept these people and figure out everything later, but then you end up as one of those Facebook whores that has hundreds and hundreds of friends (I'm pretty sure there are competitions out there regarding this phenomenon). No, with each request, I need to unravel the mystery. Who are you? How do I know you?

Are you really "friend" worthy?

I'm such a snob.    

Excellent things from my childhood: Boglins

I was in my parents' basement recently and came across a heap of my old toys. There was my Dukes of Hazzard race track, my container of G.I. Joe figures, some Voltron castle, and, at the very top of the pile, my Boglin.

Remember Boglins? If you weren't a nine-year-old boy in 1987, I'd venture a guess that you don't. They were these rubber puppets that came out during the Critters and Ghoulies craze of the late eighties (which, incidentally, was a craze spawned from the popularity of Gremlins a few years earlier). What was cool about the Boglins, at least what I thought was cool about them when I was a kid, was the fact that, besides allowing you to move their mouths, the good folks at Mattel inserted switches to not only shift the creature's eyes back and forth, but also blink. Oh, and the eyes glowed in the dark, which was pretty darn awesome.

 

The toys were designed to make boys scare little girls, but, since I didn't really have any little girls regularly at my house, my Boglin scared my cat. Pumpkin was a worthy adversary. He'd often give it a run for its money.

 

My particular Boglin was named Vlobb. Ah, Vlobb, I remember you well. You were the one that was advertised as the "smartest" of the Boglins. How you were smart I was never able to figure out. You didn't come with a diploma from Harvard or anything, so I always assumed you were street smart. You could get the other Boglins out of a jam if they, let's say, crossed the wrong wizard, but you probably couldn't handle doing their taxes. And you now sit in the basement. I should bring you down to Connecticut. My cat Tuesday could use a new sparring partner.

Here's a Boglins commercial:

'80s cartoons on demand!

I noticed that Comcast On Demand is offering some great cartoons for all you '80s babies out there. Right now you can watch The Smurfs, Thundercats, and The Real Ghostbusters for free. Total nostalgia trip! There's even a Ghostbusters episode available written by J. Michael Straczynski, comic writer, creator of cult series Babylon 5, and writer of the film Changeling. 

 

Thoughts on the Grinch

I must say, I thought the airing of How the Grinch Stole Christmas! on Monday night was appropriate. The moral of the story, that Christmas is not necessarily about objects and things, seemed well suited for the weary eyes of "Cyber Monday" shoppers and "Black Friday" holdovers. But I couldn't help but feel a bit conflicted in the fact that ABC continues to air the cartoon with additional commercial breaks, not only editing out portions of the story, but, effectively, using the idea that the season is NOT about presents and gifts to sell viewers MORE commercials pushing presents and gifts. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. This is how we live, isn't it?

Getting back to the cartoon, one thing that I particularly love in each viewing is the fact that, regardless of the re-masterings and HD transfers it receives, the supervisors involved still leave all of the mistakes in the animation. In an age when the Lucas' of the world completely change films to reflect modern technology, often leaving their films looking less and less human-made, such absence of interference is breathtaking. The most obvious of these "mistakes" is early in the story, when the hatted Whos carry the roast beast to the dinner table. As they walk, the smallest Who's hat blinks from white to blue. A little blip, but one I look forward to seeing every year. I remember noticing it as a child and loving the human error, and today that love remains, the fact that, even in a 40-year-old classic, there is no perfection.

Taking in the program as an adult, I have grown fascinated with the character of Max, the brown dog companion of the Grinch. What keeps the little animal so happy? The Grinch obviously treats him like dirt, yet he continues to pant and wag his tail. Is he, underneath his fur and big brown eyes, Seuss' example of an eternal optimist? Or, thinking darker, is Max some sort of "I keep coming back for more" spousal abuse victim? I'm sure an argument could be made for either case. Perhaps he always knew that happiness would come to the Grinch. That the act of helping steal Christmas would finally bring joy to his life. Conversely, maybe he has grown so accustomed to abuse that he has found happiness in the small moments when he gets to be more than a whipping post. Too afraid to leave in the middle of the night, and happy to just breathe another day.

He is a most interesting and complex character. Why does he stay with the Grinch when he could run off to the Whos during the night?

At the same time, how did these two come together in the first place? Was the Grinch once a nicer figure? Did he take in this pup out of compassion originally, or was it solely for a henchman/punching bag position? And, if the Grinch did initially act out of compassion, when and why did he turn so foul?

So many questions, so few answers. And yet, these questions are what help elevate How the Grinch Stole Christmas! to the mantle on which it continues to stand. The program has an eternally current message, wonderful moments, and characters that evolve with the viewer. It encourages repeat viewings, with each peeling back a new layer of the onion. A different piece of the puzzle is obtained, a puzzle that is solely ours.

Make your own Muppet!

Funny how I found that Muppet News Flash compilation yesterday. Today I rolled out of bed to my telephone ringing. It was my Mom. She was calling to tell me that the Muppets were on the Today Show. My Mom does this every so often. When the phone rings first thing in the morning, either an elderly relative has fallen ill or something from my childhood is on the Today Show.

Anyway, the Muppets were on to promote a really cool new area opening at FAO Schwarz called the "Muppet Whatnot Workshop." At it, children (and adults) can build their own Whatnot Muppet from scratch. What's a Whatnot? Well, click on over to the FAO website here and Kermit will tell you (basically, it's a Muppet extra that's always in the background of shots during the show).

If you can't make it to a store to make your Muppet, you can also design your own Whatnot online and have the hard working elves at FAO build it for you. Who wants to build a bear when they can have their very own Muppet?

Time for a Muppet News Flash . . .

The red hat warriors!

Fox 61 ran a piece the other night about a local Connecticut chapter of the Red Hat Society learning what is called Cane-Fu (think "beating someone with a cane"). I think such self-defense training is great, especially for those getting on in years that often feel defenseless. But, seeing these ladies in their red hats makes me wonder, will we, before long, have an elderly Warriors on our hands? When you think about it, their outfits lend themselves to many of the gangs seen in the 1979 classic. 

Here's the news story and a few stills from the movie for comparison:

Before long, they'll own the streets (until they go to bed at 9 p.m.)! No buffet is safe! No bingo tournament will avoid their influence! And, don't even think about seeing an early show at the movies!

CAN . . . YOU . . . DIG IT?!?!?!?

A link to the original piece at Fox 61 can be found here. The movie stills were taken from a UK Warriors site over here.

An apple. A day.

There's a special place in my heart for Brookfield Orchards. 

It is a place that in memories always had a clear blue sky overhead and hot apple dumplings waiting to be consumed, where the air always smelled sweet of fruit and cinnamon. Where, as I child, I'd go with my cousins and friends to play on the swings and the massive spinning wheel. Where we'd buy penny candy, candy apples, and sometimes picnic with parents. Where, as a teenager, I could escape the pressures of high school. Where I could troll around the used book section of the orchard store, fill my shelves with 25-cent paperbacks, and let my mind wander from SATs and calculus and college applications. 

It is a place of memories. Of fond, and sometimes profound memories. 

It served as the backdrop for my wedding, the greatest memory of my life. My wife and I exchanged vows in one of the front fields, surrounded by family and engulfed in the apple blossoms of springtime. Blue hung above our heads that day, and the air was as perfect as one could breathe. 

Yes, the orchard holds a special place. 

So, when my friend Mark told me that the orchard and the local Lions Club was hosting a 5-mile charity run for diabetes research, I knew I had to make the drive.

I rolled out of bed on Saturday morning, splashed some water on my face, tamed my cowlick, drank a glass of water, and got in the car. 75 minutes later, I was at the fountainhead. I signed in, paid my entry fee, and, with an hour to go before the start, stepped into the general store. 

Before long, I was stuffing a bag full of penny candy. Well, penny doesn't really apply anymore. More like dime and nickel candy. But I was happy to pay to get my Squirrel Nuts and Bulls-eyes and Banana Splits. No Mary Janes, though, which was a bit of a letdown.

Mark arrived as I was paying for my bag of sugar and a 1/2 peck of macintosh at the front of the store. I loaded my treats into the car. We sat and chatted for a few minutes, got up and stretched. And, it was then that I realized that this was the first time I had been to the orchard with Mark since my wedding day, when he served as my best man. It made me feel very sentimental for a moment.

But, time was getting closer. 

We watched as the folks choosing to walk the event lined up and left at 9:30. Then, at 9:55, we took our places at the starting line. A few words from a local politician later, we were off.

We passed fields, Lake Lashaway, orchards. The group participating was small enough that, after a mile or two, you were pretty much on your own to enjoy the quiet, cool New England morning. The roads were rough and disheveled. The volunteers were huddled at turning points, handing out water and words of encouragement. The sounds were of nature and breathing, the pat-pat of sneakers. No cars, no traffic. No sirens. No alarms. 

It was small town. It felt small town. There was a community among us. 

Having run the Hartford Half Marathon the previous weekend, it was a nice change of pace. 

Mark ended up coming in 3rd, which netted him a cool $50. I, on the other hand, scored quite possible the biggest jersey blanket in the world for coming in first in my age group (20-29, which I just squeaked into). Of course, I was the ONLY person in my age group, so that helped my chances. 

Here's a picture of me completely wrapped in the blanket:

After the awards were handed out, I got back into the car. I pulled away from the orchard around 11:30. The sun was out. The breeze was up. 

It was another memory of the place to file away. 

"Thanks for coming! Hope to see you next year," one of the organizers said to me as I was leaving.

Something tells me her hope will come true. I can't stay away from this place.

Neal Hefti, "Batman" theme writer, has died

I just read that Neal Hefti, television theme writer and trumpeter, has passed away. He was 85. Though his repertoire contained numerous jingles and themes, my personal favorite was his title song for the television series Batman.

Here's his theme in action:

A bibbi-babka interlude

While making dinner tonight, the Professor and I, for reasons unknown, began to sing the "Bibbi-Babka" song from our childhood ABC television staple Perfect Strangers. This lead to a hunt online for the actual video of the song, sung by cousins Larry and Balki. To our joy, it was not difficult to find. 

However, while watching our treasured "Bibby-Babka" clip, we realized how unfunny Perfect Strangers actually was. Hearing the audience cackle made me wonder how many drinks the stage manager plied them with before letting anyone into the studio.

This is the problem with revisitation. Revisiting childhood television always leaves the viewer open for potential disappointment. For every Cosby Show, which, in my opinion, still holds up fairly well, there's a Sledge Hammer, a show I absolutely loved as a child, but couldn't stand to watch when I rented the DVD of season one.

Though tempted to watch more clips of Perfect Strangers, I decided to let my memory retain the show and characters as the version seen through the eyes of a kid twenty years ago. That's probably the only way it can continue to be enjoyable.

Okay, I did watch this MC Hammer-inspired number. Then I called it a day.

 

Sunday night thoughts

I have come to realize that any activity - ANY ACTIVITY - can be sung to the chorus of Gloria Estefan's "Rhythm is Gonna Get You." Seriously, give it a try. I do it all day long. It just sticks in my head. I find myself driving along, singing things like: Going to get groceries, driving to get groceries, going to get groceries . . . driving to get groceries . . . to-day!

The movie Meatballs has been on cable nearly non-stop lately. One ill-advised morning the Professor and I began to watch it, curled up on the couch, munching away at breakfast and reading the newspaper. 

Let me tell you, the theme to that movie (Are you ready for the summer? Are you ready for the good times?) is so ear-splitting it's unimaginable. Yet, like Gloria and her ever malleable melody, it gets bludgeoned into your brain until you seriously begin to wonder if you're beginning to go a little crazy. If you haven't ever heard this theme, consider yourself blessed.

That being said, the Professor and I enjoyed watching Meatballs.

The Phillies will be in the World Series. There, I've said it. My big fear, though, is that they won't be playing the Red Sox.

How did Red Robin get into the Park Road Parade yesterday? Seemed to be a bit of an odd choice for a parade that appeared dedicated to celebrating local, home-spun culture.

I was happy to see a sign yesterday for a Yard Sale mixed within the swarm of Tag Sale signs.

Last night (afternoon/evening), the Professor and I went to our friend's 30th birthday party. There were quite a few people there that I knew from high school or earlier, people I haven't seen in quite some time. And, nearly all of them now have babies (or multiple babies). 

Oh, and they all brought the kids along. 

It was, needless to say, a bit odd. Seeing babies and three and four-year-olds slashing through the crowd, knowing that the parents of these children are the same age as myself, I couldn't help but feel old. Then, after they all left to put the kids to bed, the rest of us, the singles and the child-less couples, drank beer and played Mario Kart on the N64 and made fools of ourselves playing a pathetic round of "pin the tail on the donkey" (originally set up for the children) and everything seemed to even out.

Time to retire for today. Or, as Gloria Estefan would sing (in my head):

Going to sign off now, going to sign off now, going to sign off now . . .  going to sign off now . . . Good-night!

Lego TV intros

People seem to animate just about anything using Lego blocks. Here are a bunch of TV intros redone with Lego people.

First, we have The Simpsons:

Next, The A-Team:

Lego M*A*S*H:

Knight Rider:

And, lastly, here's an entire segment from David Letterman featuring Jack Hannah, all done in Lego: