May the Force be with you

Hello World,

There's no escaping the fact that we find ourselves perched on the very brink of August, with so little left of July that if you blink, you might miss it. Technically, we're entering into what they always refer to as the "dog days of summer." I may as well say right here and now that if they throw any more dogs at us, that are anything like last week, then I cannot be responsible for the consequences. I mean, I can take a joke as well as the next fellow, but let's not get ridiculous about this. Last Sunday, I was still working at church after everyone else left, and it was so unbearable in the office that I took off my blouse and skirt, and ended up counting the offering in my underwear. It occurred to me later that if anyone came to the door then, they would probably get a very different impression of our church than otherwise, and think it was a much more interesting place than they might have supposed!

Speaking of ridiculous things, I got a notice from The Vanguard Group, where our church has some of their (tiny) investments, and I'm sure they're a fine and upstanding bunch of folks. The church investments are in an account they call the Vanguard Windsor Fund, which sounds admirable, well-mannered and full of integrity. It just oozes respectability, and carries an air of sophistication, confidence and moral rectitude. I regret that I can't say the same for their other financial offerings, which according to this notice, include Vanguard money market and short-term bond funds, as well as something they refer to as their Vanguard VIPER Shares. Excuse me??? Was the Vanguard marketing department on vacation when some moron dreamed up that name, or had they instead been replaced by pods from the Horrible Idea Planet??? Am I the only person who gets a negative impression from the term "viper" especially as it refers to my investments??? It makes me wonder when the brilliant thinkers at Vanguard are going to come out with their Godzilla Fund, or the Attila the Hun Account. Honestly, I don't understand how people come up with these ideas.

While we're on the subject of brilliant thinkers not saying what they mean, we were greeted with this intriguing notice recently on the AOL Welcome Screen --

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She brought soul to Live 8
Alicia Keys sang with gutso in Philadelphia
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I admit that I don't know what "gutso" is, so I can't tell if she sang with it or not. Going on the theory that they meant "gusto" instead, I think it's good to know that the illiterate people we have typing the messages for our computer department at the hospital can also find work elsewhere. In fact, they're probably looking for people at Vanguard as well.

Bill and I took advantage of the miserable weather lately to go to the movies. There's nothing like walking inside from 150 degree temperatures outdoors, where you're dripping wet and melting from the heat, and sitting in a movie theater that is literally so cold that you have to bring a jacket with you. It was worth it just for that alone, and it was a nice change of pace during a couple of challenging weeks, so I was glad we went. First we saw "Herbie: Fully Loaded" which we had no plans to see (I hadn't seen any of the previous Herbie movies over the years) until we found out that Michael Keaton is in it. I will say right up front that I like Michael Keaton as well as the next person, and probably better than most, but the fact of the matter is that he is no Dean Jones, and that's all there is to it. Still and all, it turned out to be entertaining enough for movies of this type, and many of the people in it were very good, not to mention Herbie, in an "R2-D2" sort of way. After that, we went to see "Fantastic Four" and here again, since I had never read any of the comics with them, I went into it completely without any preconceived notions. We really enjoyed it, and the special effects were astonishing, without being intrusive or gratuitous. That happens so rarely in movies nowadays, where they usually bombard you with special effects just for the sake of special effects, that this was really a pleasant surprise. Also unlike many movies these days (the recent "Star Wars" trilogy springs immediately to mind) this had enough humor in it to make the story enjoyable, so that you cared about the characters. For people who go to the movies on the average of once a year, for us to see two movies in a week was a real departure, and I don't mind saying, a welcome change of scenery. Not to mention, temperature!

That reminds me that we actually went to see the new "Star Wars, Revenge of the Sith" movie in June, which is a story that apparently got lost in the hubbub surrounding my adventures in Crusade-Land later in the month. I feel a certain loyalty to the whole "Star Wars" canon, as it were, having seen all of the early ones in the theaters when they first came out, and appreciating their originality and technical achievements if nothing else. When they started making the new ones, I felt obligated to go see them, if only to maintain my attendance record, and although the newer ones lacked originality, the technical achievements were certainly impressive. On the other hand, I can't say that I cared for the newer set much, and I'm frankly glad that they're finished with this part of them. It continues to amaze me that they can take so many talented people, behind and in front of the cameras, and end up with a movie that entirely lacks interest, cohesiveness, or the remotest credibility. It's generally accepted that even competent actors give the worst performances of their lives in these films, and the stilted dialogue sets a new standard for atrocious writing. They may be a victim of their own success, or an example of how impossible it is to try and please the casual fan as well as the hard-core fanatic. I was prepared to like this last one, figuring it would pull together the various story lines, and tidy up some of the saga's loose ends, in a nicely crafted and satisfying conclusion that we could all rally around. I may be the only one who feels this way, but if anyone thinks that I'm going to believe that scrawny little Hayden Christiansen, through whatever series of misfortunes, is going to grow up to become James Earl Jones, of all people, well, they can just forget that whole idea right this instant. You may as well tell me that Jar-Jar Binks grows up to be Darth Vader while you're at it, because I did not just fall off the turnip truck, and I'm not buying it. In fact, I saw a catalogue that had a costume you could buy for your Mr. Potato Head doll so he could dress up as "Darth Tater," and that makes just as much sense as this movie. Darth Vader, indeed.

The week that I came back from vacation, I thought I would be able to go to Wal*Mart, as long as it was 150 degrees, and buy a swimsuit on sale, but apparently that was just the heat making me delusional. I'm sure you'll be relieved to find out that Wal*Mart was stocked with racks and racks of wool sweaters, corduroy pants and down parkas in every color, just what the doctor ordered for heatwaves in July. Not to mention the usual back-to-school specials on candy, skateboards and digital camcorders. It almost makes you long to be a child again, but fortunately, at least candy is not restricted to the school-age set, so let's all go and enjoy some right now.

The gods are toying with us

Hello World,

Well, here it is, almost the end of July, and it would be fruitless to complain about the horrible weather we're having around here. In fact, even if it was full of fruit, it would still do no good to complain about the weather, which seems immune not only to complaints, but threats, flattery, cajoling and even nursery rhymes. And if weather was a popularity contest, this week wouldn't even make it out of the dressing room before people pushed it down a flight of stairs, and not a jury in the world would convict them. Meanwhile, I came back from vacation to find that James Doohan, who played Scotty on "Star Trek," had finally been "beamed up" to that Great Space Station in the Sky at the ripe old age of 85. I said to Bill that now we'll never get any dilithium crystals, which like so many other things of the storied past, would be completely lost on people nowadays. In fact, one of my co-workers walked into my office today whistling "Mademoiselle from Armentieres" and I was thinking that there's a tune that really separates the men from the boys, as it were, and then some.

It really is true that I'm back home safe and sound from Vacation Land, and all in one piece, not to mention, none the worse for wear and all that besides. The whole adventure got off to an inauspicious start, when we packed up both cars and left the house with Bill trailing behind me, only to find that one of the Tempo's tail lights was out, in spite of the fact that it was just at the mechanic's two days earlier. We drove over there, but they were closed, and Bill had to scrounge around for a replacement light before we could get underway. I was glad it wasn't something more serious in the trunk area, which might have necessitated moving the 250 pounds of firewood already in there. We hit the highway later than we intended to, but it was all smooth sailing after that. In fact, this is the first time I can ever remember driving to Wildwood on the Long Island Expressway, and finding no road construction at any point along the way. I should have realized right then that the camping gods were only toying with us.

I had reserved two campsites, mine and the one behind it, so that we could bring both cars into the campground, and have no one crowding into my site where I wanted to put the tent up. That section of C only has three campsites, with a road on one side, and a hill on the other, so I thought there would be a good chance that I would have the whole corner to myself with both campsites. The camping gods thought otherwise, and installed a clump of rowdy hooligans in the other site, so that part of the arrangement was less than ideal. Luckily they didn't stay the whole week, although I can't say for certain that my midnight sacrifices to the camping gods had anything to do with that or not.

After we set up the tent, rain fly, clothesline and tiny spare tent for the extra campsite, we headed for the beach. The weather on Saturday was beautiful and tailor-made for spending the day at the beach, although we found the water somewhat murky and choppy, following some bad weather on Friday. But we still had a good time, and splashed around in the waves, which is something that you very rarely get to do at Wildwood, so we took advantage of it. We had a late lunch at the concession stand, and around 5:30, we headed back to the campsite, so we could drop off our wet things and drive to the motel where we were staying overnight. We had stayed there last year, and felt that we had a pretty good idea of how to find it, so we set off in wide-eyed innocence, and never noticing those ominous storm clouds gathering on the horizon of this scenario. Here, the camping gods must have been toying with us again, because what happened instead of us getting to our motel, was that we drove smack dab into the teeth of the 7th Annual Riverhead Blues Festival, and for which they coincidentally close all the roads around our motel. We ended up buying a map at a local gas station, and driving completely around Riverhead to come at our street from the other side, and it still took us 2 hours to get to our motel. We felt better after we checked in and showered, but we realized that we not only couldn't drive anywhere for dinner (the festival lasts for 3 days and goes until midnight) but we also couldn't order anything to be delivered to us, because there was no way to reach the motel by car. We decided against taking our chances with festival food al fresco, and instead walked past the event and found a small Italian bistro, where we had a nice meal in spite of the camping gods conspiring against us.

We checked out on Sunday before the festival started up again, and found the town blissfully deserted compared to the night before. We had another nice day at the beach, and the water was a little less choppy. Eventually, Bill had to head for home, so we packed up and sent him on his way. This gave me a chance to finish setting up my cot, shelves, fire bucket and lanterns, not to mention unpacking all of my firewood. After all that, I really needed a shower, although it's usually so crowded on Sundays that getting into the showers there is close to impossible. I decided to go anyway, and just wait on line, and you can't imagine my surprise when I found I was not only the only person in the showers at that time, but the only person in the bathrooms completely. I honestly don't think I've ever been the only person in the bathrooms at any time, in the entire time I've been going there. It was the strangest thing.

I find the park is usually crowded on Saturdays and Sundays, and starts to thin out somewhat on Mondays and Tuesdays, then filling up again around Thursday. This year, it was already pretty empty on Sunday, and stayed that way all week until Friday. Considering that the weather was very good, I would have expected more people. Even the rowdy hooligans next to me left on Tuesday, and I found myself whistling if I walked anywhere after dark, because that whole side of the park was deserted except for me and the raccoons. I don't know that my whistling had the effect of keeping them at bay, although I did notice one crouching behind a tree with his paws over his ears and whimpering. You know I always say that camping is not for the faint-hearted.

I don't know what happened the week of July 4th, but one of the first things I noticed on Saturday was that there were no chipmunks anywhere in sight, or hearing, for that matter. Historically, Wildwood has always been alive with the spectacle of scurrying chipmunks, and the playful sounds of their chirps and squawks all through the campground. It was peculiar not to see any when we got there, but it was positively eerie not to hear any, because they're such a common commodity out there. I didn't actually set eyes on one until Tuesday in the picnic area, and I didn't have one in my campsite until Thursday. I had to really step lively to engage in that age-old camping tradition of bad chipmunk pictures, because my vacation was practically over before they finally showed up to be photographed.

I was lucky to have great weather all week, and after Bill left on Sunday, the water became beautifully clear and calm, it was so delightful. Another plus was the nearest vending machine worked all week, so I could get a cold drink in the morning, unlike previous years when I've had to walk all the way around Robin Hood's barn to find a working vending machine in the morning. I don't mind saying that I didn't think much of that idea, and I don't doubt that Robin Hood, probably even less. This year's movie was "Shrek," which is a far cry from "Dunstan Checks In," that played for three years in a row the week that I was camping. Maybe I should have tried sacrifices to the camping gods sooner.

Fifty years ago, the showers at Wildwood were a real test of endurance. They were in drafty wooden cubicles, and you would pull on a chain for the water, which was so cold that it would come out of the showerhead in tiny slivers. You can believe me when I say that people didn't just take showers for the heck of it back then, you had to really want to take a shower. When Bill and I started camping there twenty years ago, and found they had put warm water in the showers instead, I thought it was the end of the world as we know it. But you still had to pull on a chain, which people would tie to the door with string in order to keep the water running without holding the chain, with the usual result that it would break both the shower chain and pull the door off its hinges. My shower bag contained a variety of sticks, stakes, hooks and clamps to overcome whatever damage the other campers had done to the shower doors, so I could keep the door closed and hang my bag up off the floor. This year was one of the worst in the main bathroom, with only one out of four showers fully functional, so even if only one other person was already there, you had to wait on line. One day, I happened to be in the area of the other bathroom, which is not actually far away, but is not so centrally located. I decided to check out their showers, figuring my odds would be better if there was more than one of the four showers working. You could have knocked me right over when I saw that they had replaced all of their showers with what looked like "bathing suites," including a changing area (with a bench!) and actual shower curtains, plus gleaming melamine seamless surrounds with non-slip surfaces and decorative tile floors. Contrast this with the gross painted cement and ratty broken doors of the main bathroom, and you just can't believe it. The most amazing part was that they actually had real "motel-type" shower controls, where you turn the knob for hot or cold water, and it just stays on until you turn it off. You know I simply had to stand there and stare at them, and then I said to myself, "I've died and gone to Heaven." What makes no sense is that this other bathroom is probably within 500 feet of the main bathroom, where people are standing on line and fighting over one smelly rotten shower with a chain and broken door, while all four of these luxurious showers are there for the taking. I can tell you that it certainly improved the rest of my week after I discovered them. Maybe camping is for the faint-hearted, after all.

For the most part, the week was quiet and blissfully uneventful. Well, except for that time on Tuesday when I came back from the beach and found the rowdy hooligans next to me had checked out and left a lively campfire burning on the ground at the base of a tree, that I could feel the heat of from four feet away. I ran all the way to the registration building to report it, and they sent the helpful young men in the maintenance truck to take care of it before we all burned up. Then there were the youngsters at the beach who convinced themselves that they had spotted a whale, which would certainly be a first for Wildwood Beach. However, Bill who has the eyes of a hawk, said it appeared to be nothing more than a rock or sandbar that is only visible at low tide.

After such a quiet week, all heck broke loose on Friday night, and the woods were filled with the sounds of carousing campers from every part of the park. I figured they would be going like that all night, except at 10:30, they sent around the Park Police to tell people to pack it in, pipe down, or ship out. That worked better than expected, and little by little, the noise level dropped to a manageable volume so us old tired folks could get some sleep. They even told the Korean church group up the hill, who brought their own guitar and were singing gospel tunes around the campfire, that they had to hush up or get lost. I thought that was stone cold, but nothing was getting past the noise patrol. Saturday seemed nice enough when I got up and started to pack, and was glad when Bill showed up to help so we could check out on time. We drove down to the picnic area and walked to the beach for one more day in the sand and sun, but it was not to be. It started raining fitfully at first, but then pretty steadily, and we finally gave up and drove home. I was glad to get home after a week away, although the cats all looked at me as if they had no idea who I was, and didn't want to know. I've been unpacking ever since, and don't even ask me about dirty laundry. If I thought that sacrifices to the camping gods would have any way of taking care on that, it would certainly change my whole vacation experience, and that's putting it mildly!

And Bagpipes For All

Hello World,

Greetings again! I hope that you and your loved ones made it through the July 4th holiday weekend in fine style, and had a full-blooded, brass-plated, star-spangled time of it, and good weather besides. Speaking of weather, ours has been having its ups and downs lately, owing to some unstable atmospheric conditions surrounding the newest hurricanes on the scene. Everyone already knows what I think of hurricanes in July, so we'll just skip right over that part. Anyway, on Thursday, I was on the phone with someone at their corporate headquarters in Dallas, and trying to get a fax number out of them, and the nice young man I was speaking with seemed distracted. He apologized and said they were expecting some very bad weather there, and even though it was the middle of the afternoon, it was pitch black outside. I figure I'll show him that I'm up on my hurricane news, so I said, "Oh, is it Cindy or Dennis?" It was apparently neither, because he started talking to me like I was the village idiot, very slowly and distinctly, "No ... what ... I ... said ... was ... that ... I'm ... in ... DALLAS ... and ... we're ... expecting ... bad ... weather." He either had no idea what I was talking about, or perhaps he figured that any imbecile would know that Dallas was too far inland to be affected by hurricanes. Hey, pal, they didn't used to have hurricanes in June, either, so as far as I'm concerned, all bets are off.

July 4th here was a beautiful day, and I was up bright and early putting the flags out upstairs and downstairs. I even remembered to bring them back in again after dinner, which, the way things have been going, was very far from a sure thing. It was nice to have a day off from work, and even more so that the office was closed, not just that I took off a day when everyone else was still there. When it's a real holiday, work doesn't pile up in my absence, because nobody else is at the office either, and that makes it much easier to go back in the next day. Of course, we all know what I think of those short weeks at work, and this was no different. I suppose there's something to be said for consistency, but the less said about that, the better.

Everyone knows that if July 4th has come and gone, can my vacation be far behind? If you answered, "Absolutely not!" you'd be right. In fact, tomorrow I'll be embarking on my excursion to Vacation-Land, where I expect to consume vast quantities of relaxation, with an extra big helping of good weather besides. I will admit that things got off to an inauspicious start today, when I took off from work so I could pack, and woke up to torrential rains and temperatures in the 60s. I kept thinking, better today than tomorrow, but it was a nuisance to gather everything together and put it in the car in a steady downpour. Not to mention the 250 pounds of firewood that I carry in the trunk, so I don't have to try to round up firewood when I'm out there, and which I had to lug out from the garage an armful at a time. Fortunately, all of that wood is already so dry that getting sprinkled on isn't going to have too much effect on it. Some of it is left over from previous years, and the rest of it has been cut and dry in the garage since the winter. I stuffed as much in the trunk as the Tempo would take, and still have some left over, so I've already got a jump on next year's firewood. Right now, I'm as ready as I'll ever be to go camping, and the only thing I can't bring along with me is the good weather I'll need once I get there, so if you have any pull with anyone in charge of that, I'd appreciate your consideration.

This is about where I'd usually be saying that every year around the July 4th weekend, we join friends of ours at the Round Hill Scottish Games held at scenic Cranbury Park in Norwalk, Connecticut. Except that last year, they didn't have them at all, and the year before that, they left out the highland dancing and bagpipe bands, which sort of turned it into the Round Hill Non-Scottish Games instead. But this year, they were back and in full force, so we were looking forward to taking another wee highland fling with the lads and lassies. It was a beautiful day (I don't know where Cindy and Dennis were, and don't tell me, "Dallas" because I already fell for that once) and not unbearably hot, as it often is when we go. In addition to the bagpipe bands, there are competitions in individual piping and drumming, as well as highland dancing, which is very entertaining. New this year was competition in what they called "country dancing" but we never found out where they were having that, so we didn't see it. They also had a portable rock wall for the youngsters to climb, plus face painting, crafts and having your picture taken as the Loch Ness Monster or Mary, Queen of Scots. (In what passes for Scottish humor, she's holding your head under her arm.) There were also the usual vendors selling everything Caledonian, from tea towels and tote bags, to kilts and sporrans. Although fewer showed up this year than are usually there, I still managed to pick up some souvenirs along the way. Also among the missing this year was the soccer tournament that takes place off to the side of the center field area, starting from before we get there, and still going strong after we leave. For unwary visitors who may be otherwise diverted while strolling on the outskirts of that area, it would not be uncommon to be hit with a stray soccer ball, or have to jump out of the way of stampeding players trying to keep the ball from going out of bounds. I don't know why they didn't have soccer this year, but I do know one thing. It wasn't because of complaints by the attendees.

If complaints would work, they would do something about the horrible food. They only have two food choices at the games, and this has never changed in all the years we've been going there. They have food that's available but inedible, or food that you can eat, but have to stand on line for 45 minutes to get. You can stand on line to get a hamburger or French fries (you can't get both in the same place) and then stand on another line to get a drink. If you don't want to wait, you can have haggis (no line for that!) and weird foreign soda made out of weeds. I can hear the wheels turning in everyone's heads out there (or perhaps it's the smoke that I smell) and saying to themselves, "Well, heck, if I was going to the Scottish Games, I would bring my own food and something to drink." Here, the organizers of the games are one step ahead of you, because they make everybody park a mile away at an abandoned factory, and take rattle-trap school buses to the park. These vehicles, which were built 50 years ago for emaciated juveniles, make it nearly impossible for anyone nowadays to get on board and be seated, much less carry anything larger than a camera. In fact, for Bill and me to sit in the same seat, I had to hold my camera out the window, so carrying food is obviously not an option for us.

Another new feature of the games this year was our first ever exposure to what was described as a Scottish rock band, with the unlikely name of MacTalla Mo'r and you're welcome to them. I'm sure they're a fine band, as Scottish rock bands go, although I would have to say that it's probably an acquired taste. We were at least half the park away from them, across the center field and behind the Administration Building, off in the area where the hiking trails go trailing off into the woods, and watching brawny lads (and even a brawny lassie!) tossing weighted bags with pitchforks to a height of almost 28 feet, and when the band started up, even at that distance, you can believe me when I say that we heard every note. The announcer urged us to go to the tent where they were playing, since we didn't want to miss this golden opportunity of seeing them perform in person, but it didn't sound as if we were missing anything, even though we were at least half a mile away from them, so we stayed put. I mean, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing!

After a day of fun in the sun, we were ready for some real food, so we bid a fond farewell to the games and headed to the nearby Wilton Diner. This is obviously not a busy time for them, and we often get there to find them vacuuming and washing the windows. But the food is good and the service is very attentive, although that might just be because we're usually the only customers in the place, and outnumbered by the staff by a wide margin. After being outside all day, and standing up in the sun, or sitting on a variety of walls, steps, fences, rocks or the grass, it's luxurious to go inside where it's cool and sit on real furniture. (And don't even get me started on the bathrooms!) After a wonderful and leisurely meal, and with the sound of bagpipes still in our ears, we pack up our memories and head for home. Of course, there's no rest for the weary, because once the games are over, it's time to get serious about vacation. Around here, that means dragging all of the camping supplies out of the attic and garage where they've been since last year, and just like Santa Claus, there's a list and it has to be checked twice. You wouldn't think that sending one person camping would require the logistical complications of landing at Normandy on D-Day, but there you have it. You won't be hearing from me next week, because I'll be in Vacation-Land, and if anyone hears that Cindy or Dennis want to tag along, please tell them I said, "Don't call us, we'll call you."

Hit the road, Jack

Hello World,

Happy July! It seems impossible to believe that the year is more than half over already, but that's exactly where we find ourselves. Not only that, but we're poised on the brink of Independence Day weekend, since July 4th is Monday, and many of us are looking forward to a three-day weekend. We have plans to be out enjoying the sun and fun, and I hope that you will also declare your independence with some rip-roaring, rootin'-tootin' and double-barreled good times. You can go right ahead and give Uncle Sam a kiss for me, while you're at it.

I'm sure that everyone will be relieved to hear that I have returned home, safe and sound from my adventures in Crusade-Land, and it was interesting, if exhausting. At the Saturday evening Concert of Hope, the announcer introduced the present Mayor of New York City, Michael Bloomberg, who received a nice round of polite applause, and who made a very nice and benevolent speech. For those of us watching the festivities on jumbo screens in the overflow areas, you could see the cameras pan across the stage, where other dignitaries were located, such as Senator Charles Schumer. All of a sudden, the camera picked up another recognizable figure, and to say that the roof came off the place would be an understatement of epic proportion. There on the screen, big as life and for all the world to see, was former President Bill Clinton, and you can believe me when I say that 75,000 people came out of their seats and just went wild. It was total pandemonium and they went so crazy, screaming and cheering, that when the camera showed him sitting next to his wife, Hillary Clinton and she waved, everyone screamed and cheered for her too, and it's a well-known fact that everybody in the world hates her. But not Saturday night at the Crusade, there was nothing but love for both of them, and I'm telling you that Bill Clinton could get elected President, at least in Queens, right this second. It was just the most amazing thing. I had to feel sorry for the poor Mayor, who is Mayor right now, and gives a speech and gets a nice polite hand, and then someone who hasn't been in office in 5 years turns up (and not to mention whatever scandals and innuendo have dogged his heels) and they hail him like he's Pope John Paul II come back to life. The poor Mayor probably went back to his office and cried.

This may be old news to a lot of people, but it was a big deal in New York early in June, when we woke up to find the plug had been pulled on the oldies radio station that many folks grew up listening to, WCBS-FM, 101.1 on the dial. This was a perennial favorite station, with a powerful signal that could be heard for hundreds of miles in every direction. They boasted a stable of DJs well known for years in the New York radio market, like Harry Harrison, Dan Ingram, "Cousin" Bruce Morrow, Bill Brown, Dandy Dan Daniel, Ron Lundy and Norm N. Nite. It would be impossible to imagine New York without its fabled oldies station, any more than you could imagine it without the Brooklyn Bridge. And then the unthinkable happened. Suddenly on the morning of June 5th, totally out of the blue and without a word of warning to anybody, here's some extremely renegade station playing songs on 101.1, where CBS-FM is supposed to be. I suspected that something was wrong right away, when I heard them playing a song by Motley Crue, and in my experience, CBS would rather cut off their arm than play anything like that. That was my welcome to the world of Jack-FM.

Apparently this "Jack" concept is a new one in radio stations, where they program a very wide and diverse array of pop tunes, drawing liberally from many different eras or many different genres, and entirely without a single radio personality to hold it together. They have recorded spots featuring the "spokesperson" for Jack-FM, but he usually just makes fresh remarks, and doesn't announce the songs or anything. It seems they've done this successfully in other markets, and this is our first one in New York. Of course, everyone here was up in arms about it, it was all over the media, angry phone calls, chat rooms flooded with hysterical listeners, and even Mayor Bloomberg got his licks in for good measure. I have to say that I've listened to CBS-FM for years and years, and I couldn't believe it would just disappear overnight like that.

Having said that, however, I have to admit that Jack has won me over. I hate to be disloyal or radical, but I found myself loving the new format in spite of myself. For one thing, their playlist is so deep, that you would almost never hear the same song twice, ever. I've been listening to Jack for weeks, and so far, the only songs I've heard twice are "Mercy, Mercy Me" by Marvin Gaye and "Take Me To The River" by Talking Heads. This compares very favorably with the other stations I have listened to, where I not only hear "Carry On, My Wayward Son" twice in the same day, but sometimes on two different stations at the same time. If Jack plays a song you don't like, there's a good chance that you'll never hear it again ever. They also tend to play more upbeat songs, and you are never going to hear "Honey" or "Feelings" on Jack, which I personally think is a good thing. Most of what they play is familiar, without having been over-played and wearing out its welcome. Even the songs that I don't know are consistently entertaining, and unlike other more mainstream stations, they don't shy away from popping in the occasional disco, hip-hop, Latin, heavy metal, reggae or alternative choices. On Jack, you're just as likely to hear "Blue Suede Shoes" as "Bust A Move," or "Satisfaction" as "Shake Your Booty." It wouldn't be unusual for them to play in a row, Aerosmith, ELO, Mary Jane Girls, Def Leppard, Blondie, Jimmy Eat World, Duran Duran, Outkast, Stevie Wonder, Queen, TLC, Blue Oyster Cult, Nelly Furtado, KISS, U2, Kool & the Gang, Billy Idol and James Brown. When I heard them play "Come on, Feel the Noise" by Quiet Riot, I knew this was not your grandfather's CBS-FM!

At the risk of sounding hopelessly superficial and low-brow, I have to say that my favorite part of Jack is that they have entirely eliminated the five things that I like least about listening to the radio, which are News, Weather, Traffic, Sports, and people in the studio making forced chatter with each other, or even worse, with listeners who call in to play their silly contests. Because Jack is pre-programmed and pre-recorded, they can't tell you anything that's happening at the time you're listening, and that suits me just fine. There are lots of other stations where I can get that information if I want it, but Jack does something that I have never found any other station doing. They play plenty of good, peppy music in a wide variety of styles, that is usually recognizable without being boring, or is new without being unlistenable, where you practically never hear the same song twice. It's sort of like having your own satellite radio station, or iPod with unlimited files, churning out music in shuffle mode, so you never know what's going to come along next. I really hate to leave the purists and the traditionalists behind, weeping and gnashing their teeth, but Jack sold me on their format, and I haven't looked back. I can see where not everyone would be enamored of the change, but for me, it really hit the spot.

Speaking of things that hit the spot, I saw a story in the local newspaper about pizza, and what a big business it is, not just made fresh in pizzerias everywhere, but also sold frozen in supermarkets. The article pointed out that the newer brands of frozen pizzas, like DiGiorno's, feature more mature seasonings, while the oldest brand in the field, Ellios Pizza, is bland enough to be favored by children. They claim (and here, as Dave Barry always says, "I'm not making this up") this is because, "They have a different pallet." Of course, I realize that times have changed a lot since I and the dinosaurs were young and carefree, but I remember when they didn't let children have packing materials made out of scrap lumber, you had to be a full-blown warehouse or factory before you could have your own pallets. Well, as we all know, times have certainly changed, and not always for the better, I can tell you that. In fact, you can just ask any of the legions of angry listeners left in the lurch when CBS-FM got yanked. You can tell them Jack sent you.