I stumbled upon the thread below on the Straight Dope Message Board (published with permission) and felt as though I really needed to share it with my friends, especially you Michiganders and Floridians—this is a hoot. I have filtered it down a bit for your reading pleasure. Here we go:
For those of you who are new to my ruminations my maternal grandparents lived in an old, two-story farmhouse out in the countryside of southwestern Michigan. And the door that served as its primary entry opened directly into the kitchen.
The kitchen was the central gathering place in the old house, with most activities focused on or around the table located in the center of the room. Repairs to radios and other household devices were typically done there (one could actually repair a radio back in those days) as were myriad other tasks requiring a flat surface and the aid of kibitzers, including the preparation of the family’s federal income tax return, as I recall. In earlier days one would have found a deep sink in there with a cast-iron hand pump that piped water in from a cistern outside. But by the time I was a teenager the room had been fully modernized with electric appliances.
In the far corner of that room, though, one would have also found a tall, white, built-in cabinet with enclosed shelving below for pots and pans and glassed-in shelving above for dishes and knickknacks. And at waist height (which was about nose-height to me when I first discovered it), was a junk drawer.
The following is a response to an abstract expertly written by my friend, Lynn Gerlach, of a book co-authored by Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt entitled How Democracies Die. The abstract is an excellent read in its own right and was the inspiration for my comments below. I encourage my readers to visit the Speakeasy Blog at www.tammarackcommunicatons.com in order to read the entire piece, including the comments section. So, off we go…
After watching a couple of golf tourneys these past two weekends I found myself feeling a little “golfy”. This is the inclination that seeps into my subconscious after a sufficient amount of time has passed for me to have mostly forgotten the less than desirable outcome of my most recent foray to the links.
Thus, ignoring Einstein’s premise that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result each time, I cheerfully headed out to Blue Sky without a tee time to play a pickup round with someone or, perhaps, join another group who had room for me—this is something I used to do all the time back in my travel days. And, sure enough, upon my arrival at the tee box, the starter teamed me up with another solo player who was also looking for a game. And off we went.
I recently noticed that my consumption of Häagan-Dazs has increased over the past few weeks. I know there are those who associate this behavior with depression or unhappiness—subconsciously, suicide by cholesterol, I suppose. Not the case here. Besides, my doc has me on statins. That should take care of the after-effects of my vanilla swiss almond habit. Right? Right. Or maybe I should be eating heartier, healthier meals in the evening to curb my after-dinner appetite (well, we know how that goes down around here). But I digress…