Al Smith

Was he a man, or a meal?

The Al Smith Dinner is an annual event, but it comes to public prominence in presidential election years. Most of us have heard of it, many of us see clips of the candidates’ appearances on CNN or our local evening news.

And some of us—me, at least—have been unclear as to who, exactly, Al Smith was and why should he have a dinner named after him.

Well!

Here I am on Smith Sunday to enlighten you.

Al Smith was a four-time governor of New York State and the first Roman Catholic nominee for President. He lost, first, to Herbert Hoover in 1928, and he subsequently lost the Democratic Primary in 1932 to Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

He was hampered in politics by his Catholicism, many people of the time fearing a Catholic President would be too influenced by the Pope.

Later, he was a vocal opponent of Roosevelt and the New Deal and has remained a thorn in the side of Democratic candidates ever since.

This is largely because of the the Dinner which is designed to benefit Catholic Charities. The Democratic Party’s continued support of the Right to Choose creates tensions around the event.

It’s too entrenched in the traditions of the campaign trail to dismissed out of hand, and, most years, all the parties involved work it out—helped somewhat by the tradition that the speeches will be humorous and self-deprecating.

So, my children, that, in a nutshell, is who Al Smith was.

For my friends

who have trouble sleeping.

We’ve all heard it said that counting sheep is a good way to fall asleep. (I don’t know why sheep rather than cats or something. Maybe because almost nobody is afraid of sheep?)

Anyway, here is a little website that may help you out.

This could be the silliest Silly Saturday yet.

But when you’re done laughing, maybe it will bore you to sleep.

Counting Sheep.

Worthy of their hire

My favorite workmen.

I’m thankful today for a few guys I haven’t hired yet.

Ok. I have hired them. For other things. Small things. Previously.

But I have been lucky enough to find a couple of vendors who take a long view. They have been smart enough and generous enough to offer their advice and expertise without expecting payment.

Free. That’s a price point I can get behind.

Daymon Well Drilling. They came out and assured me that, no, my well was not going dry—as a previous plumber had suggested.

Black Pearl Plumbing. Barry spent an hour talking to me about what we needed to install a clawfoot tub in the bathroom that has been missing a tub since we moved into the house.

Russell at Perfect Painting spent an extra couple of hours fixing our pump and I had to insist that he charge more than just the cost of the parts.

Southern gentleman? Yes.

Good businessmen? Absolutely.

See, they missed the chance to make a couple of dollars. On the other hand, when I do need a well, when it’s time for the tub to be installed, when I want to paint another room—who do you think I’m going to call?

I’ve spent a lot of time with theatre folks who don’t want to give advice because they’re not getting something back.

If you’re looking for the books to be always in balance, you are doomed to disappointment.

It’s about bread upon the waters.

Do a good job. Do good to and for people. The money will follow.

It’s hard in the arts, because there often isn’t much money. And often, when opportunities for repayment arise, they aren’t real opportunities. A 6’5″ Latino actor who helps a director unselfishly may not get the first part that comes along. (It could be hard for him to play an 8 year old girl.) But he could get the first recommendation for a 6’5″ Latino actor that she’s asked to provide.

It’s clearer in the world of the handyman.

I’m going to hire the people I trust. I trust them when they do a good job and when they don’t hit me with an exorbitant bill for every question.

I think generosity is always the best route to take.

And I am profoundly thankful that I tend to run into folks who agree with me.

The latest in a series

And maybe the weirdest one yet.

I’m talking about the long tradition of my mind baffling me.

This morning, I woke up—at least, I thought I was awake—and in those first few minutes when I knew I had to get up and before I actually did get up, I thought about what I have to do today.

One of the things I have to do today—and practically every day—is work on this blog.

So, there I was, lazily reviewing a mental image of the spreadsheet I have with possible topics laid out day by day, and trying to decide which one I might like to select.

I settled upon “Pickle Pie.”

I composed a headline and a subhead.

I began to consider content.

And, I got up.

As I was walking down the stairs, I began to wonder if “Pickle Pie” was a real entry in my spreadsheet. By the time I got into my office, I was fairly convinced that it was not. By the time I got the computer booted up, I had decided—if it was not, this was the post I would write instead. By the time I dealt with tech support on my website and solved the problem of why I was receiving email but suddenly could not send it, I had completely forgotten the original headline and subhead ideas.

Turns out the original headline ideas don’t matter, because I was right the second time.

There was no entry for “Pickle Pie” in my topic spreadsheet.

I have never heard of a pickle pie. I don’t want to make a pickle pie. I certainly don’t want to eat a pickle pie. It sounds awful, frankly.

Before I started down this path, I had no idea if a person could actually make a pickle pie.

You can.

I mean, you can. I’m not going to try it.

I did wonder, on that trip down the stairs, if it was anything like fried green tomatoes, which are connected in my mind somehow with fried pickles. Which I have also never seen, eaten or made. I wondered if you would use sweet pickles and a regular pie crust or if there would be something more savory added to the crust to go with a dill pickle.

Now, I’m just wondering about my sanity.

And, if you make the pickle pie from this recipe, I am wondering what it tastes like.

Perhaps you will let me know?

Free trip

Enjoy!

I can’t find the origin of this quote, so it appears here without attribution. If anybody knows the author, speak up! I suspect it’s that prolific writer, Anonymous.

Anyway, here goes:

Life on earth may be expensive, but it does include a free trip around the sun.

And you’d probably have to pay millions for that to do it in a space ship!

So, let us remember the ordinary, every day (or every year—because, you know, you get that trip a bunch of times in an average lifespan) miracles.

Let us remember in the midst of our scrabbling for money, attention and prestige, in the midst of our political posturings and maneuverings, in the midst of our squabbles and worries, in the midst of pain and illness—

Let us remember the rising and the setting of the sun, the heron on the dock, the moonlight on the waves, the rain-washed wildflowers, the babies’ laughter, the handclasps of friendship, the wisdom of the elders.

Let us remember the taste of the fresh-picked corn, the birthday cake, the sound of birdsong, the scent of blossoms, the strength of hands.

Let us try to enjoy that free trip around the sun.

‘ Cause everything else is extra.

Anna Nicole Smith

A cautionary tale.

The short life of Anna Nicole Smith is a sad one. Ill-educated and spectacularly beautiful seems to have been a bad combination for her. Add in drugs, Playboy, and the current oddities of our culture where a person can be famous simply for being famous, and this is what you get.

Anna Nicole was born Vickie Lynn Hogan. She acquired the Smith from her first husband whom she married at the age of 17. He was 16. Not surprisingly, the marriage didn’t last long. By the age of 24, she was a stripper and auditioning for Playboy.

Marriage to a wealthy oil tycoon 62 years her senior resulted in a lengthy dispute about his will with the battle being carried out in the courts and in the tabloids.

Smith made several attempts at an acting career with her performances being critically panned. Her subsequent reality TV show made her an object of ridicule and was ultimately canceled. She became a spokesperson for TrimSpa and PETA.

Daniel Smith, the son of her first marriage, died at the age of 20 of a lethal mixture of prescription drugs shortly after the birth of her second child, a daughter. She herself died five months later, also from a lethal combination of prescription drugs.

The saga continued with the continued court battle over her second husband’s estate being complicated by a battle over the paternity of her infant daughter, and it’s not entirely clear to me where it now stands.

In 2011, the Supreme Court ruled that the bankruptcy court of California did not have the authority to decide her claims against the estate. I’m not sure where this leaves those claims or the surviving daughter.

All in all, this isn’t a Smith story of which we can be proud.

Smith once said she wanted to be the next Marilyn Monroe.

Sadly, adjusted for inflation, I think she was.

A message from Metro

Giggle while you’re reminded

Of Dumb Ways to Die.

I’m assuming this is a Public Service commercial for the British Metro system, although it’s not at all clear until the end that it has anything to do with trains. It’s also not clear to which Metro system is bringing you the ad. I’m just going by the English accent of the narrator at the end.

It’s a cute, creative video, but be warned. You’ll likely be humming this little ditty days from now.

Not so dumb

I can’t speak for “little.”

I’m talking about the blog, Dumb Little Man.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know who is behind this blog. There’s no “About” page that I can find. There’s no entry in Wikipedia.

All I know is the content.

(UPDATE: Thanks to my good friend, Michelle, for finding the “About” page. Here it is!)

The subheading of the blog is “Tips for Life.”

That’s what’s in it.

Tips.

Tips for motivation, for increasing creativity, for organizing your life, simplifying it, making it better.

Almost all of them are good advice. Clear, cogent, well-written. The site is well-designed. Easy to read. Easy to search.

The headlines to each post are masterful. “Ten ways to do this.” “Thirty secrets to that.” I’m a sucker for lists, so I love that. I figure, in a list of ten, there will almost certainly be at least one useful thing.

I like this blog so much, it’s one of the ones I have emailed to me on a daily basis. And that I actually read. There are a few blogs I get because they seemed promising, but now I skim the subject line and delete more often than not. But I read Dumb Little Man. I save a few of them. Implementation…that’s another story, but we can always hope.

I could go on citing examples, but I’d really rather you went on over to Dumb Little Man and spent your reading time there.

It will do you more good.

Ruthlessness

As a job skill.

Thankful today for ruthless physical therapists.

You wouldn’t think of ruthlessness as a job skill. Maybe in a mogul, but not in a healthcare profession. Generally speaking, you think of caring and caretaking and concern.

I suppose those are still the top skills in healthcare. Bedside manner. It’s important.

And I don’t want to imply that my physical therapists are lacking in any of that. They are careful and concerned and very friendly and sympathetic.

And ruthless.

And that is a good thing.

See, you may remember, that I have this frozen shoulder thing going on. (Yes, it hurts. And, yes, I feel old. And yes, it is slightly better now, thank you.)

I’ve been going to PT for weeks. There are pulleys and Thera-bands and weights and lengths of PVC pipe and timers and doorways for isometrics and infrared heat and lots of ice in my life. Twice a week for some of the elaborate gadgets—when I go in to the office—and twice a day for the stuff I can do at home.

In addition to all that, there always comes a time in my therapy session when one of the therapists comes along to “pull on me.” I lie on a table, and he or she takes hold of my arm and gently manipulates it in various directions.

Almost all of them are painful. Some of them seriously so.

I try not to whimper too much. (Who are we kidding? I try not to scream.)

The therapists are good, though. They watch my face. They notice when, instinctively, I tense my arm in a protective resistance.

Now, me, that’s the point where I would stop—if I were working on someone. I don’t think I have the fortitude to intentionally inflict that kind of pain.

They, on the other hand, hang in there. Another few seconds. Another millimeter. Another involuntary gasp.

They’re working for tiny increases in range of motion.

They’re getting them, too.

Ruthlessness.

It may be underrated.

The next Star Trek gadget

When can I have it?

We got the sliding doors early. And we’re so used to them now that we tend to walk right into doors marked “Pull.”

We’ve already almost got tricorders. In case you hadn’t noticed, they’ve merged with communicators. That cell phone in your pocket? That’s pretty much it—minus the scanning capability, and there are apps that come close to that.

So, I wonder what’s next? And, if it’s what I hope it is, I’m wondering when can I have it?

See, what I want is the computer’s minute-by-minute log.

I want to be able to say, “Computer. Replay Stardate gobbledygook-of-numbers, time stamp 0700.”

It’s not that I really want to give up the privacy and open the legal can of worms that recordings of every second of our lives would bring. It’s just that I really don’t want to almost be remembering things.

We lost a hubcap a few weeks ago. The MotH,* of course, wanted to replace it.

It’s not the first time we lost a hubcap. I once had four go missing all at once when I was in rehearsal on Staten Island. (You just know they didn’t all fall off on the Verrazano Bridge. And, I’d like to point out that this was Staten Island. Not Harlem or the South Bronx. So, there’s that myth disproved, too.)

Anyway, the last time we needed hubcaps, we went to a used auto parts yard somewhere out in Brooklyn, near the water, and got one. For something like $15 bucks.

The MotH figured we ought to be able to do the same here. Maybe we could. But after much calling around, none of the used auto part yards seem to have hubcaps. Hard to believe, but there it is.

Since he’s planning a trip to NY in the near future, the MotH came hopefully around to ask me if I could find the name of the place in NY that had previously solved this problem.

This was five or six years back! If not more!

And the MotH said, “But you save all that stuff.”

Uh-huh.

I don’t generally save it if you paid cash and didn’t give me a receipt. Even then, it’s buried in all the backup material I am storing in case of an audit. I might have had it noted in my financial software, but since a) I never got a receipt and b) the name did not include the word “hubcap,” that is an avenue of research that yielded no results.

But…just think…if I were stationed on the Starship Enterprise, I could have announced to the air, “Computer, stardate gobbledygook-of-numbers to stardate gobbledygook-of-numbers-part-2, replay.”

And I could have watched and listened to us discussing hubcaps and coming and going with hubcaps until I found—ta da!—the source of the hubcaps.

As it is, I had to Google.

For a new source online and a higher price.

When can I have that computer log?

Sure it’s kind of Big Brother-y. But it could save me so much aggravation!

* MotH = Man of the House

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Category Archives: Life in General