How To Have A More Civil Argument With A Democratic Nominee For President

Dear Senator Obama,

Heya!

How’s it going?

All well on the campaign trail these days? You getting enough sleep? Staying hydrated and not pigging-out on too many TastyKakes here in Pennsylvania? You don’t want to end up looking like Ed Rendell. Philadelphia food can do that to a person.

Anyway, I hear you were visiting just down the road from me tonight, speaking at Messiah College. I would have liked to have attended The Compassion Forum to hear you and Senator Clinton speak, but some of us had to work.

Oh gosh, I mean…not that what you’re doing isn’t work, don’t get me wrong! I didn’t mean it that way!

Ah drat, I’m so sorry…I’m such a goofus. I’m always doing that open mouth, insert foot thing.

Oh, I know you knew what I meant.

And I know that you knew that I knew that you knew what I meant.

And I know that you knew that I…well…you know….

But it still has to be said…you know?

Anyway, I think you know what I'm saying.

It's like with that bitter Pennsylvanian thing. Whew! What was all that hub-bub about, huh? There you were, giving a 40-minute speech on the current economic crisis and laying out your thoughts on how we can meet the challenges ahead of us and so on and so forth. And yet, just a few days later, people were quoting the speech and jumping up and down about some mention of bitter guns and religion. And then, I had to look up “xenophobe” because suddenly every blogger out there was mentioning xenophobes, and I had to make sure it wasn’t the next cool Internet word appropriation, like “widget” or “gadget”. I just wanted to make sure we were really talking about fear of strangers, you know?

Okay, before I get too far ahead of myself, let me first say this by way of introduction:

I grew up in a small town in rural Pennsylvania. Now, I’m not going to recount the entire story of my coal-mining grandparents and the mines closing down and the Wal-Marts moving in and the only entertainment being riding around on Friday nights counting dead deer on the side of the road. (Notice I did not make a cow-tipping joke.) First of all, the story is not so unique nor the details so important that we need to rehash it all right here and now. Second, I’m saving that story for my tell-all memoir that will net me millions and win me a Pulitzer. Suffice to say that if you’ve listened to even one Bruce Springsteen album, then you’ve gotten the gist of how my "growing up in a small town" played out (minus the verse about a girl wrapping her legs round my velvet rims.)

And I know that even that paragraph right there can come across as a touch bitter, but really, I’m not. I’m actually bitter about very little in my life - not being asked to my senior prom, a perm in eight grade, sure - but other than that, I’d say that life in Pennsylvania has more so evoked sustained feelings ranging from blithe amusement to heartbroken sadness with plenty of joy, elation, and drunkenness in-between (Yuengling beer being an important emotion in Pennsylvania.)

But bitter?

Bitter just sounds so pathetic and defeated. Bitter sounds like small town Pennsylvanians are sitting in their rooms with the walls painted black and chewing on their bottom lip while poking pins into effigies of Essex, Connecticut.

You didn’t really mean “bitter”, right?

It was sort of like that unfortunate Whole Foods thing. You really meant to say "A&P".

Or like with the daughter being "punished" with a baby hooplah? Yeah, in spite of the fact that the hour leading up to nap time can sometimes seem like a circle of hell, maybe “punished” wasn’t the best choice, you know, to say out loud…unless you’re speaking to a room filled exclusively with sleep-deprived mothers of colicky infants, of course.

In regard to all the economic ills and woes of Pennsylvania, I’d rather think that we’re not so much bitter, but instead “righteously angry”. Or, how about, “justifiably ticked-off"? Maybe, if you're from the coal region, you could say that you’ve got your “gotchies in a twist, da f*ck!” But seriously, I’m just not sure about “bitter“. “Bitter” just doesn’t capture how pissed off most people are. Or how motivated many are to work to rise to the challenges, etc., etc. You know... all that other great "Yes We Can" stuff and "We are the change we are waiting for" that motivates the other 49 states so well?

We're like that, too, in Pennsylvania!

Don't think of us as bitter.

We're righteously angry!

We're all angry and "Yes We Can, Dammit!"

So, you know, I think a $3.95 thesaurus would have solved that one small word choice problem, done and done. But really, no harm, no foul.

Now, about the hunting and religion thing...you said:

"And it's not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations."

Here, it’s not so much an issue of word choice, but instead, perhaps, punctuation. I do only take the tiniest amount of issue with the lack of semi-colon or at least additional commas and conjunctions in some attempt to separate Pennsylvania’s deer hunters and nuns from the immigrant haters. Or is it "haters of immigrants"?

If I can use an analogy, lumping us all together like that is like saying “And it's not surprising that starving people will eat lard or tofu or feces or raw heroin or poodles." I mean, okay, there’s an argument some people will make against eating lard, but in reality, you just haven’t tasted a French fry until you’ve tasted one fried in lard. And with tofu, again, while admitting that you actually eat tofu and enjoy it can seem ridiculously cultish, and trying to convince yourself that it tastes like something other than congealed cardboard is more an act of faith then based in any reality- aside from that, there are still real health benefits and positive consequences to eating tofu that cannot be denied, whether one chooses to eat tofu to maintain good health, or whether it is only in illness that one begins to cling the hope offered by those more scientifically unproven yet miraculous claims of solidified-soy-curd converts.

But c’mon, tastes aside, eating either lard or tofu is much different than putting poo in your mouth. Or poodles.

Does that make sense? Do you see where maybe a comma or semi-colon or two could have easily straightened out that string of run-on cling-ons?

Although, to be honest, you probably could have safely left out the gun and god mention altogether. The fact is, some of us here in the hinterlands do like to hunt and pray - often at the same time - but frankly, we'd do it whether the mines were opened or closed.

Sure, we might hunt more often when chicken breasts cost $6.99 a pound or when we‘re out of work, because hey! Free hunting day! And can you blame us for clinging to religion, especially in the middle of a cold February and what with the church hall being heated on Tuesday nights for Bingo and the coverall jackpot being $1200? $1200 will pay for a lot of buckshot. And c’mon, Senator Obama, you really going to tell me that it didn’t ever cross your mind even once to bury a statue of St. Joseph in your backyard when you were trying to sell a house? That spiritual hocus pocus works. Just ask Oprah and Eckhart Tolle.

Anyway, I know that you know that not all of us fed-up small town Pennsylvanians are consequentially bitter, gun-toting, rosary-wielding hicks who won’t sit next to a Burkinabe immigrant in the lunchroom and who refuse to buy Italian shoes because they just seem too hoity-toity. Or vice versa, for that matter.

And I know that you know that I know that you know. And I know that you know that I know that…well, you know.

But you know how it is.

You said the thing about the stuff, and I heard the thing about the stuff, and I live in Pennsylvania and grew up in a small town and maybe I'm supposed to say something, I dunno. Most of all, though, I’m a just a real pill when it comes to semi-colons and word connotation…or is it denotation?…well, whatever, I'm just like that.

You've got a friend in Pennsylvania who is picky about being lumped-in with poodle eaters without the protection of a comma is all I'm saying.

Anyway, I just wanted to drop a line saying, yeah, I know.

And now you can write me a long letter telling me how much work it is to run a Presidential campaign, especially one where every ninny with a keyboard is parsing every word out of your mouth.

And then I can write you a letter saying, “I know you didn’t mean to say ‘ninny’, but….”

And you’ll say, “I know you know.”

And I’ll say, “I know, you know, you know.”

And we'll all just...know from now on.

You know?

Glad we got that cleared up.

You and Hillary are both doing an awesome job. Don't eat too many Tastykakes. And don't either of you get tempted into any cow-tipping jokes.

So. Not. Funny.


Signed,

Righteously Drunk Angry in Pennsylvania

I'm so much more than bitter.

Come For The Cheesesteaks, Stay For The Potholes

Yo!

I mean...

Hello there!

Pleased to meet you!

My name is Pennsylvania.

I’ve been getting a lot of bad press recently on account of, you know, that big snow storm and the ice and the three major interstates being closed down and trapping hundreds of motorists in their freezing cars for a day and a night and a day. Or so.

And I just wanted to take a few minutes to first apologize…

Uh…sorry...

and then do a better job of introducing myself.

How yous guys doin'!


I’m a lovely state, really.

I have purple mountains and crystal lakes. I have yummy chocolate-themed amusement parks and great big river down my middle that's just dandy for meandering along in an inner tube on a warm summer's day. I even have a small slice of shoreline along one of the Great Lakes! For you hunters and fishers, I have fields and streams a plenty. And if city lights and fine dining are your fancy, well sir, I’ve got world class cities propping up both my eastern and western borders in just the precise spots to help keep you from ending up in New Jersey or Ohio.

I mean, you don’t want to go to New Jersey.

What’s New Jersey got that I don’t got?

Nuthin’ that’s what.

Oh sure, there’s The Shore. But it ain’t much of a shore, let me tell you. They don’t even call it a shore. They call it a “sure”. Who wants to go swimming at a “sure”? If you ask me, Jersey Sure sounds suspiciously like Jersey Sewer. In fact, I once heard that if you go sea bathing at Atlantic City, you might find yourself swimming alongside old syringes and other medical waste from New York’s Fresh Kills Landfill. Like, this one kid I know was down the shore one year, and he was bodysurfing, and he, like, kept feeling little fish bumping up against his legs. Except when he finally landed on the beach and took a look around him, it wasn’t little fish bumping up against his legs. It was, like, a bunch of used gall bladders.

I swear it’s true.

And Ohio? I mean, whatever. If you really want to go play with Ohio, go knock yourself out. Ohio has no hills at all so you can’t even go sledding. And in the summer, all there is to do is walk around kicking cans or maybe hang out at the 7-Eleven. Don’t even get me started on Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. First of all, how is Miles Davis in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and Witness - the most awesome rock band ever on the face of the planet - hasn’t even been nominated yet? (Ohmigod, Billy Spence, the lead singer, was so dreamy!) Sure, Witness was mostly just a Jethro Tull-Billy Joel cover band, and they mostly just played down the Jersey Sewer. But the band also did a lot of gigs at Cardinal Brennan High School in Fountain Springs, PA, and I so own them.

But yeah, if you want to play with Ohio, be my guest. All I'm going to say is that one time Illinois told me that Scranton reminded him of Cleveland except with classier truck stops and better tasting kielbasa. And Scranton’s sitcom kicks Cincinnati’s sitcom’s ass any day, any year.


So hey!

Like the slogan says, You’ve Got A Friend In Pennsylvania!

I want to be your friend.

I’ll give you a piece of gum if you’ll be my friend.

Anyway, your mom says you have to play with me because I got all that important old-timey stuff in Philadelphia and in Gettysburg and it’s real important and you’re supposed to hang out with me and improve your mind. Your mom told my mom that you’re not allowed to play with California or Nevada anymore because you keep coming home smelling like wine and hookers. In Pennsylvania, you’re not even allowed to buy wine on a Sunday except for in specially run State Stores, and even then you have to prove that you’re at least 35 years old and were just attending church services. Where they were baptizing hookers.

Aw, c’mon!

Visit me!

I promise it’ll be fun!

Wanna see my broken nuclear reactor collection?

Ooh! Ooh! I know! Let’s go tip some Amish cows!

Fine.

Be that way.


But if you don’t play with me, I’m not going to let you get to New York City.

Yeah, that’s right. Whaddaya gonna do now? Oooohhh, cut all the way through Maryland to get on I-95? You’ll never make the matinee showing of Spamalot.

C’mmmmooooonnnnnnnnnnnn.

I'm a nice state.

Wanna see my new puppy?

That’s right…just get on the I-78 entrance ramp.

See?

I'll have you in The Big Apple in no time.

That?

Oh, that’s just a little snow. A few flurries. We call them “fun flakes” here in Pennsylvania. Just a little something to add to the festival atmosphere of driving 75 miles per hour on a four-lane highway while double-trailer big rigs rumble by you at 95 miles an hour, clip your side-view mirror, and then suddenly swerve into your lane after jamming into first gear to make it up the next hill.

Whoops! Watch that black ice!

Looks like things are getting a bit hairy on the interstates again. Better pull off and let PennDOT get to work clearing the roads.

No, no! It won’t take long, I promise. Pinky swear.

Looky here! Why it’s a quaint little Pennsylvania Dutchy town. Just drive a bit down this back road toward the Hausselhoofen Diner and linger over a light dish of chicken croquettes a while. See that? I’m not so bad. Just a bit further down the road and you can bide your time with a quick dish of waffles and gravy and a slice of shoofly pie. Oh yeah, that's low fat. All PA Dutch cooking is low fat. Just around this bend, and then I’ll have you back on the Interstate in no…

HA-HAH!!!!!

GOTCHYA!



IT RUBS THE LOTION ON ITS SKIN! IT RUBS THE LOTION ON ITS SKIN!



Heh heh heh.


(Top photo: highway outside of Centralia, PA; Bottom photo: sinkhole on Rt. 924 Schuylkill County, PA.)

Aqua Throwdown

I was perusing the latest brochure of swim course offerings from our local high school's Community Aquatics Program.

I was thinking I'd help beat the winter blahs by signing-up the kiddies for some water tot programs, and maybe also, you know, challenge myself with an adult aqua class or two.

Beginning Diving?

Hmmm. Is The Bellyflop a dive?

How about a synchronized swimming class?

I always look so fetching in a rubber skull cap.

But my interest was really piqued when I came to the final listing:

Theory And Confined Water Scuba

Ooh.

This sounded like serious fun.

None of those airy-fairy swan dives or spiraling arabesques with toes pointed and Knox gel in my hair.

I want to gear up big time. I want goggles and flippers and an oh-so-form-fitting Scuba suit in black leather with flames down the side. I want to deep sea dive and poke at sharks with big sticks. I want to explore the wrecks of Spanish galleons and stuff handfuls of gold doubloon into my Aqua Bra.

Yes! Water Scuba! That’s the class for me!

I could do this!

And then I read the class description and prerequisites:


Damn.

200 years?

During my lifeguard training class in 1983, I had to tread water for 30 minutes. I think I got a nosebleed at minute 14.

I’m an Aqua Weinie.

So yeah. Friendly warning not to challenge the Cumberland Valley Scuba Divers to an endurance round. Those guys are hardcore.

Anyway…who wants to dive in a quarry?

All that’s down there is a bunch of stolen Chevelles and a few ex-mobsters.


I think I’ll go for this cap.

paradise, pennsylvania

age thirteen

age twelve

age seven

age eight

and her sister

age seven

Holiday! Celebrate! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

Well, I’m off!

We’re off!

My two lovely daughters and very-pregnant I are off on holiday for four fun-filled days!

(By the way, that’s not really me all big and pregnant with my belly sticking out. That’s Madonna all big and pregnant with her belly sticking out. But, we look so much alike *cough cough* and there are already so many photos of her out there, I figured why waste the film.)

I like saying “holiday” instead of “vacation”. I like calling it a “holiday” because it makes me feel more cosmopolitan. More cultured and worldly.

“We’re going on holiday!”

People just assume you’re going somewhere fabulous like the Basque coast or Mykonos, where you’ll romp in the cultured and worldly sun wearing a white crocheted bikini and drinking limoncello. Or, heck, they might even assume you’re going to Brighton to walk the pier and drink shandies, or to Blackpool to ride the donkeys and drink shandies.

Say “vacation” around here and people immediately assume the Jersey Shore and jellyfish and vomiting teenagers.

Which, actually, doesn’t sound half bad.

If they had donkey rides at Wildwood, NJ, I might be half-tempted.

As it is, I’m not going anywhere half as exotic as New Jersey.

(I think I have one too many halves. I may have to take another holiday to use them all up.)

So where are we going on holiday?

We’re going here!



To romantic and picturesque Schuylkill County!

Oh, the allure of the strip mines!



Retrace history as you travel along Rt. 61 from Ashland, home of the Pioneer Tunnel mine tour and lokie ride



and then drive through to Frackville, town of large pie ladies and scary man-faced children



and then into Pottsville, the county seat and site of Yuengling Brewery, America’s oldest maker of beer (or so they say.)



(I have no idea who that guy is, but everyone in Schuylkill County has either a cousin, brother or uncle who looks just like him. Or they sat next to him at a bar last Friday. And I’m betting his name is either Larry or Daryl or Scrappy.)

We’re holidaying in Schuylkill County at my family’s villa in the mountaintop hamlet of Frackville, where we’ll romp in cut-off jean shorts and bare feet (a.k.a.“hillbilly flip flops“) while sipping Frank’s ginger ale from jelly jars. We’ll relax on the shores of Locust Lake and swim in the clear beauty of its trout-laden waters alongside guys in hip waders and women with “Git R Done” tattoos across the top of their buttocks. We’ll spend long evenings sitting on the front porch eating teaberry ice cream and counting cars - you get a point for every blue car, I get a point for every white car - until the siren goes off at the volunteer fire station, and then we all take bets on how many volunteer fire fighters in pick-up trucks speed by in the following ten minutes on their way to the firehouse.

Ahhhhhh…I jest!

I love going home!

I love being free to let it all hang out for a few days in a town where almost no one will recognize me (or count it against me at the PTO meeting if I should say something like “Look it, are yous comin‘ wit me ta the pizzah parlor er not? I ain't waitin around! Da pizzahs will be cold by the time I get der!”)

And those who do recognize me will most likely also remember what I looked like in ninth grade. So, even with my waddling stomach, pasty thighs, and perpetual ponytail, it’s such a vast improvement over the fuzzy perm, oversized plastic glasses, and plaid jumper from freshman year, I might as well be a pop star on holiday.

It’s all good.

I just wanted to let yous all know where I’m goin’ fer the next few days. My mom doesn’t have da Innernet (well, dial-up on a 12-year-old computer, so really, we‘re talkin' glorified doorstop) and I’ll be off da grid until Friday. However, I’m bringing a lap top and promise to jot down all our goings-on for future publication.

Until then…

Ciao! Arrivederci! Bon Voyage! Bob’s Your Uncle!

See yous later! Ain’t yo!

The Halushki Awards: Central PA - Part 1

Everyone loves an award, don’t they?

Gee, they make you feel good. Really…really boosts the ole self-esteem, puts a bounce in your walk, a spring in your step, a…uh…a some other overused cliché about walking very up-and-downish

Yup.

Awards.

They’re really something.


I haven’t gotten one recently.


An award, I mean.

No awards for me. Nooooo awards.

Nope.

Nada.

Nuthin'.


Ah well…

Although, come to think of it, I was whining about something at work the other night, and I caught someone doing that tiny violin hand motion in time to my complaining, so that’s kind of like an ovation, right?


No?


Darn.

But hey, I’m no sour puss. And if no one is going to hand me any awards, what better way to soothe my ego and feel all high and mighty - I mean, humble and generous - than to hand out a few awards myself.

And not to be outdone by Harrisburg Magazine - well, except for the pseudo-diversity of content and slick photo spreads - I’m taking it upon myself to hand out some of my own ding-dong-dang awards to those people, places and institutions who and which have made my life - me, mine, moi - a tad more palatable and comfortable with downhome versions of cosmopolitan amenities, the likes of which I’ve been sorely missing since moving from Philadelphia to Arkansas

I mean, Central Pennsylvania.

I’ll admit it: for a girl who grew up frequently using outhouses and not thinking twice, I am a snob. And fussy.

Eh-hem.

And so without further ado, and in no particular order…


Best Place To Eat Something In Central PA That Isn’t Covered in Breading and Fried in Lard or Lard Substitute

I like me some Thai Palace at 3608 Market Street in Camp Hill. Although, technically, I think it’s located in Hampden Township. Yay Hampden Township!

(I’m trying to find a stinking link to the place, but no go.)

Okay, with all that chili oil and coconut milk, this ain’t necessarily health food. But really, if you’re in the mood for greasy anyway, grab an order of the duck with coconut and pineapple curry. And the soups will brighten even the darkest night of the soul, all while clearing-out your sinuses and scenting your breath with lemongrass. And it even smells better when you spill it on yourself. I’m just saying.

Bonus: If you go to Thai Palace with little kids, the hostess may let the kiddies play with all the cool native instruments adorning the restaurant. I don’t know whether they’ll extend the offer to adults, so if you want to fiddle with the big wooden xylophone looking thing - well, not fiddle - grab someone’s kid to go along when you pick up your take out.

Mmmmmmm…lemongrass.


Best Guy To Fix Your Volkswagen

If your Golf is running low on farfegnugen, or if the flueven hueven isn’t groovin’ and movin’ on your Jetta, you best get your German-lovin’ backside to Floyd’s Garage, 18 Gettysburg Pike in Mechanicsburg (although, it may be Upper Allen Township, who the hell can tell around here?)

Floyd is a man of few words. And he has no time for the silliness that goes on at “Country Mark-up” Nursery (that’s a genuine Floydism) down the pike and their overpriced petunias, he’s made that very plain to me. He’s also told me with steely gaze and the dismissive shrug of a man who knows his way around a set of metric wrenches and a John Wayne movie, that I was a sucker for paying $500 for tires at Sears, even though that price included free rotation and balancing for the life of the car. C’mon, Floyd! That has to be a bargain, right?

Floyd just shakes his head and pinches a dip of his Redman chew.

(Well, maybe he didn’t really dip any Redman. But, he could have.)

Anyway… I felt justly chastised.

Don‘t get me wrong. Floyd is a good guy, salt of the earth. I’d trust Floyd with…well, with my spanking-new, soccer mom-approved Toyota Sienna, impeccably engineered and delicately scented with crushed Cheerios and Japanese lotus blossoms. But, I’ve also never felt more like a non-man than at Floyd’s Garage. In fact, I’d never send my husband there with the Golf. He’d return completely emasculated. Maybe even wearing lace panties.

But, does Floyd know Volkswagens? Let me tell ya…

About two years ago while driving the Golf and minding my own beeswax, for no good reason that I could figure all of the little warning lights on the dashboard suddenly went haywire, flashing and pulsing like a Munich discotheque. In the bad part of Munich. The car seemed to still be running fine, and I figured the red glowing icon of all four tires exploding at once was activated by, you know, a jiggly wire.

Or something.

Growing up, 99% of all my car problems (that weren’t precipitated by me running over cement parking barriers or bumping down dirt roads on my way to keg parties) seemed to be solved by my father reaching under the dashboard and jiggling some wires.

And I probably would have been able to ignore all the dancing lights were it not for the two words feared by all Pennsylvania drivers: State Inspection.

Damn.

Back in the day, if your dad hunted with the local mechanic, you could get an inspection sticker for the price of deer steak and the promise to not drive the car over 40 miles an hour or into the wind. But today? Psssshhhht. You gotta have the real inspection and everything.

At the very least, the first three mechanics who looked at the Golf were honest about scratching their head and throwing up their hands. In Philly, they’d be just as likely to fix the problem by cutting the wires to the dashboard lights and then charging me $500. Like Sears. (Oh, evil, evil Sears.)

Finally, Dave of Dave’s Sunoco in Mechanicsburg (and I think it’s really IN Mechanicsburg) quite righteously steered me in the direction of Floyd. And Floyd told me, without blinking, that from where he stood and from what he knew about Golfs, this problem was either going to cost $70 or $1700, and then - God love him - Floyd managed to fix the problem (for real) for $70.

And once when asking Floyd whether our 1998 Golf - with 78,000+ miles, missing hubcaps, a crushed bumper, and a tendency to break down whenever we’d just stretched our monthly budget to make an extra payment on our mortgage - asked him whether it would last us another winter or two, Floyd narrowed his eyes and budged his leathered jaw into the slightest shadow of a grin and reckoned,

“78,000 miles?

Car’s not even broken in yet.”


Thank you, Floyd. Thank you.


Best Coffee Joint To Hang Out With Your Mommy Posse and Kids

This one is tricky, cause see, I work at A Big Bookstore Which Shall Not Be Named and really, I think they have a pretty fine and dandy café there. Even more dandy when you consider that I get a 50% discount on lattes and chocolate cheesecake.

But a few days ago, I wandered in to The Little Coffeehouse on 115 St. John’s Church Rd, in…in…MechanicsHillShip…HamCamBurg…okay, if you’re on the Carlisle Pike driving west from Camp Hill through Hampden Township toward Mechanicsburg, after you pass the dejected-looking Good’s Furniture on the left, get ready to make a left onto St. John’s Church Road. The Little Coffeehouse is a few yards down on your left.

Or just mapquest it.

Where was I?

Oh…so a few days ago, I wandered in to The Little Coffeehouse to grab me some hazelnut steamer -

because, you know, even though I heartily applaud the fact that Starbucks is trying so hard to figure out this recycled-content cup, and I want to support their at least pretending to be hip to the whole fair trade thing by offering whole bean coffee packaged in PANTONE® Eco-Friendly Color Scheme bags with graphics approved by Guatemalan Fair Trade Advertising Executives…



…and what the heck is “recycled-content” anyway? It sounds like someone backwashed into your mochaccino…

jeepers, I can’t stay on track here….

Anyway, sometimes I simply like to hand over my dollars and cents to the mom and pop joints, the little guys. You know, as long as they’re not surly.

But no one is surly at The Little Coffeehouse! Recently under new management and - best of all - minus the LARGE SCREEN TV THAT PLAYED “COPS, BAD BOY, BAD BOY, WHAT YA GONNA DO” at nine in the morning when you were still trying to get your head together and wanted nothing more than to pretend that you were vacationing, if only for a minute, in a peaceful, cobblestoned village in lavender-dipped Provence - double jeez -The Little Coffeehouse is comfy, cozy with mixed-and-mingled stuffy chairs and sofas in one room, and tables ready for games of checkers or chess or a few hours of quiet journal writing or Suduko in the adjoining room.

And although there isn’t a dedicated Self Improvement or Business Management reading section or a selection of magazines ranging from Bangladesh VOGUE to Poodle Fancier, I think that the shelf of well-worn miscellaneous books is still propped against the far wall, ready to borrow and browse over your steaming cuppa.

And here’s the best part, mommies: The Little Coffeehouse will be toddler friendly.

Or at least, that’s the new owner’s plan. After I shook her hand and thanked her for removing the blaring plasma panel, the owner talked a bit about her idea for bringing in some children’s toys and books and dedicating a section of one room to mommy-kiddo outings for the pre-preschool set, making it as welcoming and safe as possible for wee ones wandering amidst hot coffee and hot mommas using big hand gestures while animatedly discussing the redefinition of “feminism” to include minivans and Pampered Chef home parties as well as practical shoes and secret crushes on k.d. lang.

I am sincerely thrilled.


But never fear. If knee-biters give you the heebie-jeebies, relax in knowing that most rugrats are home by noon for lunch and a nap, so the coffeehouse is all yours in the afternoon and evening.

Now open until 11:00 PM, and look for brunch on Sunday coming soon.



Okay, there’s three awards.

I did go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on, didn’t I?

Gah.


Anywho, watch this space for more local yokel Halushki Awards, also coming soon. For now, thank you so much for your time and attention to these deserving award recipients. Although I’m only a presenter, I’m humbly honored even to type on the same page as the winners' illustrious names. That I also typed. With much humility and no thought for myself.

Drive home safely, (but please, don’t worry yourselves about me.)

Goodnight and God bless.

Mr. Conti, please bring up the orchestra.


Now would someone find my freakin’ hair and make-up girl so I can fire her.