Wellsburg Apple Festival, 2008

Wellsburg is a charming small town along Highway 2 in West Virginia. It has been around for quite a long time, sitting placidly alongside the Ohio River. Better Half and I discovered the Wellsburg Apple Festival last Sunday and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon.

My first objet de plaisir was this odd little house tucked against a heavy brick building. I love old things. I married one. This old thing caught my fancy because of the timber and plaster walls.

The Wells Log House dates back to 1788, when Wellsburg WV was Buffaloe VA. Alexander Wells (I assume that Wellsburg is named after him or his descendents) constructed the four room/two-floor building. It was doomed to demolition until someone tore off the old siding and saw the old beams. It is now on the National Register of Historic Places, District of Wellsburg (registered 1981.) The home is a cornerstone in this area’s History, which you can find in another of my blog entries.

They permitted people to walk through. We entered the back door and found ourselves in an ancient kitchen. (I fully intend to go back and take better photographs!)

The fireplace is known as a turkey breast. It has a matching fireplace sharing a flue; that fireplace warms the second (main) room. The kitchen and main rooms are the same size. There are no plumbing fixtures. A bare bulb illuminates both rooms, added as an afterthought by either the church that owned the building or the previous owners. We were not allowed upstairs (or perhaps we were, but didn’t realize it.)

They have gathered some artifacts and put them on display. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that a few of those items were from the early 1900’s. That's okay. It is the feel that counts.

Standing in an old building is standing in the tide of history and feeling it churn around your body. You close your eyes and block out all the sounds and then, quite clearly, you can sense things from a bygone era. There was struggle here; life was not easy. There was death, there was birth and ghosts of things that once were.

Better Half can be impatient. Yes, it’s an old house. Yes, that fireplace is interesting. He didn’t seem too keen on staying in there for any length of time. He certainly didn’t have any desire to run his hand along the old wooden beams. I am not saying that he didn’t find it fascinating; he lacks my “whatever you want to call it” when it comes to antiques. I, on the other hand, would have remained there for an hour or more.

I got a kick out of someone’s seemingly long forgotten home. Better Half thought it was abandoned. There was a yard sale going on in the back yard, however. People lived inside.

The structure had gaping hold along the roof and a “haunted” tree in the front yard. It was pretty however. I could imagine the various activities that were held here. It had such a view, too. The river was just outside their door. I took several photographs but my favorite was a humble black and white negative. It screamed, “Happy Halloween”.

The Apple Festival wasn’t as appley as we thought it was going to be. There was apple-themed bric-a-brac but the normal country kitsch crowded it out. There were two Avon stands, an apple farmer, the Rotary was present, there were plenty of food stands and we discovered an excellent honey seller (who happens to live in Steubenville.)

Buena Vista Honey Farms offers the tastiest honey I’ve had in a long time. The flavor found in your honey comes from what you allow your bees to play with. Buena Vitsa offered locust blossom and bamboo honeys; we purchased both. They also had a variety of goods: cleverly shaped beeswax candles, gift bags, wedding favors, honey sticks and honey candies. They had some fact sheets and I enjoyed expanding my bee knowledge.

I do not mind bees. They are beautiful little creatures with soft bodies, interesting wings, and a sting that will kill me.

“You’ll be all right if you don’t swat at them.”

Really? Are you INSANE? Why would I want my hand anywhere near them?

I intend to run in the other direction. To hell with the “stand still” thing. Have you seen the Africanized bees? They swarm a cow and in under a minute the poor beast is on the grass and dying as an incalculable amount of bees inject it with venom.

That was my biggest fear when I lived in the Rockies: Africanized bees.

(I’ll do a bee entry at a later time.)

My second biggest fear, as it so happens, is the Granolas. Only in Colorado can someone stroll around and reek of body odor and pot and still be embraced by people from all walks of life.

Susan (the bleached blond and tanned-by-light-bulbs yuppie attorney cougar who also serves on the City Council) turns to her lover (Brittany the gen x’er health food store manager who sexually services half of City Council, unbeknownst to Susan) and says, “Oh, here comes John, that Granola rascal (who I slept with last night while Brittany was at work.) I heard that he launched a “save the Mountain Whale and Pink Titted Owl” campaign. Instant success. John! Yoo-hoo! Over here. Join us for a Starbucks double espresso!”

(Brittany cringes, of course. She slept with John the Granola this morning after Susan left for work.)



I do not miss Colorado. Colorado is where all the plastic people relocate once they discover that they can not be Somebody while living in California. They are too phony for the real phonies. In Colorado (particularly Colorado Springs) they can act as if they’re Somebody as they maneuver their obnoxious diesel SUVs around. They have an inclination to hose themselves down with cheap perfume and bray (LOUDLY) into their Blackberries at Olive Garden. There is no middle ground with these people. They are either furiously angry liberals who are against any and all oppression (to include the oppression of things that should be oppressed, such as loud farts in public) or they are furiously angry ultra-conservatives who believe that everything should be oppressed as God intended it to be (except for loud farts in public, which they promptly blame on the closest liberal.)

You will occasionally find a smile on your face with one group trumps another.

You go boy! And take that outfit with you.


Back to the Apple Festival. There were no Granolas present.

We met the Gourmet Pizzelle guy. He ships. My parents might receive some pizzelles for Christmas!

Why settle for anise pizzelles? That’s old school. He offers “banana nut, butter almond, butter pecan, two chocolate varieties, cran-raspberry, lemon, maple walnut, orange, pistachio, raspberry, rum’n’spice, vanilla butter nut and……. Watermelon!” He also offers “amaretto, cherry cordial, grand marnier, Irish cream, kahlua, pina colada and toffee”. This isn’t enough, however. He populates the rest of his stock with “apple cinnamon, apple swirl, butterscotch, cran-apple, peanut butter, peanut swirl, pumpkin, rum raisin, strawberry and chocolate mint”. He will make them with rice flour on request, and will also made the “no sugar added” variety.

A gorgeous old Victorian façade fascinated me. It was a pharmacy (and probably the old chemist’s shop at one time.) It apparently didn’t fascinate anyone else. It would be easy to say, “they’ve lived in that town all their lives and it seems part of the backdrop, uninteresting.” I can’t fathom that sort of thinking.

I found old homes bemusing as a child. There was a small orchard and dilapidated old home between my street and the closest stores and I would walk past that property every time I craved a pixie stick from the 7-11 or wanted to buy socks at Gemco. I wanted to walk down that long path and ring their bell (if they had a bell, if they had electricity to have a bell) but I never marshaled up the courage. Too late, I would imagine; the house has most likely been torn down to make room for something overly priced and extremely obnoxious.

Back to the Apple Festival.

Irish musicians mixed with bluegrass and folk as we strolled down Third Street. Children, ever polite, enjoyed playing and day dreaming, their laughter mixing with the music in an enchanting way.

Parking meters are taken very seriously in Wellsburg. The citizens decorate some of their meters as though paying homage to the small change gods. Festive flowers crowned these meters, trailing ivy as their American flags waved gailed in the breeze. I thought it was a very nice touch. Given the extremely friendly nature of all the people that we ran in to, I can easily see a women’s group or even the local high school kids setting each of these meter decorations into place.

Equally as amusing was the parking meter fine drop box. This was not a hoax. People really were on the honor system and the honor system in this town was alive and well.



We left the Festival and headed up to Robinson for Joe’s Crab Shack. We haven’t been to one in a while and we were in the mood for fish and fun. I asked Better Half to please stand in front of the restaurant so that I could snap a picture. He, as usual, stood there like a lump. I had to finally say, “will you &^$@ do something to make it interesting?!”

It worked, as you can see.

Getting Bongo Better Half to “do things” for a picture is nearly impossible. I have fourteen years of film with Better Half "doing nothing". Same pose. Same expression. I can flick through them quickly as if they were one of those cartoon books where you watch the dog fetch the ball. In his case, the hair recedes and the face fills out. Poor fellow.

We drove back to Ohio, a bit worn out from our long day but also very satisfied. I allowed myself to be mugged by some of the dogs and then called it a day. I, unlike Better Half, at least do something in a picture, even if it is pulling a face due to dog breath. Pardon the lack of furniture and things in disarray; we just cleaned the carpets. Yes, ewww - the living room green will be painted over soon.

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Red Peppers, a Quest for Noel Coward's script

I woke up with Red Peppers on the brain. Not the kind suitable for eating, dear Readers; the play.

I recall my mother telling me about performing in Red Peppers. It is a warm, fuzzy memory, the likes of which make you immediately think, “wow, why in the hell did I grow up?” The topic came up during some sort of play that I was working (or perhaps it was one of her productions that I was acting in?) We lived in California at the time. Perhaps my father was still employed at Paramount, perhaps he had moved on to Hannon Engineering. Who is to say? I can’t recall it. I have no intention of calling Mum to ask. Much too early in the morning (two hour difference between us.)

Let’s jump into our Way, Way Back Machine, preset to the 1970’s or early 1980’s. She hands me the tattered remains of what was once a working script. Noel Coward’s name is fading from the cover and the pages themselves bear the brunt of an actor’s touch.

There was a feeling of connectivity then, standing in their library and grasping something that my mother once used in her Younger Days before she gave up her career to raise me (promise to God, complex, to be explained someday.) Her lines were not highlighted. There were notes scribbled in the margins as well as blocking. It had the scent of old makeup and cigarette smoke. The paper, aged and soft, had the occasional gritty speck stashed between the pages. I imagined a much younger Mum, the sort that would toss the script onto the apron during a rehearsal thereby permitting the particles to embed themselves.

Wow, my mother performed this, I thought to myself, and then added for good measure, in front of people in a theatre.

To this day I have but one regret: I have never seen my mother perform. She was instructing and directing by the time that I came along. She has recited lines for me (such as the Red Peppers moment) and I always found myself to be dumbfounded by her knack of getting quickly into character, to step into a role that she had not embraced in over “a million” years. I was immeasurably proud of her during those moments.

Accents. “A Southern accent is infectious and can ruin an entire show.” It is sage advice from a woman who understands her craft better than most people know their own navels. My mother ran through a few lines (by memory) using a flawless Cockney (or East Ender) accent. The script begs for it. I was duly impressed as I stood in her library.

This is the point where I would insert a bit of dialog in order to give you a peek into Red Peppers. I would like to. I can’t find the lines anywhere.

Pickabook offers: Thisitem is not a usual stock item, but we can try to source it. Our price includes a finder's fee of £2.00 per copy. The usual dispatch time is 4-6 weeks.

No shit, Sherlock. I spent a good hour Googling in hopes of finding a snippet of lines from the script. Class and wit have been replaced by talking vaginas and cuckold men (my apologies to my NOW friends and family.)

Samuel French did have a copy and a short synopsis of the play.

One of the "Tonight At 8:30" series produced in London and New York. Doing a song and dance act in a vaudeville theatre are George Pepper and his wife, Lily. They also have a genius for picking quarrels and insulting co workers. When the house musical director, Bert, comes to the dressing room to bum a cigarette and a beer, they chide him for accompanying them in the wrong tempo, call him a drunk, and oust him. Mr. Edwards, house manager, comes to defend Bert, and he is insulted. At the following show Bert had his revenge when he plays the accompaniment so fast the Peppers get frantic and finally fall down. Lily stalks off the stage after heaving her hat at Bert. Also published in Tonight at8:30.
FEE: $35 per performance. Sheet Music (2 songs), $1.25 each.

La te da, Samuel French. (It's located in Key West. No, not Samuel French. La Te Da.)

I'd like to know some of the lines. I'd like to touch upon a memory. There is only one thing for it: Call Mum.

“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice. It’s noon here and I am actually out of bed. Did the house catch fire? Am I in the hospital dying from typhoid? Did we win the lottery?

Detour moment:
I never call her early in the day. I always manage to call her towards the end of the day, as if she were nothing but an afterthought to my busy (NOT) day. This is not the case, dear Readers. My mother is not an afterthought. She is writing a book and I do not wish to disturb her. Also, Better Half drives me nucking futs during the day and I seem unable to string two words together without him shouting at some animal or another.

“Nutmeg! NUT meg! NUTMEG! Get DOWN. Down. DOWN. DOWWWWNNNNNN!”

Jebus Crisp, Better Half! “Better HALF! BETTER HALF. Shush! SHUSH! SSSHHHUSH, I’m on the damned phone”. Thus go my days.

I have a sweet friend who also is cursed with oft-impish fur children. He will politely say, “Simba, get down. Mummy’s on the phone.” So elegant. I sometimes dread calling Michael for fear that Better Half will spontaneously explode from the sound of his own voice.

“Nutmeg! Nut MEG! NUTME… KABLOOM!”

I would then have to apologize to Michael and offer to pay for his now-ruptured eardrums, hang up the phone and grab the mop and towels before the neighbors notice the red goop trickling down the walls.

Back to my mother:

“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice.

“Hey, do you remember Red Peppers?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you and Dad do that one?”

“Yes”

“Wasn’t there a song in there?”

“Yes… hmm.” She sings some lyrics.

I laugh. Her memory is phenomenal. She goes into lines.
George: Now then.
Lily: Now then what?

She runs the dialog too quickly for me to type out beyond that. She runs it with the Cockney accent (very soft but still there), accurately portraying both characters as they react to each other. She laughs; she can’t remember any further.

“If Dad were here, we could run the lines for you,” she adds. (He is at the dentist today.)

I can feel her smiling as she says, “I directed your Dad in New York [City] with Peggy, and then I performed it with Dad in California.” It has been forty-two years (at the very least) since they performed ‘Red Peppers’. She still remembers.

I cast my mind about for lines from any productions that I’ve been in, reaching far back into my thirty-seven year old memory cache. It’s not impressive compared to Mum’s cache. (I have a hard time remembering what I ate for breakfast, where I left the dog and my own age.)

Lines? I have the ability to remember those. Perhaps it is a gift from Mum.

My first thought is The Decision. I remember the entire script, and I do mean the entire script. Every line. It’s a three-act play. Three hours of lines. I was in every scene; my father initially played the role.

This trial is one of great decision on your part. The accused is not present at this hearing. I have been assured by his counselor that the defendant will be watching these entire proceedings.

I am prepared to present to you many witnesses to prove the accused is guilty of having misled and confused millions of innocent people. In actuality, it is not so much the defendant who is on trial here, but rather it is his lunatic ideals that his followers have plagued mankind with…

I remember things from high school and earlier – first grade at St. Rose of Lima Elementary, we did a production called The Five Stones. I played the part of Martha. I think my husband was Zack. I can recall grabbing that young actor’s arm and delivering an irritated, “Come on, Zachary!” before dragging him stage right. Is this just some sort of floating dream? I reminiscence about a scrapbook and of an old photograph published in our local paper. It depicts that exact scene. Therefore, I can assume that either my memory is foggy or that I am actually remembering the lines.

Red Peppers. Mum and I enjoyed an hour on the phone. We talked about her old haunts and jobs. We discussed the university. We laughed over Vatican II nuns, communist lists, foolish Cardinals and the degradation of the Theatre Arts.

Today is my Grandfather Frank’s birthday. He passed when Mum was sixteen. I know it’s a poignant day for her. I am certain that her memories of her father are just as fresh as the lines that she so easily recollected over the phone. I think of the future Autrice and where I will be in forty years, when I am as old as my Mum and recalling loved ones. I also think of where my Mum was when she was my age. Both are bittersweet thoughts. I have not achieved as much as she did by her mid-thirties. I have not slain dragons or taken on the world with the same determination and fervor as she.

My hope is for my memory. I want to be able to peek over my shoulder and recall things such as soft scripts and Mum’s voice giving lines. I want to be capable of journeying down Memory Lane and seeing all the splendors with my mother’s same accuracy.

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VA, zombies and shopping - oh my!

Nothing brings greater domestic ecstasy than stocking our larder with all the premium bits and pieces needed to create magnificent meals (unless you count the sheer pleasure of cooking and consuming said meals.)

Better Half and I journeyed to Pittsburgh today. The lab vampires gorged themselves upon his blood; the LPN, scrying his medical records, decreed him to be a corporally eroding human; the pharmacist plied his secret vodou conjuring and wrought wicked remedies to thwart Better Half’s progression into a zombie-like condition. They injected us both with a live viral culture. We were dispatched like a couple of winged (zombie?) monkeys, perhaps in the hope that we would rummage around the city and spot a pubescent gingham-clad farm girl and her little dog, Toto, too. It was a predictable day at the VAMC.

I happen to like zombies. The ultimate expression of their undead love is exhibited by the amount of body parts left on the carpet. I once found Better Half’s torso in the dining room. I was moved beyond tears but also irked by the amount of dusty blood on the carpet. Furthermore, the dogs feasted upon his withered internal organs while I was out; rotted human jerky tends to unsettle their little tummies. I was picking up liquid pooh all damn night.

Zombie. Zombified. Zombificaiton. Jumbie. Nzambi. Zonbi. Nzumbe.

The Epic of Gilgamesh of ancient Sumer includes zombies in a most threatening fashion. A vengeful Ishtar cries out:

“Father give me the Bull of Heaven,
So he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
I will smash the doorposts, and leave the door flat down,
And will let the dead go up to eat the living!
And the dead will outnumber the living!”

The little bitch gets her way, I should add. Ishtar is granted the Bull of Heaven and all sorts of odd things happen.

Ishtar is a very impish person. We can thank her for all those charming passages in the bible that pertain to “men shall not lie with men as they do women.” We can also thank her for Romans 1 although really we should thank Christians themselves for changing God’s Word to reflect their own pedantic apprehensions. The early church was distraught over the sexually themed worship in Rome. They put their figurative foot down and became rather abstemious in regard to how and why worship would take place. Verses were changed through the ages to reflect sex alone and separate from Ishtar and temple practices.

No way, Autrice. You are wrong!

Many of my fellow Christians do not question their modern bible nor do they question why things read as they do.

Ishtar = the gay is sin debate.
Bacchus = drinking wine is sin debate.

And so on...

I could go on, but I won’t. It is not my job to educate you, dear Readers. Sheeple need to seek the best grass in the pasture instead of blindly following their shepherd (pastor or priest.) If your shepherd cannot point out the good grass and clover to you (or if he or she is unwilling to) then by all means FIND A NEW PASTOR. Don't stagnate; grow through the Holy Spirit.

I have gone completely off topic with this whole thing. My intention was to share our shopping day at the Strip. Zombies, Ishtar, doctors and flying monkeys were not on the program.

The Strip. Shopping. Lovely day.

Better Half and I started at Penn Mac. We stocked up on spices and other things. The large jug below is olive oil. This is how Italians purchase it. We fill our own bottle, allowing the precious liquid to flow from huge vats. It is light and heavenly. We do not use any other oils. Lazy Italians purchase oil it in tins. Clueless Americans purchase it in tiny bottles tucked onto the supermarket shelf.

We had a delightful lunch at our favorite restaurant, Primanti Brothers. I made the mistake of ordering their famous Colossal Fish sandwich. It is a slab of breaded fish almost as long as my forearm fried and slapped onto thick bread. Cheese and shredded greens are added to that. Tomatoes rest on top. Add another slab of bread. The artery clogger is the French fries pressed between the cheese and the greens. My God, I thought I would die. I can’t open my mouth that wide. I turned the entire affair into finger food and picked out the fries on one half. The second half was neglected with the exception of the fish. I picked that out and nibbled on it. (I did not bring my camera with me today. No fish picture for you.) They have the best food.

We stopped into Penzy spices for some Sate seasoning and ground ginger. They were offering a free jar of minced garlic.

Wholey was next. This place is fabulous. A sushi chef and his stand are the first sight you lay eyes on as you walk through the door. The abundance of the sea sits to the right. Beautiful fish with clear eyes and open mouths lay on beds of shaved ice. Thick slabs of deep red tuna tempt the shopper. A large barrel of Spot was placed prominently today. $1.49 a pound, a decent price. I had the fishmonger pull two juicy fish. They were filleted in record time. Other fish swam in large tanks towards the back of the fish section.

The second part of the store is dedicated to meat. You can find hefty cuts of beef or pork. Rabbit ($4.99 a pound) can be had fresh or frozen. A variety of internal organs are at your fingertips or, if you are at peace with it, you can purchase hocks, feet and other “walkie bits”. The shining glory today were the turkeys suspended above the butcher’s counter.

We went to the Asian market and stocked up on our miso paste and bonito flakes. (6 cups water, 2 tablespoons miso, a dash of bonito flakes = easy soup. Add some green onions and mushrooms for a vegetarian dish. Broil some chicken or pork loin, slick thin and add to the soup for a hearty meal. Thinly slick raw beef and add it to scalding hot soup for a unique adventure – I recommend using quality beef and not whatever was on sale at your local Wal-mart.)

Our final stop was Stan’s Produce. You can always fine the freshest goods at Stan’s. I picked up some Roma tomatoes (my own plants are almost dead), green onions, sweet potatoes and zucchini. I cannot recall if I bought the large garlic at Stan’s or Penn Mac.

Dinnertime has arrived. A steaming hot bowl of soup and some sweet fish await fixing.

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Failure Joke (from email)

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Autumn Changes and Bewbs

“Autrice, this blog looks like fall!”

Why yes, yes it does. I’m in the mood for fall. I’m also in the mood to delve into a teensy bit of HMTL tinkering.

Working with code is a mesmerizing thing. It almost seems as if I detach my mind from my body. I am completely unaware of ordinary aches and pains. I don’t notice the muscle spasms or palpitations. I am, in essence, free. Of course, Better Half does not seem to identify with that; we wage wars over “too much time online”.

This fresh fall template is my way of telling the summer heat to piss off. We still have a bountiful crop of tomatoes on our vines. Squash is slowing spreading across the driveway asphalt as if it were an outrageous B-movie creature. Time marches on and I march with it. I am also saving time by having this done early.

Autumn is my preferred time of year. I do become somewhat maudlin when I look out my window and observe all my gorgeous flowers wilting like a defrocked prom queen tiptoeing out of a cheap motel. Flowers be damned, bring on the crisp air. Let me see rosy-cheeked children dashing up the street. I long to hear the crunch of leaves under my feel. I also long for a nice scarf, perhaps ivory in color and as soft as a cloud. Matching gloves would be phenomenal. Is this too obvious a hint? Hello? Husband?

An interesting note: there has always been something evocative or naughty worked into the background or banners of my blog since its inception. I have no idea why. I don’t even discern it until someone (a-hem BAAAA) points it out to me. Thus, I checked my email just now and found a note from the Ox and Spider. “Your banner,” he stated, “the pumpkins look like bewbs.”

Bewbs? My banner? Certainly not. Two eyeballs and nose, yes. Headlights on a car, perhaps. Oh who am I kidding?! They DO look like perfectly round breasts. Good Lord. We will not discuss the pinecone. I am not going to change that banner either. I have been working on the blog for most of the afternoon and I am certain that Better Half will start up with, “You spend too much time online” any moment now. He does have a point.

Thank you, Ox, for showing me where to get font for my banners!

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For Better Half

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Men's Gymnastics Commercial

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How Many Zero's in a Billion?

The next time you hear a politician use the
word 'billion' in a casual manner,

think about whether you want the

'politicians' spending YOUR tax money.

A billion is a difficult number to comprehend,
but one advertising agency did a good job of
putting that figure into some perspective in
one of it's releases.


A.
A billion seconds ago it was 1959.

B.
A billion minutes ago Jesus was alive.

C.
A billion hours ago our ancestors were
living in the Stone Age.

D.
A billion days ago no-one walked on the earth on two feet.

E.
A billion dollars ago was only
8 hours and 20 minutes,
at the rate our government
is spending it.

While this thought is still fresh in our brain...
let's take a look at New Orleans ..
It's amazing what you can learn with some simple division.

Louisiana Senator,
Mary Landrieu (D)
is presently asking Congress for
250 BILLION DOLLARS
to rebuild New Orleans .. Interesting number...
what does it mean?

A.
Well... if you are one of the 484,674 residents of New Orleans
(every man, woman, and child)
you each get $516,528.

B.
Or... if you have one of the 188,251 homes in
New Orleans , your home gets $1,329,787.

C.
Or... if you are a family of four...
your family gets $2,066,012!

Washington, D. C
HELLO!
Are all your calculators broken??

Accounts Receivable Tax
Building Permit Tax
CDL License Tax
Cigarette Tax
Corporate Income Tax
Dog License Tax
Federal Income Tax
Federal Unemployment Tax (FUTA)
Fishing License Tax
Food License Tax
Fuel Permit Tax
Gasoline Tax
Hunting License Tax
Inheritance Tax
Inventory Tax
IRS Interest Charges (tax on top of tax)
IRS Penalties (tax on top of tax)
Liquor Tax
Luxury Tax
Marriage License Tax
Medicare Tax
Property Tax
Real Estate Tax
Service charge taxes
Social Security Tax
Road Usage Tax (Truckers)
Sales Taxes
Recreational Vehicle Tax
School Tax
State Income Tax
State Unemployment Tax (SUTA)
Telephone Federal Excise Tax
Telephone Federal Universal Service Fee Tax
Telephone Federal, State and Local Surcharge Tax
Telephone Minimum Usage Surcharge Tax
Telephone Recurring and Non-recurring Charges Tax

Telephone State and Local Tax
Telephone Usage Charge Tax
Utility Tax
Vehicle License Registration Tax
Vehicle Sales Tax
Watercraft Registration Tax
Well Permit Tax
Workers Compensation Tax

STILL THINK THIS IS FUNNY?

Not one of these taxes existed 100 years ago...
and our nation was the most prosperous in the world.

We had absolutely no national debt...
We had the largest middle class in the world.

What happened?
Can you spell 'politicians!'

And I still have to
press "1"
for English.

I hope this goes around the
USA
at least 100 times

Thanks OX for the weird email

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July 1st, Canada (birth!) Day

July 1st – a relaxing day. Not only is it my birthday, but also the day that Canadians celebrate the birth of the man (Oscar Canada) who discovered their great land. I’m told that they hold dog sled races in the deep July snow to commemorate the occasion, replete with lumberjack competitions and RCMP formation drills. The PM, Stephen Harper, was on hand to help judge the moose beauty pageant. The moose (or “mooses” if you are from the any state in the deep South, USA) must sing the national anthem (dedicated to Mr. O. Canada) with perfect pitch least they be disqualified.

My wonderful Canadian friends are going to kick my ass all over the Internet, to be sure.

I had a friend “back in the day” that honestly thought that Cinco de Mayo was held in celebration of the “man who discovered Mexico”. His name, of course, was Cinco de Mayo (no relation to Oscar Canada or even Oscar de la Renta.) The mistranslation of “Fifth of May” to “this guy’s name” undeniably stymied her attempts to date a Hispanic male. It didn’t surprise me one iota when some foolish person refused to believe Canada Day was about the enactment of the British North American Act. I am not going into detail about the “how and why” of it. Google and learn.

How sad is it that Americans seem clueless with regard to their neighbors to the north and south? Are we nothing more than a nation that saturates itself with prime time talent contests, baby daddy talk shows, and hyperbole as it pertains to our self-estimation? (Be forewarned, the next generation was weaned on Fruit Roll-Ups, Starbuck’s burnt coffee and Go-Gurt. I don’t expect much in the way of vigorous brain cell activity. God forbid they reach their 40’s and suddenly discover that Canada is not the 51st state.)

I can overlook some things. If you have never called a living and breathing human being in Canada, you might not know that you can dial the number just as you would any long distance phone number, using only 1+area code. Please do not try to place a call to Canadians who are not living and breathing; the dead tend to ignore the phone’s ring.

Another misconception: Canada does not have “states”. Should you ask a Canadian what state he lives in, he will probably think, “a state of hell, having to deal with yet another inept American.” Canada is a federation of ten provinces and three territories. They have a PM (Prime Minister, which is not the same thing as prime rib) rather than a president.

Canadians enjoy indoor plumbing, paved roads and buildings comprised of materials other than ice. They drive in the same sort of vehicles that you would see in the United States. Most do not finish every sentence with “ay”, although there are some that do. Contrary to popular belief, Canada has a military and space programs. Mounties do not ride yaks (the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen are Ren and Stimpy fantasy.)

We will not even touch the clueless American who became rather perturbed upon hearing that Niagara (pronounced nye AH grah by the bungling) Falls has a “Canadian side”, how dare they! Les Chutes du Niagara cascading down from the Niagara River surely must belong to the Americans. It never occurred to her that there was more to Niagara than a single cataract of water.

My birthday (I did not discover Canada) was splendid. Better Half treated me to the new Disney-Pixar film, Wall-E. We had a lovely dinner out and enjoyed a wonderful cherry cake.

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Under the Scotsman's Kilt ( World of Warcraft )

For Better Half:

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