Skin, It Keeps Our Insides In

 James Hamblin stopped taking showers five years ago. And he didn't keep it a secret (maybe he didn't have to, ha, ha). No, listen, James is a serious dermatologist who studies skin and has written a best-selling book about what he believes is true regarding our largest organ: our skin. The book is CLEAN (Riverhead Books).

Hamblin believes we are all nuts to be making a ritual of daily scrubbing off the precious bodily fluids our bodies are courageously producing for us to protect our remarkable outer wrapping.  And if you're a fan of long words that are hard to pronounce, Hamblin has a seemingly endless supply as he instructs us about the composition of human skin.  He tells us a lot about our skin that we probably could get along fine without knowing.  Such as mites in our face.

Yes, Susan, your face is a veritable zoo of various microscopic organisms that includes mites who burrow into your pores and feast on your past-their-shelf-life skin flakes. What would we do without those little rascals in there eating for us 24/7?

James has a light writing style that deals with a lot of complex science in a truly easy to understand flow.  Early on he removes an elephant in the room regarding personal hygiene: it is OK, he tells us, to take soap and water to what he refers to as the "bits"-- that is, under arms, groin and feet. Thanks for that, James.

It's a good read that will give you a great supply of material to brighten your conversation vault.  Keep a watch to see if there is a reduction in your water bill.

Scrambled Eggs

This place where I live feeds a lot of people every day. One breakfast option is to go through a free bar for coffee, bagels, muffins, oatmeal, or scrambled eggs.  I say to the guy in charge of breakfast production, You must spend a lot of time breaking eggs every day.  No, I'm told,  egg breaking time is a matter of a few minutes.  There's this big blender that liquefies a couple dozen eggs, shells and all, after which they strain out the shells and bring the heat. 

I'll bet you didn't know that.  I'm sticking with poached.

Smoke

 smoke (smok) n A suspension of particles in a gaseous medium.  Like when the place where you live is in flames day after day and the resulting gaseous medium is the only option you have for continuing an exercise essential to staying alive: breathing.

Somewhere along humanity's march to future adventures, smoke became associated with, among other things, romance: 

"I dim all the lights and I sink in my chair, the smoke from my cigarette climbs through the air, the walls of my room fade away in the gloom and I'm deep in a dream of you.  The smoke makes a stairway for you to descend. You come to my arms, may this dream never end..."

Or:

"They, asked me how I knew, my true love was true? I of course replied, something deep inside cannot be denied...Now, laughing friends deride, tears I cannot hide, I just smile and say, when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes."

If not romance-connected, it can be a dire warning:

 "Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette. Keep on smoking 'til you smoke yourself to death.  Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate that you hate to make him wait but you've got to have another cigarette."

If you are the platoon leader making an assault on an enemy emplacement you call on a smokescreen to hide your advance.

If you are a Chicago gang member you  hide in an alley waiting to smoke a member of a rival gang.

Pick-up line at meet market: "My friends over there wanted me to come tell you they think you're smokin'.

Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em (disambiguation).  Slang for "Do what you want if you've got the means." Origin: World War II overseas officer telling his troops,  "Smoke 'em if you got 'em" (cigarettes were hard to get) meant take a break.

If you are an elderly Pilgrim staring out your Russellville apartment window, day after day, at the dim outline of a tree that is all of ten yards away, hoping it will not explode into flames, then you acknowledge this is atonement for some long ago indiscretion.

There were, indeed,  many trespasses and now so little time to seek forgiveness.  Send more smoke. 

Sing, Sing, Sing

Who doesn't like mob singing?  From "Happy Birthday to You" to "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" there is something feel-good about joining others in a united, harmonious expression of shared goodfellowship pretending our off-key creation is akin to the magic of an angel choir.  My bad notes take cover in my neighbor's true pitch.

Few probably remember sitting in a movie theatre just before the main feature and following the bouncing ball as the words scroll across the screen.."sweeeet Car o line..."  Hey, it was more fun than watching commercials for the snack bar.

Churches offer opportunities for lovers of group vocalizing, but those writers of hymns who had been spiritually moved to please the Heavenly Host with the fervor of their lyrics never seemed to know when to still their quill and give the organist a break.  It's not irreligious to admit that going into the 14th verse of "Onward Christian Soldiers" causes the most devout members of the flock to clutch the pew in front of them for support.

One of life's small but intense pleasures is watching my Ducks play football in Autzen Stadium and no matter whether my favorite lads are ahead or behind as the third quarter ends,  I'm going to be jacked-up when Otis Day & the Knights appears on the Jumbo screen and crash into "SHOUT."  Listen to 40 or 50 thousand partially sober fans give Otis thundering backup.  Spine chilling. Sometimes the officials will delay the start of the fourth to let Otis and his gang finish.

Ever been to a Cubs game in the seventh inning?  "Take me out to the ball game, take me out in the crowd, buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks, I don't care if I never get back..."

OK, everybody,  grab your mouse and join me on three...one, two three:

"You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine,(see the little ball bouncing) you make me happy when skies are grey, you'll never know dear, how much I love you, please don't take my Sunshine away."

A New Star In The Cosmos

 If you have access to the Hubble telescope tonight, check out a new shining star that will be bringing a special brilliance to our harmonious universe.  Its name is Lawrence Alden Aschenbrenner.

Larry departed his long run on this small planet yesterday morning and what a legacy he designed in those 90 years. When most of us confer with our better angels, how much inconvenience their counsel will create is alway figured into the resulting decision.  With Larry it was always, "We'll do the right thing."

He and his wife, Katie, brought together a family of Ted, Dan, Connie and John. His larger family of school classmates, professional colleagues, client admirers, and ordinary friends would fill his beloved University of Oregon football stadium.

In his childhood years Larry was the proverbial preacher's kid with seemingly endless escapades of harmless mischief but that Methodist environment of his home marinated Larry's moral core into a life-long mission of crusading for social justice for every citizen.  From his at risk adventures in Jackson, Mississippi (he called it the most racist city in America) giving legal assistance to African Americans at the height of the '60s and '70s Civil Rights movement, to his advocacy for Native Alaskans rights in Anchorage,  Larry Aschenbrenner fought the good fight.

Through all his serious career in righting what he saw as wrong, he had a rollicking fun-factor in his German heritage and would recite Casey At The Bat with or without a pint of beer to lubricate his delivery whatever the occasion.  He was just a great companion and his was a magnificent life.  Star light, star bright...

The Name Game

A sociological study conducted by the Harvard School for Serious Studies in 1996 found there to be a vague correlation between a person's name and success or failure in his/her life pursuits.  They put all names into three major groupings: Unfortunate Names, Common Uninteresting Names, and Exotic or Captivating Names.  The study focused on the first and third categories explaining it was counter- productive to deal with all the Mary Joneses and Jim Smiths because they led ho-hum lives and didn't merit wasting resources and the time of researchers.

In the Unfortunate Name group the findings of the researchers can be summed up by two or three examples.  A baker, Norman Shitt, moved from job to job and had issues with schools trying to deal with his children's social relationships with their fellow students.

Researchers found a deputy sheriff in Arkansas whose parents, Harold and Amy Head, named him Richard.

A number of females, most of them from southern states, having Squatt as a surname, were found to have consistent tendencies to marry young (some at nine or ten years of age) apparently as a way to get a name change.  It was found that two of the Squatt girls married twin brothers named Downs.

In the third category the researchers agreed the most success-connected name ever was attached to the American President, Abraham Lincoln.  No other name was close for positive association.

In sports a football player had the perfect name: Joe Montana. Did they say perfect?  Perfect.

In pornongraphy-tainted journalism the perfect name goes to National Inquirer publisher, David Pecker.

The best lawyer name ever goes to the mouth-piece for recently seven-back-holes-drilled Jacob Blake, B'ivory Lamarr.  Whatever case B'ivory is associated with will give him a lock-down jury when the court introduces them to (drum roll) B'ivory Lamarr.  That name sings.

There are so many more names out there but so little space left in my allotted allowance.  Let me know any I missed. 

A Road Too Far

Bernard Daley was an immigrant who was born in 1858 and came to America with his parents where he lived the American dream.  He became a medical doctor, opened his practice in Lakeview, Oregon. Became a rancher, a banker, and a businessman who accumulated a large fortune.  In 1922 Dr. Daley established a foundation, the Daley Fund, that paid the expenses of every graduate of Lakeview High School who chose to attend four years in any of Oregon's institutions of higher education.  

In 1962 the institutional executives of Oregon's public colleges and universities elected to hold their annual meeting in Lakeview to honor Dr. Daley on the 40th anniversary of his gift. There are three ways to get to Lakeview, Oregon: Walk.  Ride a horse or bicycle. Use a car.  For Arthur Flemming,  President of the University of Oregon, Lakeview was beyond his walking range and he owned neither a horse or a bicycle, so that left an automobile. Arthur did not drive, so as the professional Executive Secretary of the U of O's Alumni Association I was selected to drive him to Lakeview.

Gene Lewis, a pal of mine from my fraternity days, lived in Lakeview and was delighted to learn I would be there on a late Friday afternoon.  President Flemming joined his fellow executives after we checked in to our motel as did I with brother Gene.  We retired to a cowboy bar & grill. (Walls decorated with displays of Indian arrowheads and at the bar each stool was a saddle.) After a few thousand old frat stories and an equal number of beers, Gene and I closed the bar at 2:30 AM and he dropped me at my room, where it was my plan to sleep until 9:00 or 10:00 AM and then treat myself to a fine Western Buckeroo breakfast.

                                                       Wrongo in the Congo

A note was on my door.  Dr. Flemming let me know he had arranged for me to be with him at breakfast (8:00 AM) and at the day-long meetings (down and down I go, round and round I go).  It gets worse.  Arthur invited the President of Oregon State University to ride back with us. Of course,  that meant little Willy could drive him on over to Corvallis (another 50-plus miles). Not good.  NOT AT ALL GOOD.  We left Lakeview for the 242 mile drive to Eugene in the late afternoon and I had no trouble staying awake at the wheel for the first 14 miles out of town.  From then on it was down and gritty.

The one terrible fear that gripped me was the newspaper headline in the Portland Oregonian I kept reviewing in my mind:  Presidents of University of Oregon and Oregon State University Die In Tragic Car Plunge Off Cascade Mountain. Driver of car, William Landers, uninjured and found peacefully sleeping in the tangled bodies of the two presidents.

A few sleepless years later I pulled into the driveway of Dr. Flemming's home, painfully aware that less than two miles away, across the Willamette River at 315 Van Duyn Street was a king size bed and a world-class pillow.  OSU's President chose to ride with me in the front seat to Corvallis where I fought to stay alert in his driveway, knowing that sleeping there would be bad form.

Corvallis, Oregon is way down my list of favorite Oregon towns, but on one of its quiet residential streets, in a pinch, a guy can grab a couple winks with no trouble.  Lakeview's not high on my list either.