Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson

I received this email today which has been making the rounds all over the U.S.

Ed McMahon recently died. He was a great entertainer, but prior to his stage accomplishments he was a distinguished Marine Corps fighter pilot in WWII earning six Air Medals and attaining the rank of Colonel. He was discharged in 1946 and was later promoted to the rank of Brigadier General in the CA Air National Guard.

Farrah Fawcett recently died after a long career in Hollywood as an actress. After she was diagnosed with cancer, she became an activist for cancer treatment and devoted her last remaining years encouraging people to seek treatment. She documented her plight on film and used it to encourage others to stay positive and upbeat despite their diagnosis and suffering.

Michael Jackson died last week. He was perhaps one of the greatest singers of modern time. He will also be remembered for his eccentric lifestyle that included sleeping with a chimpanzee, living in a carnival-like atmosphere at Neverland, his fascination with Peter Pan, and his numerous masks and costumes. He also admitted to finding pleasure sleeping with young boys and paying out millions of dollars in settlements to the families of these boys despite being acquitted by a court on one
allegation of sexual molestation.

QUESTION 1- Which of the above did the House of Representatives declare a moment of silence for?

(Hint - It wasn't the first two.)

QUESTION 2- Which of the above's family received a personal
note of condolence from President Obama?

(Hint - It wasn't the first two.)

Go Sarah

By Emmett Burnett

Note - I wrote this newspaper column about Sarah Palin last November before the Presidental Election. Due to Governor Palin's recent news making decision, I am posting it in my blog:


It’s hard not to like Sarah Palin. Call me smitten, but there’s something about a beauty pageant winner who can field dress a moose.

She transcends the sexes. From the Republican National Convention speech, Minneapolis - St. Paul, we saw a self assured role model, smart, intelligent, power with beauty. Men saw her squint, grit teeth and stab the air with a determined don’t mess with me pointer finger – just like being married. Without thinking, I blurted “yes dear.” This is a powerful woman.

The former mayor of Wasilla, Alaska was so unknown just one month ago that any female could have announced “I am Sarah Palin” and you would of believed her. What endears us to this woman now? Here are some reasons for Palin Power:
She proudly proclaims as not bowing to the good ole boy network. Other female political leaders say it. Palin backs it up; because the same skills for field dressing a moose are applicable to human males.

Palin appeals to men and so does her husband Todd. “We met in high school,” she said. We fell in love, got married, and after all these year’s he’s still my guy.” This is a man’s man: oil worker, snowmobile racer, part Eskimo. He spends much of his time in frigid Alaskan snow and ice. People think Todd smiles all the time. That’s really his teeth chattering.

This is the first woman candidate on the national level with legs, no yellow Chairman Mao pant suit. She proves feminine feminist is not an oxymoron. Helen Reddy never dreamed singing “I am woman hear me roar,” would one day apply to a hockey mom, sports broadcaster, PTA President, beauty pageant winner, hunter, fisherwoman, mayor, governor, and vice presidential candidate all in one. Now that’s a roar.

But perhaps the most poignant Palin appeal is how she’s managed to filet a biased press like an Alaskan salmon Can you imagine the outcry if NBC questioned Hillary Clinton’s motherhood because she ran for public office? Barack Obama has young children. Who will watch them should he be elected? Or are we saying ‘that’s different, he’s a man?’ If we are, then Helen Reddy’s roar is a whimper. Of course that’s a mute point. The liberal media will not question liberal women. In the eyes of the press, liberal women are the only ones who matter.

But Sarah Palin matters.

My wife and I visited Juneau, Alaska last year and saw the governor’s mansion. It had a trampoline in the front yard with her children jumping on it. I wish I had taken a picture of that trampoline. One day it might be in front of the White House.

On Growing Old

By Emmett Burnett

It had to happen. I was at McDonald’s and the cashier offered the senior citizen discount without my asking for it. The good news, my coffee costs 20 cents. The bad news, I look my age.

When does one officially reach middle-age? As a kid I thought someone in their 50’s was a Civil War veteran, helped across the street by boy scouts, could not eat solid foods, and toasted New Year’s Eve with Metamucil. Those days have changed for fifty-plus aged citizens, now that I’m one.

For one thing, older age works to your advantage. In addition to 20-cent java, there are movie theater discounts, to watch young actors that I have golf shoes older then they are. Among teenagers I can say anything I want, no matter how outlandish because the teens whisper, “bless his heart, he’s old, try not to make eye contact.”

Unfortunately about the only people who listen to middle-agers are fellow half centurions. We share our stories of surgery. For example I have incisions above my naval that when I flex my abs, forms an outline of the state of Nevada. But if you want to see it I need a day’s notice, that’s how long it takes to flex my abs.

I also have about a dozen 50-plus year old friends. You know we are old when greetings include inquisitive remarks about body organs like “hello Joe, how’s the gall bladder?” And you know Joe is old when he gladly tells you, “my gall bladder is fine thank you, and your kidneys?” Kidney discussions take awhile as no older person has good ones. My pals can name every public restroom from here to Birmingham.

And no matter how great we feel or look there’s always the reminder that Father Time is riding shotgun. Take my friend Aubrey who recently attended his 40-year high school reunion. Held at a large hotel, he became disoriented (at 50 plus, we do that). Searching the halls for the Class of 1968 he saw people ahead. “Oh good,” said Aubrey, “I’ll ask these old folks if they know where my class reunion is – looks like a nursing home on a field trip.” As Aubrey approached the group he realized this was not a nursing home. It was his senior class.

But enough of the down side of 50’s backside, here’s a good thing about “maturity.” We don’t worry as much as 20 year olds do. They stay stressed about having the latest in HDTV, Plasma, Flat screen razzle-dazzle television. I remember when TV came out in color.

I overheard a teenager complaining that her I-Pod only had enough memory for 1000 songs. Poor thing, she will never know the joys of an eight-track cassette player. One could hear five tunes simultaneously as the tape unraveled in your lap.

But the greatest part of 50ish is being rated R – R for retirement
that is.

What does retirement mean to me? It means:


My dog has a busier calendar then I do.

It means I can prepare a meal in an 8 hour slow cooker and pull up a chair to watch.

It means inviting front door Jehovah Witnesses in for lemonade and smile as hours later they say, “Please, we really must go.”

So for all my 50 and over friends, I say press on and hopefully stay off the Grim Reaper’s day planner. We still have a few good kicks and a few good years.
We have lots to sink our teeth into - I still have mine. Joe doesn’t. But he’s got a good gall bladder.

Mooching

By Emmett Burnett

I’m not the first to tell you this: times are hard. A friend complained, “If the economy worsens, my wife must find a job, and if it doesn’t improve, I’ll look for one too.” Looking for work is a drastic step for most of my friends; so let’s review a survival skill I learned in college – mooching.

First, mooching is not stealing. Rather it is making the most out of something offered for free and opportunities are everywhere. In Gone With the Wind, Scarlet O’Hara proclaimed: “I’ll plant Tara, and never go hungry again.” Hunger would not be an issue if she had known about super center free samples. Let’s start there.
I won’t mention this place by name but it is a warehouse whose first name rhymes with Spam - actually you can buy spam there in 50 pound cans. On any given day employees serve bite size food portions for possible customers. The idea is to coax one into purchasing more of the nibbled items. That’s up to you. But here are three tips on how to make a meal of it:

One - take a baby with you. Ask for a sample for junior too. Employees never catch on that a toothless infant has no use for beef jerky embedded toothpicks. So his taste is yours.

Two - wearing a baseball cap? My research shows that lined with plastic wrap, a hat can hold about 23 pizza rolls. However most baseball caps are not liquid proof so avoid storing samples containing gravy.

Three - when the server offers a tray selection say “I have a discriminating palate, requiring more then one taste and may I see your wine list?” Working quickly, you can swallow about 12 cheese and crackers before the store manager and/or security arrives.

A second good moocher venue: weddings. Men attend other people’s weddings for one reason - to provide transportation for females attending the same wedding. So in my opinion when the reception buffet is rolled out, they owe us for sitting through an American Idol wannabe belt out Oh Promise Me.

Back when I married, “when the earth was void and without form,” our reception food was basically punch and a large can of Planter’s Nuts. Not anymore. Today’s brides are obligated to feed the world. It works to your advantage.

It’s all about logistics: Be near first in line while the Swedish meatballs are warm. But no matter what line position you have, let the bride and groom cut the wedding cake first, not you. It is very tempting to slice a section while the ceremony is in progress, but will be really awkward if you do. Wait your turn. Tradition says the bride must take a slice of wedding cake and shove it in the groom’s face. Women find this hilarious so don’t fight it. Food service begins when the giggle fest ends.

Now we move to the advanced mooching of double dipping. First time through the reception line, say “I’m a friend of the groom,” second time, proclaim “I’m a friend of the bride.” Technically it’s honest, as you probably like them both– allowing seconds on chicken wings.

Another great opportunity, though seasonal, is Halloween. But the trick for treats is don’t take your kids Halloweening in your neighborhood. Those folks are as broke as you are. Try perusing wealthy areas because the rich give great goodies. Haven’t confirmed this yet but I am told that on Halloween, Gulf Shores, Ono Island residents hand out pork chops.

Other quick tips:

Wear old clothes and do not shave for three days. I tried this and a homeless man bought me a cup of coffee. Actually free coffee is easy. Never leave a funeral wake without sampling the fine mortuary break room brew. Nothing beats comforting the bereaved over a cup of steaming Joe – which the bereaved paid for. Funeral home coffee is served in urns. Be sure you dip from the correct urn.

This just scratches the surface of mooching opportunities. I’ll have more ideas in future columns so keep reading this paper but don’t just read it, patronize the advertisers.

Anything less is mooching.

Let Us Pause for South Paws

Angelina Jolie is left handed. So was Leonardo DaVinci. George W. Bush is the first right handed president since Jimmy Carter (Bill Clinton, George Bush Senior, and Ronald Reagan were all lefties). Before Carter, Gerald Ford was also a south paw. So I’m in good company, one would think.

Left handed people compose 10 percent of the United States yet have no minority status; people claim we don’t need it. Watch me use a pair of scissors and say that.
The wrong handed among us have received a bad rap since Biblical days, literally. During the Last Supper, Judas sat at the left hand of Jesus. We politely say someone is “coming from left field” when we really mean they are nuts. Eating with the left hand is considered impolite in India. And with expressions like the left wing, left handed comments, and the far left. No wonder we are left behind.

For 90 percent of you, the spiral bound notebook is a writing tablet. For lefties, it is a paper wrestling partner, a source of amusement for others watching our writing contortions.

Ever try left handed golf? Sure, leftist golf clubs are available for us. They are made by Keebler Elves when they aren’t making cookies. The enchanted, unconforming golfing gear is then distributed to golf retail outlets across the land – usually one unit per store, at twice the cost of the “right” putters.

And do we really need to discuss scissors? Everyone knows never give a left handed person this deadly cutting instrument. For you they are scissors, for me it’s a hand held shredder. My first scissor encounter was when a right handed fourth grade teacher asked me to cut from a magazine a copy of the Declaration of Independence. I grasped scissors in left hand – steady, ready, aim, cut. The Declaration of Independence became confetti. My teacher accused me of being unpatriotic. I told her I was left handed. She said that was worse. For the rest of my 4th grade school year I was known as that left handed kid who hates America.

But the left may be made right. In a 2006 issue of the Journal of Neuropsychology, a publication frequently read by me and my South Alabama neighbors, there is hope. According to the magazine, left handed brains may be “better at processing multiple stimuli then right handed ones.” That means we make better jet fighter pilots then you do. I can’t toss a bowling ball or crank a can opener, but if needed, I’m airborne baby. Locked and loaded, and ready to launch cruise missiles. You want a piece of me rightie?

When you read this we will have selected our next United States president. At this writing, 48 hours before the election, I know not who won. But regardless the winner I will lobby for left handed rights. I stand a good chance too, because both Barack Obama and John McCain are southpaws. Whoever you are, Mr. Left Handed President, welcome to the White House. Check your scissors at the door.

The Barbershop - Man's Last Refuge

By Emmett Burnett
I belong to an exclusive male only organization. It has a clubhouse where political issues are debated, economic problems solved, and deer hunting strategies exchanged. It is the Southern barbershop, man’s last refuge.

Sadly, the barbershop, with its icon barber pole of red, white, and blue stripes, is vanishing. Barbers are being replaced by la-de-da hair stylists. They wear smocks and give haircuts with hands softer then a baby’s behind. This hair technician works not from shops but in neat and clean “parlors.” Stay away from me.

Give me the barbershop. Where a man is still a man and flattops with butch wax rule. These guys are serious about your tresses or lack there of. A bald guy doesn’t just receive a haircut; he gets his head buffed. Feels so good on a crisp fall day. Want a shave? Lay back in the chair and stay very still, my barber’s shave is the next thing to surgery.

He uses a tool that may be banned in the Obama administration, a straight razor. First he stokes the razor across a leather strap rendering it sharp enough to slice a gnats’ wing. While engaging conversation with other customers, the razor master waves the deadly instrument through the air like a Jedi Knight in battle and effortlessly rakes it across your chin. One careless stroke could decapitate you. Only use an experienced barber for this shave. It’s easy to tell an inexperienced one, his razor is blood stained.

But haircuts and shaves are only part of this club. We come here to read the 1978 editions of Field and Stream. We gaze in amusement as the ceiling fan stirs fallen clippings of fluffy locks causing them to dance across the room like little bunnies. We gather with total strangers and discuss every topic under the sun as inhibitions and hair falls to the floor.

I always schedule my haircuts for deer hunting season. “How big was the buck you shot?” one patron asked another. “It was huge!” another replied. Others join in with reports of monster deer they too have slain. Each story gives a bigger and bigger antlered trophy. The exaggerations continue until we are no longer shooting deer but water buffalo.

“You should have seen the one that got way from me,” I tell the assembly from my barber chair perch. “It was so big, bullets wouldn’t’ bring it down. I used a bazooka.” I totally made that story up but if they can lie I can too.
As mentioned, barbershops will soon give way to the Fantastic Sam’s of the world. Barbers will no longer offer political advice, town news, medical diagnosis, and guns and ammo selections but will instead be “technicians” offering hair trims and something called a manicure.

I suggested to my barber “why don’t you offer manicures?” “Sure” he replied, reaching for his straight razor, “hold out your hand.” I withdrew my suggestion.
Should they leave us, we will miss the old fashioned barbershop. But that’s progress, hair today gone tomorrow.

Attention Politicians, The Election is Over - Take Your Signs Down

By Emmett Burnett

Our local elections are over. To the winners we offer congratulations and to the losers, thanks for trying. To all the candidates who ran we ask: Can we have your yard signs?

You’ve seen them, ground staked pictures of politicians. They depict a ‘man of the people’ perhaps with sweater tied over his neck (odd for 96 degree weather) walking down a beach with loving family and flea-less dog. These are political posters.

When the election is over, they are great for garage sales, directional markers, birthday announcements, and sale notices. Simply spray paint over the “Change is Coming to Chickasaw” message and modify Barack Obama’s ‘Something We Can Believe In’ to something you can believe in, like: “For sale, home grown tomatoes.” If indeed you have homegrown tomatoes, the new sign fulfills a promise, which is something 90 percent of those political signs won’t do.

But wait until the election is over. I was informed of environmental advertising alternatives while covering a recent local town council meeting. City fathers were in heated debate over the proliferation of election signage across our land. Considering it unsightly, the mayor threatened to yank them from the ground. As the sign argument progressed a resourceful citizen whispered in my ear “They make good cucumber poles.” “The signs all over town are getting out of hand!” The mayor angrily shouted. “Hundreds are on public property!” “It’s 10 less then he thanks, whispered the citizen. “I got 10 of them in the backyard.” Looks like a good year for cucumbers.

Printing companies are having a good year too. Costs vary for poster sales, depending on quantity, colors, size, etc.; candidates spend $2 to $5 dollars each. Look around, there are thousands of them. No wonder cucumbers are expensive.
Candidates argue that political election sign placement is a once every four year event. The trouble is some stay with us the entire four years and more, long after the person pictured is no longer welcomed. I’ve seen telephone pole advertisements asking your support for Jimmy Carter. Take them down. You either won or lost. Get over it.

Ironically the only refuge from campaign advertising is a 20 to 30 foot circumference around city halls and some voting precincts. If the place these folks will work is a sign free zone, why not the rest of us?

But the election is over. Now is the time for winners and losers to unite. Please take down your signs. Let us once again have unobstructed views of our trees, homes, and children. Start with the really creative ‘poster farm’ I saw – 20 cardboard squares of support planted along a sidewalk, all for the same guy. He lost, but made a good impression in defeat.

Satsuma Mayor William Bush jokingly stated at a city council meeting that he was considering locking illegally placed signs in a city jail cell until after the election. I’m not sure if he made good on the incarceration threat but if so, now is the time to set them free. Cucumbers are in season.