I’ve never seen a 12 year-old boy carrying a hanky. The name ‘hanky’ alone will prevent most red-blooded 12 year-olds from using it, even when forced to carry one. What should a kid use when outdoors in the snow, sledding for hours at a time?

A sleeve. First, the left. Then, the right sleeve. It’s as natural as yellow snow.

Midwest boys love snow. It’s fun to play in, fun to throw, fun to ride on. A 14-inch snowfall is ready-made for a couple of days of pure outdoor action.

There’s the need to make a snow angel. That’s not because 12 year-old boys like to make snow angels. They don’t. Parents, though, love taking pictures of their kids making snow angels, so it’s somewhat of an obligation.

Then there’s the need to check out the ‘deep snow’ areas in ditches, backyards, and other areas where snow may have drifted beyond the original 14 inches.

Finally, it’s sled time, and the search for the perfect hill.

I don’t know what kids in Iowa or Nebraska or Kansas do when the snow reaches 14 inches. Granted, we didn’t have a solid 14 inches of snow often while growing up in Missouri. Often, six or eight inches would do. 14 was a bonus from God to not-quite teenagers.

I’ve been to Iowa, Nebraska, and Kansas. In winter, each state has the requisite cold weather, and enough snow. Sledding, true sledding, sledding of the kind that delivers solid silver to a sleeve, requires hills.

Sledding (using a sled with rails) on a hill with snow beyond six or eight inches is a challenge. It’s just too deep. Sleds made of plastic do better in such snow, but there’s just no real control.

That’s not sledding. The excitement of 14-inch snow sledding has requirements. Snow. 14 inches of snow. City streets (to help pack the snow) and hills.

I grew up in a small Mississippi River town with plenty of hills, plenty of streets, and, as a kid, plenty of deep snow each winter. Enough snow to make both sleeves as silver as a brand new, uncirculated silver dollar.

Finding an acceptable hill was seldom a challenge. The best hills were on streets that started steep, smoothed out for a block or two, went down another block or two, and even had side streets which also went down another block or two.

A good sled ride would go down two or three blocks and have alternate routes, down another block or two. Extra excitement came when a car ventured into the sled route.

A good sled day was a combination of snow depth, no school, a plenty of packed snow on the streets, little traffic, a few friends, and an eventual trip to the bakery.

An excellent snow day was all of the above and a bit of an ice storm; just enough to make turning left or right more of a challenge.

Good sled days were graphically represented by the length, thickness, and glossiness of the ‘silver’ along the sleeve. The more of each, the better the sled day. A hanky was not allowed. There was a rule.

Were the snows really 14 inches deep? Possibly. Most of the good ones were six to eight, as that was just enough to close the schools for the day.

Were the sleeves really silver? Yes. It didn’t matter the color of the winter coat, the sleeves always developed a solid ‘silver streak’ by winter’s end. It started right at the cuff and went to the edge of the elbow.

On heavy snow days, the silver streak could appear on the upper arm near the shoulder. It was a great day when there was no longer any ‘clear’ area on the sleeve. No one used their gloves to place ‘silver’ nasal residue. Sleeves were the place.

Every sleeve on the overcoat of a 12 year-old should have a day for the ‘silver lining.’

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Why do models walk that way? What way? You know, like, that way. The way models walk. Why?

A friend of mine was a model in her younger and thinner days. Before food and all the love-hate relationships.

She says some models are gifted and have a natural ‘gait.’ Others have to be taught, and some top runway models have walking ‘coaches.’

Tough work, if you can find it.

There’s the “Versace walk.” It’s kind of a va-va-voom and shake it walk.

There’s the “Street walk.” My friend says Street means no swish; more like how people walk on the street in New York. Cold and quick.

There are variations of the street, some less exaggerated; probably tailored for Cleveland styles (is there such a thing?).

Most models on the runway, at least, those I’ve seen when tagging along with my taller and more socially adept blonde buddy, have a swagger.

No, make that an ‘haughty swagger; as if they mean to walk right up to you, step on your toes, swish, reverse course and stride into the sunset.

Without blinking; in love only with themselves.

I can’t find an answer for the “why?” My friend says a walk is important, must be within certain ‘accepted’ parameters for style and grace; you got it or you don’t.

Shrug. Some runway models look like they’ve been force fed raw spinach greens and lima beans along with their daily portion of gruel; then told they’ll get Hostess cupcakes and a box of Little Debbie cakes if they walk the walk (whatever that is).

I’ve seen the Clydesdale horses at the Anheuser-Busch brewery in St. Louis. They’re beautiful animals. Runway models walk the same way.

Even without the fashion and perfect skin, they’re beautiful animals. If I had skin like that I’d be in love with me, too.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Television promised to revolutionize the world. It did. If 500 channels of mediocrity is a revolution. What happened? Lowest. Common. Denominator. The path of least resistance.

The original promise of television was education, information, the combination of audio and video in a medium without bounds. Everyone could learn anything by watching TV.

What we learned is that people don’t learn much from watching TV. Personal values don’t come from watching Andy Griffith re-runs.

Does anyone learn to speak intelligibly from watching television characters who speak near perfect English? Apparently not. For some reason, the television programs in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama are translated into their local dialects, so children there never learn how children everywhere else speak.

In the end, children who grow up watching television programs don’t learn to speak the same way as those who star in the television programs. If they did, children all over the country would sound like they’re from Nebraska.

Television doesn’t teach viewers to think. Every show has a nice, well-wrapped ending from a time-honored plot. Time honored in that the same plot and ending has already been broadcast; either last year or five years ago, or during an old I Love Lucy episode (has there been any new comedy since then?).

How about Meet the Press? Isn’t that a great opportunity for leaders to be interviewed for all to see, all over the country? Oh, but that it were so. Such a stage is ripe for politicians and newsmakers to avoid direct answers and pound the airwaves with their own agenda, cleverly disguised as an answer to a question.

How about the news? What can you learn about what’s happening when the longest story is two minutes, the average story is 30-seconds. Sound bytes are shorter than chewing bites.

If children don’t learn from television, what good is it for anyone?

Face it; TV is a good babysitter, the primary purpose of the device when facing children younger than, say, 28. It even babysits adults. Why else would someone watch Deal or No Deal?

Televisions value is not as a learning medium, it’s to babysit young and old, senile, juvenile, nubile. Without interactivity, television is a one way street to, a feeding trough for those too lazy to think, expand, consider, and question.

What’s next for television? More of the same but with a different name. Last Comic Standing will beget The Secret Lives of Politicians.  CSI Miami will beget Teenage Mutant CSI Ninjas.

In the future, our television screens may simply be a colorful, interactive display mechanism for internet-originated programs. 5-million programs, and nothing’s on.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Time is money. Time is also a luxury for most of us. Vacations are often a rush; activities crammed into a week or two. Try six weeks. Try 30 states. Try keeping your sanity.

If I had it to do all over again, I’d do it again. Only I’d take three or four months, instead of just six weeks. I might increase the number of states, but I’d definitely increase the number of days in each state.

Why? After the first week, the daily routine is firm and efficient and that allows for fun, enjoyment, reflection, and opportunity.

We had the pleasure of taking this six week vacation when the boys were old enough to enjoy and remember, and we were young enough to survive.

It was a six week vacation starting from Kansas, through the upper Midwest to New York, down to Washington, DC, Florida, Louisiana, the Midwest again, through the Rocky Mountains, the Southwest, the Northwest, and a resting period in San Francisco.

We almost died during the first week. No, no highway accident. No food poisoning at a localy diner along the way. We almost killed each other.

Routines take time to establish, and the routines for getting packed, getting unpacked, settling in (for 24 hours), and learning to enjoy the adventure rather than inadvertently destroying the vacation, take, well, time.

Four of us survived the first week. Two adults. Two 10 year old boys. God was smiling on us, protecting us (from each other), and probably laughing.

That first week was a challenge to remain sane, remain alert while driving, and to keep active and relaxed without getting bored. Here’s an example:

It took two hours to pack the car when we started. It took five minutes by the end of the first week. Everything had a place. Unpacking was just as efficient.

That efficiency gave us extra time to enjoy where we were, who we were with, and time to reflect on why we were there.

‘There’ included Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York and Connecticut. In the first 10 days. We saw Chicago and New York. And Washington, DC.

Museums. Hotels. Motels. Tourist attractions. Shopping centers. McDonald’s.

Then it was down the East Coast and Florida; Disney World and Universal Studios. Every 10 year-old should visit both. And take a six week vacation with their parents. Or, perhaps, someone else’s parents.

Plains states. Rockies. The Grand Canyon. Volcanoes in the Northwest. Rest in San Francisco.

Six weeks of vacation sounds like something a government employee could take. Or, a teacher with a full summer of vacation. For us, it was a once-in-a-lifetime luxury.

If I had it to do all over again, I would do it all over again. But not six weeks. 13. Perhaps more.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

I can’t be the only one who’s noticed that television news is being infiltrated by blonde bombshells (contrasted in flavor by an occasional Asian female). Is it a journalism degree or Clairol?

The 21st century is likely to go down as the ‘Blonde and Busty Anchorwoman’ generation. Like pharmaceutical TV ads on prime time news, blondes are everywhere.

MSNBC promotes a pnueumatic Rita Cosby, who appears more adept at rushing through buffet lines than my close friend, Bambi Hambi.

Is Rita a great broadcast journalist? Her on air credentials appear to be more of a full cup and a photogenic smile, than in-depth reporting.

An early entry to blonde-dom and TV news is the authoritative CNN franchise, Paula Zahn. Apparently blondes on TV news can only smile if they’re under 30.

I watch Fox for comic relief or to gain hourly lessons in red state spin control. There’s a Fox blonde who goes to extraordinary trouble to darken her roots and is named after President Carter’s daughter and a box of cereal.

I know a few guys who would stalk Fox’s Laurie Dhue, who wins my ‘Blonde Bombshell’ award for TV News 2007.

The most blonde non-blonde award would go to Katie Couric formerly of The Today Show, now of CBS Evening News. Nothing shows the road to 50 faster than a brunette who used to be. Katie got Dan Rather’s job and really shook things up. Or not.

The meanest blonde award needs to be sent FedEx to CNN’s Nancy Grace. I’d be afraid to piss her off in person.

The tough-as-nails blonde award would go to Fox’s Greta Van Susteren. Tough, because she’s a lawyer. Tougher, because she can spell and afford plastic surgery.

ABC’s Diane Sawyer displays grace, elegance, charm, and a delightful ability to get the cameraman to forget how to focus a lens.

Leaving the bombshell category, but ranking high atop the male blonde list is MSNBC’s Chris Matthews, and CNN’s Lou Dobbs. Chris appears regularly on Saturday Night Live.

Fully 60-percent of the Top Female Anchors listed on TV Heads are blonde, blondish. Only 5 percent of the US population is considered blonde.

So, you want a career in broadcast journalism? Go blonde. That’s the fast track.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

What do I do? I told you. Buy high, sell low. It works for me. It’s the only true way to a small fortune in stocks. Start with a large fortune in stocks first.

Google is tasting Wall Streets wrath these days. The price to earnings ratio of GOOG is worse than AAPL, as if that matters when selling an overpriced stock so you’ll be able to eat and pay rent.

I figured Apple Computer’s stock to be too high at $40 a share. It’s down a bit, but still in the mid $70s. Microsoft’s MSFT? Hasn’t budged in five years. Does that make it a bargain?

Stock market proponents argue that stocks are an excellent investment over the long haul. Unfortunately, the dot com bubble taught too many investors that you could make money today, and tomorrow, not next century.

We’re into next century already and not much has changed in five years. Except I’m not as rich as I once was. I’m shrinking, too.

Seriously. I’m shrinking. I figure I’ve lost nearly an inch in height over the past decade, and short of medieval stretching techniques can’t figure a way around it. It’s part of the circle of life.

What goes up, must come down. I’m coming down. How much stock I have won’t help.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

When the boys were barely two, they disappeared. When small boys play at home there’s always sound; chatter, clatter, clunking, and play noise. One day, that noise stopped.

Vernelle was in the kitchen making her own clatter. I was in the downstairs office when I heard Vernelle’s voice.

A woman’s voice changes when there’s a serious problem. Just as a mother can hear her own child’s cry in a playground of children, a man knows when there’s problem just by the way a wife calls out.

I hurried up the steps to find Vernelle at the top. “I can’t find the boys,” she said; more than a bit of urgency in her voice. “They’re probably in the closet,” I responded, in that way father’s say life is OK even when it might not be.

We both headed toward their bedroom. A good part of their day was spent there, especially when weather was too hot or too cold or too wet. Missouri often has all that at the same time.

There wasn’t a sound as we entered the bedroom. I looked around, saw nothing, and turned to open the closet doors. Nothing again.

Then we headed down the hall to our daughters room. The boys were absolutely forbidden to enter her room, but she was in school, soooo, boys will be boys.

Again, no boys. We checked our room, under the beds, and in the upstairs bathroom. No boys.

Back to the living room and kitchen. The boys often crawled into the lower cabinets to bang on pots and pans. Don’t ask why. They loved it. Noise, I guess.

Kitchen and living room came up empty, so I headed downstairs. I was certain they weren’t there because that’s where I was before they turned up missing.

No boys downstairs. Back up the steps. Vernelle had just come in from the back door and porch. I opened the front door and checked. Our front door was just a few yards from East Avenue, so it’s possible they could have headed in that direction, but they were too small to open the front door.

No boys out front or in the back as I circled the house and yard.

Back inside we searched each room again, under the beds, in the closets, and, again, the kitchen cabinets. At age two, the boys were still small so finding a cubby hole would be easy.

Now it was official. They boys were gone. No ‘noise’ anywhere in the house after 15 minutes of looking. The rush of feelings and thoughts and fears was evident in Vernelle’s face and probably mine.

OK, don’t panic, Ron. One more check, slowly, deliberately. They could not have gone that far.

They didn’t.

One slow check through their bedroom, the last known location before the noise stopped, found a pile of stuffed animals in the corner near the dresser.

That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the little boy foot sticking out next to the dresser.

The dresser was about a foot or so away from the corner of the wall. That’s where we found the boys. They had crawled into the corner, pulled the stuffed animals with them, and fell asleep, one on the other.

If it hadn’t been for that little foot sticking out, we wouldn’t have found them until they woke up, and that would have made for a nasty afternoon.

What should you do when a child disappears? Don’t panic, though you may feel like. Start with the last known location and fan out. Get help. Make your actions deliberate and thoughtful.

Whatever you do, check the corners under stuffed animals.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Life’s decisions come in all sizes, shapes, and with an odd sense of timing. That means, when we look back on a decision in life, we can ask ourselves, “Why the hell did I do that?” Or, the more frequent, “What the hell was I thinking?” Here’s why and what…

We make decisions after much thought and shortly after no thought at all. Decisions are important, yet we give little consideration to some of the most important decisions in our lives.

Turn left at the light. Red tie or blue? Should I date that woman? Another hot dog won’t hurt.

I’ve lived in Hawaii off and on for the past 30 years. The first visit was as a tourist in 1974. The last move was over a decade ago, though it may not be permanent.

What decision process did I go through for the decision to actually move to live in Hawaii? That decision certainly altered the course of my adult life; some of it good, some of it not so good.

As with many momentous decisions in adult life, this one was made rather frivolously.

At the time, I had just finished up a degree in speech communications at Black Hawk College in Moline, IL. The cold Iowa winter winds blow hard across the Mississippi into Illinois, so I was certain I would not spend my dying days there. Unless I froze to death first.

I thought about going on to school for another degree. For a guy who barely finished high school, I was as surprised as anyone else at achieving Magna-cum-laude honors in college.

Apparently, America’s colleges are easy to get into and out of.

One of the first schools that came to mind was the University of Missouri at Columbia. I’m from Missouri. They have a famous journalism school. By then I knew how to write mostly complete sentences (mostly). So, why not?

Black Hawk’s Learning Resources Center (what used to be a ‘Library’) had a large number of college curriculum catalogs on hand. I sat down and browsed a few.

These catalogs are a brief history of the school (in a thick brochure-like form), a look at the curriculum focus, school activities, some faculty information, and, importantly, the cost per semester for school tuition.

Back then, the cost for a semester at the University of Missouri was $525 for in-state tuition. I still had my Missouri driver’s license so I figured I would qualify for the lower rate.

I looked through other catalogs. The schools in Florida looked attractive. It was hot in Florida. No thanks. My father always loved Oregon, so I checked out major colleges and universities in Oregon.

They’re quite proud of their institutions of higher learning in Oregon. They also love out-of-state students and charge them a premium for the privilege of shivering in the great Northwest while learning about liberal ideals. $1,800 a semester? I’m not that liberal.

A college friend had a family member serving in the Navy and visited Hawaii for awhile. She raved about how nice the weather was in Hawaii. The weather is not nice in Moline, Illinois in January. Or February. Or March. Or…ever. You get the idea.

Would Black Hawk’s Learning Resources Center also have a college catalog from the University of Hawaii?

They did. And I read it from end to end. Twice.

Don’t misunderstand. Hawaii is, has been, and will always be an expensive place to live. Back in those days I had no debt, plenty of energy and was skinny enough to stay that way for awhile.

Better yet, the price tag for a full, all-you-eat-in-classes semester for out-of-state students attending the University of Hawaii was a measly $526.

That was one dollar a semester more than the in-state tuition for the University of Missouri. Better yet again, after my first six months in Hawaii, I would be considered in-state and the semester price would drop by nearly half.

Hello, Waikiki Beach.

See how easy a simple decision can change the course of a life? My daughter and I packed up what we had, bought a couple of tickets and headed to paradise. We found a place of our own, and never looked back.

That’s not true. I’m looking back now.

Looking back, the decision to move was almost frivolous, it was so simple. Yet, the course of life changed and continued to change because of that decision.

Was it a change for the better? Sometimes. Sometimes not.

If I had it to do all over again, knowing what I know now, would I make the same decision again?

Of course not. Don’t be silly. If I had it to do all over again, knowing what I know now, I’d make plenty of different decisions long before the time for that decision ever cropped up.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

There’s probably some statistical or physical (I never made it through Physics in high school) reason why bread, when it falls from the table to the floor, usually does so ‘jelly-side’ down. Jelly-side up? No mess. Jelly-side down? Get a dog.

Still, the question begs for an answer. Why does bread hit the floor ‘jelly-side’ down?

Believe it or not, there are books on that subject, or depending on your perspective of physics and statistical analysis, books on where that subject could lead.

Type in ‘jelly-side down’ in Google or Amazon. See you in a few weeks.

Scientists like to know how the natural world works. They observe things in the world and and ask questions about that which is not fully understood.

If it were not for the geometry, algebra, chemistry, biology, calculus, trigonometry, and physics, I could have been a scientist.

I know how to ask questions.

Answers are less easy to come by than questions.

Look at the variables involved in just the bread and the jelly. More questions.

What’s the size and weight of the bread? How much jelly is to be applied? Which side of the bread should the jelly be spread? How high is the table from the floor?

Is it a ‘push’ from the table, an accidental dropping, or is it necessary to track all the steps and possible methods of simply dropping the bread?

Toast or plain white? Or wheat? Or Hawaiian sweet bread?

I remember a few things from high school. My questions could be worded into a hypothesis. That’s a statement that is a possible answer to the original question.

A prediction can be formed from the hypothesis, as it could accurately state in advance the result you’d expect from testing the original hypothesis.

Those are called ‘if then’ statements, such as “if toast falls off a table, then it always lands jelly-side down.”

Next, we need some experiments to prove that statement. That involves jelly, bread, a table, a floor, knife (to spread the jelly), and someone to record the results of each test.

That involves friends an neighbors, a video camera, perhaps a video tape editing and archiving system, someone to handle the news media when results are formulated.

No wonder life is complicated. We make it that way.

Regardless, such an exercise can be compared to many of life’s great, unanswered questions, and with the same result. Futility.

No matter the statistical analysis and physics involved, everyone already knows the answer: the probability of the bread falling jelly-side down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

One reason for leaving breadcrumbs on the ground is to catch a bird. The bird sees the bread, swoops day and eats. The process is repeated as the bird, slowly, steadily walks (or hops; it looks like a hop to me) into the trap. Are we much different?

I think not. For example, browse the internet. You see a headline link which says, ‘Top 100 Most Beautiful Women for 2005.’ The natural tendency for most guys would be to click.

The bird has taken the first bite of a breadcrumb.

100 clicks later all the crumbs are gone and the Top 100 Most Beautiful Women are no longer unknown. In this case, though, the journey, 100 clicks, was the trap.

Since I was able to watch television and see movies as a child, Science Fiction was part of the visual menu. Recently, I came across a link similar to the above; ‘The Top 50 Science Fiction Television Shows of All Time.’

Click, click, click, click, ad nauseum.

What did I find? At first, I felt like an intelligent bird, knowing full well that the path of crumbs would take me to a trap (disappointment that my selection for Top Science Fiction TV Show wasn’t selected).

Then, I felt somewhat foolish knowing that the only reason the Top 50 was created was to capture birds like me, getting me to click 20 or 30 times at least, and help that web site gain clicks, visitors, and advertising impressions.

Mission accomplished. I clicked anyway.

At Number 10 was ‘Sliders,’ a good science fiction show featuring the typical ‘wormhole’ and ‘parallel universes’ that always leave the basic questions unanswered (for example, ‘why does everyone always speak English?’).

Then came ‘Mystery Science Theatre 3000’ which is a ridiculous selection as it’s not really a science fiction TV show, but a spoof of fake viewers sitting and watching a wholly bad sci fi show and making fun of it.

There’s no justice.

Number 8 is the British entry and cult sci fi program, Dr. Who. It deserves a Top 10 nod simply for being around all these years, though I often had trouble figuring out which character was Dr. Who.

Rod Serling’s ‘The Twilight Zone’ comes in at Number 7, Stargate SG-1 at Number 6, rounding out the bottom end of the Top 10.

Then, it’s ‘Babylon 5.’ I would have placed SG-1 higher than Babylon 5. The former is still running, sans MacGuyver. Babylon 5 is a distant sci fi memory.

The Final Four of the Top 10 starts off with Mulder and Scully in ‘The X-Files.’ Good choice. Few science fiction programs were as efficiently produced as X-Files.

Trekkies will be pleased that the long-running Star Trek: Next Generation made it to Number 3. In fact, Star Trek’s many variations are well placed in a Top 50 list.

Out of nowhere comes the new Battlestar Galactica at Number 2. I like the characters of Battlestar Galactica, but not the video style or the over abundance of violence. It’s an extremely efficient production (not much really happens) but not worthy of a Top 10 slot.

Bad choice.

Good choice. Number 1 is the original, classic Star Trek. Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scotty and friends. That’s an acceptable choice, given Star Trek’s ability to spawn movies and TV shows for 40 years after the original.

There. You have the Top 10 but not the previous 40 of the Top 50. Click Here to start gobbling up your own breadcrumbs.

And don’t forget that you were warned.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

The Missouri county where I grew up once had the noble distinction of having the highest per capita consumption of Pepsi-Cola in the world. I know the reason. Me.

Sugar water tastes good. Not all sugar waters are created equal. Pepsi is best.

To be fair, I’ll acknowledge that Coca-Cola is more popular on a world-wide basis, though I suspect that Pepsi-Cola is a close second in many areas.

For some, there may not be much difference between the two, if any notable difference at all. In reality, there’s a big difference.

There’s such a difference between the two that Pepsi enjoyed taste tests for many years. Why? Pepsi would always win because, to an average drinker, it tastes better than Coke.

There’s such a difference between the two that Coke changed their formula a number of years ago to taste more like Pepsi. That ineffective effort is considered one of the classic marketing mistakes of all time.

There was such a public uproar over the change to a ‘sweeter’ Coke (a feature of which Pepsi has more) that the original Coke, which was planned to be dropped, became ‘Classic Coca-Cola’ or ‘Coke Classic.’ Eventually, the ‘New Coke’ disappeared entirely.

While I’m not certain that Coke hasn’t quietly and slowly changed their taste formula to more closely resemble Pepsi’s taste, I can be certain that I can tell the difference between the two.

I can even smell the difference?

Why?

There can only be one reason. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a country that obviously revered the best-tasting cola (that would be Pepsi), so I know what the best is. Everything else is not.

Coke has a distinct flavor, texture, ‘buzz’ and aftertaste. So does Pepsi, except it’s more appealing, which is why it usually wins the taste tests.

My early exposure to soft drinks (RC Cola, Nehi Grape and Root Beer, Orange Crush, Seven Up, Coke, Pepsi, Coke and others) was from a bottle. The small Coca-Cola bottles at eight ounces, and the Pepsi-Cola bottles at 10 and 12 ounces.

Cola bottled in glass has a distinctly different taste than cola bottled in plastic, cans, or over the counter in a ‘fountain’ drink. For many years, glass bottle Pepsi provided the best taste.

to achieve a ‘best taste’ scenario, Pepsi may be poured over a glass of small ice (fine crushed is not as good as larger chunks which should be smaller than traditional ice cubes) until the ice just begins to rise.

Then, to maintain that ‘best taste’ you should drink until there’s no more Pepsi in the glass. Do not add ice. Simply pour more Pepsi into the glass until the ice rises again; just a bit. Repeat as needed.

All colas should be chilled at least overnight, and preferably a full 24 hours. Why? It tastes better when chilled properly, and dumped into a cooler with ice for a couple of hours is not sufficient to bring out the proper taste, and the right amount of ‘chilled’ fizz.

It’s been a few years since I’ve seen Pepsi in a glass bottle. I was introduced to Pepsi in cans while a teenager. Pepsi in a chilled can more closely approximates the classic taste from a glass bottle.

My palate is sufficiently sensitive that, not only can I tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke, I can also tell whether it’s from can or plastic or fountain, and how long it’s been chilled; overnight vs. hours, vs. over 24 hours.

Is it important to be able to tell such differences? Yes, of course. Is there a difference between Kentucky Fried Chicken and Popeyes? Yes. Is there a difference between Blue Bunny ice cream and Haagen-Dasz ice cream? Yes.

So it is with Pepsi and Coke. There’s a difference. Pepsi is better. How about a comparison of Pepsi and RC Cola? Ahh, that’s another story.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

In January, Steve Medrano retired. He worked for the State of Hawaii for over 30 years. In February, Steve and his wife Lilly took a vacation to Japan. In March, Steve died. He was 56. I’m 56.

Steve just didn’t wake up one morning in March. Lilly told us later that it was a heart attack.

56 seems too young. Two months after retiring from a state job is certainly not taking advantage of the benefits from all the headaches one probably accumulates working for the government for 30 years.

Steve’s death made us re-examine our insurance plans. At the time, we had a number of policies on both of us. One small plan from State Farm was worth about $50,000. That didn’t seem like much so we decided to add to our coverage on me by $200,000, and drop the State Farm policy.

We received quotes on policies from a number of local agents. One of Vernelle’s friends is an agent for AIG and gave us a competitive quote for $200,000 in additional coverage (on me) with a policy from MONY; Mutual of New York.

In April I met with the agent, filled out the usual forms and agreed to a physical examination. In May I took the physical and signed more forms.

June, July, and August disappeared into the sunset with little communication from MONY or the agent, despite regular checks. As Roseanne Roseannadanna said, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s always something.’

We thought it important to get the policy in effect by June because I took a lengthy trip back to Missouri to visit relatives. I don’t know what the stats are on people dying while on vacation, but we hear of it here in Hawaii all the time.

MONY, however, wasn’t interested in getting a policy put into effect by June. Or July. Or August. Or ever, as best I could tell.

For whatever reasons, MONY did not want my money.

No, I didn’t get turned down for the insurance policy. I’m in good health, low blood pressure, low cholesterol, and other than a bad knee, I’m doing fine.

My father is nearing 80 and in great health. Mom is in her 70s and in great health. Her mom, my grandmother, is nearing 97 and in great health. You get the idea. I should be a good risk.

What was MONY’s problem? What alternatives did the insurance agent provide?

‘I don’t know’ and ‘none’ come to mind rather quickly.

Mutual of New York is a big company.  Vernelle’s friend, the insurance agent, doesn’t do many single policy sales, electing to work with larger accounts (more money, less work for the money).

In the end, nothing happened. No excuses. No reasons. Just waiting (which is nothing) for someone somewhere to shuffle papers in the right direction. Unless, MONY has some sort of age discrimination issue that needs tending…

I’m a patient guy. Mostly.

In this case, patience ran out and I elected to find another insurance agent and company that liked the color of my money more than MONY.

The process is still the same. Forms. More forms. Physical. What’s remarkable is how one company can do exactly the same thing as another company in 20-percent of the time.

In the end, no money for MONY. Ever.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Have you ever done something you were both proud of and embarrassed by at the same time? If you know me very well, you’ll understand that it’s not hard to believe I really did this. I’m proud I did it. And more than embarrassed, too.

My years in high school didn’t go well. Motivation was lacking, pimples were not. For some of my teachers, the best thing to come out of Louisiana High School was me.

That’s not because I was such a great student. It’s more because they got to witness a true miracle.

I graduated.

Trust me. I don’t mind telling folks I graduated in the top 75 of my high school class. For many, including those whose high school graduation classes number into the hundreds, that would be considered an accomplishment.

For example, my daughter’s high school graduation class had about 600 students. If I had graduated in the top 75, that would get me into the top 15-percent.

Proud? Certainly.

Except that my high school graduating class only had 72 students. I’m proud to say I graduated in the top 70.

There were two students who didn’t rank as high as me, hence the ‘miracle’ when I finally grabbed the diploma and made a run for it.

Sophomore and junior years in high school required plenty of homework. Reading, actually. Reading I enjoyed.

Reading also took time. Lots of time. Time I would rather devote to whatever else 16 year-old guys in small towns do.

Riding around in cars. Dreaming of girls. Dreaming of girls riding around in cars with me.

You get the idea. There just wasn’t enough time to read all those books we were required to read. So I didn’t.

What about the two book reports we were required to turn in each month? Oh, those! I turned them in. All of them. On time.

If memory serves me well, I got an A on almost every one of the book reports.

What’s remarkable about the book report saga is that I managed not to read a book. Not one. The reports I turned in were not fake.

They were actual book reports on books that I would have written if I were a writer. Well, I guess I did fake it. I faked the author’s name, the subject, the plot, the antagonists, the protagonists, all the characters. I made it all up.

It was just bunches easier to write a whole book report from scratch and include all those little details, than it was to devote time to really reading a book.

After all, I was 16 or so. I had pimples to pop and girls to bring into my dreams. Who could be bothered with an education?

So I made up the entire report. Not a made-up report about a popular book like Silas Marner, or a made-up report on something by Shakespeare (God forbid). I made up everything. Even the publishing company and the number from the Dewey Decimal Classification System from the public library.

So good were my reports that Mrs. Griffith once complimented me on finding an excellent book that others should consider reading. I’m glad the others in my class thought so little of me that they didn’t consider her suggestion.

That’s one of those things I’m both embarrassed and proud of all at once. It was my earliest foray into the ‘win-win situation.’ Ingenuity won. I got to exercise my imagination. And I got a few good grades in the process.

My teacher won because she felt like she was ‘getting through’ to me. I won because I received enough good grades to help balance the other grades that had become deflated for, uh, other reasons.

See? Win-win.

That same imagination and diligence (to the effort, not the requirements) didn’t carry over to chemistry or physics, but, boy could I spell.

I still owe an apology to my English teacher, Mrs. Griffith; among others.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

We lived in Kansas in the very early 1990s. Before moving back to Hawaii in 1992 we held a garage sale to get rid of a bunch of little household ‘items’ which had accumulated during three years of dust bowl living.

Garage sales are not worthy unless neighbors, friends, and co-workers bring their household ‘items’ to the garage.

Why? Because misery loves company, right?

That’s true, but garage sales attract more people with more money when there are more items to buy, hence the need for more items to sell, hence the need to involve neighbors, friends, and co-workers, so there are more items.

For this garage sale a number of friends and co-workers brought various and sundry items to sell. That makes for a bigger event, which gets more people to stop by.

Our place was at the end of a cul-de-sac a few blocks off the beaten track, so we needed all the help we could get.

My job in the family is to drive and carry heavy stuff. At a garage sale with only small household items (ostensibly already there, or brought in by neighbors and friends), my skills are not put to good use.

Items have to be listed and marked. The prices marked have to be on a stick of tape of a color that belongs to a neighbor, friend, co-worker, or us (just to keep the money straight). That’s no fun.

As I always say in such situations, ‘Hmmm. Time to head to the mall.’

Before I could make a getaway, Sharon Durmaskin, one of my co-workers, dropped by with a box of goodies (‘items’) to sell. The mall visit would have to wait as I was now obligated to provide a new audience with commentary and perspective on the new box of goodies.

‘Sharon, what do you have that you’re willing to part with for 25-cents,’ I asked, holding a smirk long enough to imply that I was an old hand at garage sales. I’m not. Otherwise, I would have started the bidding for the as-yet-unnamed, unseen articles in her box at about 5-cents.

‘How about this?’ Sharon said, dead serious. All Jewish women who work in broadcasting and carry a box of items to a garage sale on Saturday are dead serious. She held up a ceramic figurine of a female frog sitting on a toilet.

‘25-cents?’ I scoffed and smiled at the same time. That mixture of scoff and smile is more difficult while chewing Saltine crackers and drinking whiskey, but I pulled it off without the extras. Why?

The ceramic figurine of a female frog sitting on a toilet was a spitting image of my wife. Except for the frog part. Even then, if you look at the figurine just right…

Sharon was never one to let a pause go by too far without filling it with some kind of retort. ‘OK, 15-cents. And I don’t make change.’

15-cents? I’d have paid $10 for it. If the frog had been a female Chinese frog on a toilet, I would have paid $25 and had it dipped in bronze or whatever it is you do to preserve things that mean something only to you and no other human being.

‘Deal,’ I said, and handed over a dime and a nickel. The frog woman and toilet were mine.

As you can tell from the photograph, it’s been 13 years and I still have the ceramic female frog. It still rests in a corner beside the bath, near the bathroom scales, just below the towels.

The frog sits on the toilet just the same way my wife sits on the toilet. The hands (webbed on the frog; that’s one way to tell them apart) are folded the same way. The legs fold the same way. The face is contorted into a ‘just-give-me-a-few-more-minutes’ look, albeit relaxed exactly the same way.

For 13 years the ceramic female frog figurine has been a constant reminder of a number of things that could easily have been forgotten.

I’m reminded of Sharon Durmaskin. Who knew a Jewish woman could give a 40-percent discount.

I’m reminded of how much time my wife spends in the bathroom. Jeff Foxworthy of redneck fame, does a bit about how women and men leave the bathroom in different ways.

The woman leaves the bathroom, and says, ‘Honey, how do I look.’ The man leaves the bathroom, and says, ‘Honey, you don’t want to go in there.’

I’m reminded of genes. There’s some relative of my wife, toiling away in a sweatshop in rural China, baking and painting figurines of female frogs sitting on toilets, and thinking, ‘This looks just like my mother.’

It’s the best 15-cents I ever spent.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Having owned about 25 cars in the past 35 years of driving (do the math), I’m qualified to say I’ve seen my share of street signs.

Sorry. I don’t remember all the street signs I’ve seen down through the years, as most were nothing more than a blur as I passed by. Cars are to drive, right?

So I was particularly interested in Car Connection magazine’s Street Names Contest.

I’ve been to Hollywood and Vine, did a u-turn on Hooker Lane (just to be sure), and actually stopped at Yankee Doodle Way.

There may be more roads and streets in the US than anywhere else in the world. At least, paved roads and streets where you can drive a car.

The Car Connection and Mitsubishi Motors teamed up to have a contest for the wildest, weirdest, wackiest street names in the US.

Here’s my view of the finalists (all good) and the winner (not the best).

Seriously, what City Planner comes up with a name like Shades of Death Road? Am I missing something or was that planner simply related to John Carpenter and had an urge that couldn’t be controlled?

My favorite, which made the Top 10, but not the top, is Farfrompoopen Road. The sign implies there’s also a Poopen Road, but no photo was submitted.

There’s also an Unexpected Road, which, when you think about it, isn’t all that unexpected. Odd, yes. A finalist? No.

There’s also the intersection of Hardup and Lonesome. Lonesome? I can see that? Hardup? It’s nice to know there’s a local government with a sense of humor. They probably announced that right before raising taxes.

Speaking of intersections, there’s a corner of Count and Basie. If you don’t know who Count Basie is, then you haven’t owned 25 cars in 35 years.

John Carpenter fans logged more favorites in the Top 10 than any other genre, with Bucket of Blood Street.

The winner? Psycho Path. The Bates Motel is probably along Psycho Path, or nearby.

Click Here for the winners and photos.

On which street do you live?

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Dennis the Menace was the Calvin and Hobbes of 40 years ago. Unlike Calvin, Dennis had his own TV series and cartoons on TV.

Between the two, there’s more introspective thought from Calvin. Dennis merely was mischievous, and most of the time, but malicious? No.

My lesson came from Dennis’ lemonade stand. Try to imagine for a moment, Dennis the Menace setting up a lemonade stand on the sidewalk in front of his house.

The sign on the lemonade stand said, “All The Lemonade You Can Drink For 5-Cents.” The stand had a pitcher of lemonade, a few glasses, and Dennis.

Out comes Mr. Wilson, the near octogenarian, and Dennis’ adult nemesis. The conversation goes this way.

Mr. Wilson - “What cha got there, Dennis?”

Dennis - “It’s a lemonade stand Mr. Wilson. Want some lemonade?”

Mr. Wilson - “Well, let’s see, Dennis (Mr. Wilson bends over to read the sign). All The Lemonade You Can Drink For 5-Cents.”

Dennis - “Yes, Mr. Wilson.”

Mr. Wilson - “Let me have a glass, Dennis (Mr. Wilson pulls a nickel from his pocket and plunks it down on the table). Here’s your 5-cents.”

Dennis pours a glass full of lemonade with a few cubes of ice, and Mr Wilson takes a drink, then another, then tips back and empties the glass.

Mr. Wilson - “Dennis, that was very good lemonade. Did you make it yourself?”

Dennis - “Yes, Mr. Wilson, but my mom helped.”

Mr. Wilson - “Well, it was so good, I’ll have another glass, Dennis.”

Dennis - “Yes, Mr. Wilson. That’ll be 5-cents.”

You can see the conflict lying in the road, can’t you? Mr. Wilson was in no hurry to be hoodwinked by his little neighbor. He held up the empty glass of lemonade so Dennis could clearly see the error of his ways.

Mr. Wilson - “Uh, Dennis, your sign says, ‘All The Lemonade You Can Drink For 5-Cents.’ “

Dennis - “Yes, Mr. Wilson. That’s all the lemonade you can drink for 5-cents.”

Our view of life often is about perspective. Mr. Wilson chose his perspective based on the facts (the sign). Dennis chose his perspective based on the same facts (his sign, and the intent of the sign).

If Dennis knew latin, the sign would have carried an asterisk, with a sub-label that said, Caveat Emptor.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

In a word, ‘no.’ Advertising exists to inform, persuade, entertain, and all with an ulterior motive to cause action; separating your money from you. That’s a bit simplistic but at a basic level it’s quite true.

Here’s a case in point. Fast internet access. A recent study says that about 60-percent of US households now gain access to the internet via a high-speed connection.

That connection is usually through one of four means;

1) via the TV’s cable connection, such as Time-Warner’s RoadRunner service.

2) the telephone company’s DSL service.

3) a high-speed ‘direct’ connection at work (usually the phone company)

4) high-speed wireless (a very small number of users, though growing).

The rest of those who connect to the internet use a standard dial up service to a local internet service provider; an ISP.

At home we have two connections to the internet, via a high quality local ISP and Hawaiian Telcom, and via Time-Warner’s RoadRunner service over the cable TV lines.

Time-Warner in Hawaii provides TV to about 80-percent of all households on the island, twenty gazillion TV channels, and access to the Internet. They also run more TV commercials touting their RoadRunner service than there are grains of sand on Waikiki Beach.

Those commercials primarily feature a standard theme; how slow DSL and dial up are, how fast RoadRunner is. In fact, Time-Warner says that RoadRunner is 100 times faster than dial up (it’s not) and 3 times faster than DSL (sometimes), therefore, it’s the ‘fastest internet service in Hawaii.’

Advertising’s primary objective is to separate your money from you, and Time-Warner does an excellent job. They also do an excellent job of stretching the truth, if not outright lying to the public.

Here’s why and how.

First, there’s ‘theoretical’ speed on the internet, and there’s ‘actual’ speed. RoadRunner’s advertising says they’re 100 times faster than dial up. Dial up averages about 5k per second, so 100 times that would be 500k per second.

I’ve never, ever, never had a RoadRunner connection achieve much more than 300k per second. Why? There are too many other factors which determine ‘speed’ on the internet.

For example, how far away the web site connection is, how busy traffic is, how fast (or not) the web site’s servers are, how good your individual connection is at the time.

My average connection is about 100k and 300k on a good day. So, no matter what, it’s not 100 times faster than dial up. Maybe in a laboratory for tests, but not at home in Hawaii.

How about three times faster than DSL? My DSL connection is 368k per second. It seldom achieves that but often does 100k to 200k, making it about the same as RoadRunner, which claims to the masses, in gazillions of TV commercials, to be the ‘fastest internet service in Hawaii.’

I’ve had RoadRunner service since it was offered in the mid 1990s. I’ve had DSL service for over six years. There’s not much difference in the speed. Ever.

On test downloads during non-peak hours, RoadRunner will be faster. During peak hours, it’s often slower. On average, they’re the same. In price, they’re not the same. DSL is very competitive and nearly half the price of RoadRunner.

Something else not mentioned in RoadRunner’s slick advertising is ‘shared bandwidth.’ With RoadRunner’s internet connection, everyone on the block (and the next block, and the next block) shares that bandwidth; the more users, the slower the speed.

DSL on the other hand, is a direct connection back to a telephone company’s Central Office, which is just a hop away from a direct connect to the rest of the internet. So, no slowdowns during peak times.

In TV commercials, RoadRunner says users get a ‘thick straw’ for internet access, instead of a ‘thin straw’ like DSL. In a wonderful counter to that ad campaign, Hawaiian Telcom says that ‘thick straw’ is shared with your neighbors, so it’s not so fast after all, and DSL is cheaper.

In short, Time-Warner’s advertising didn’t really tell the truth and they conveniently hid other truths, while Hawaiian Telcom exposed RoadRunner’s weakness and high price.

One thing neither Time-Warner or Hawaiian Telcom mentioned is reliability. That’s unfortunate, because my six years of experience indicates near daily ‘drops’ and extreme slow-downs in RoadRunner’s internet connection, while I can count on one hand all the outages from Hawaiian Telcom. That’s one hand, five fingers, five brief outages in six years of service.

That compares favorably to a similar number each week with RoadRunner.

Sometimes the truth hurts. A little more truth in advertising would be beneficial to the customer.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

I’m officially tired of being called a ‘consumer.’ As a human being, I consume, yes, but that does not make me less than what I am, and I resent the generalization that I’m merely a creature that devours products and foods like a furnace devours coal, or an amoeba devours whatever it devours.

We can do better than use such a demeaning term as ‘consumer.’

To be fair, consumer is nothing more than a word with a meaning attached to it. Here’s the latest from the Oxford Dictionary:

consumer - kənˈsoōmər - noun: a person who purchases goods and services for personal use: [as adj. ] consumer demand. • a person or thing that eats or uses something: e.g. “Scandinavians are the largest consumers of rye.”

By the strictest definition, I’m a ‘consumer’ because I purchase goods and services, and I’m a consumer because I eat and use (food, soap, toothpaste, gasoline, etc.).

What I’m objecting to is the generalization of me as a human being as ‘merely’ a consumer, and the implication that I’m nothing more than a ‘thing’ that eats or uses something.

Would you say, ‘my dog is a consumer?’ Yet, a dog, any pet, is also a thing that eats and uses something. No, we reserve the demeaning term ‘consumer’ for ourselves and avoid using it on our pets.

Even our cars ‘consume’ fuel to transport us to the grocery store, school, work, shopping. Somehow we manage not to insult our cars by calling them ‘consumers.’ With gasoline at $3.50 a gallon, maybe we can find a different word to describe our cars (and SUV’s).

Why is being a ‘consumer’ of goods, services, food, demeaning?

First, it generalizes. While it’s necessary to be non-specific at times, it also classifies everyone into a category from which we may never emerge. I’m human. I’m a human being. I think, therefore, I am.

Yes, I ‘consume’ but that is not my purpose in life. An amoeba must consume to survive, but it’s only purpose in life is to survive, therefore it must consume.

There are not many literary classics penned by amoebas. Some television shows, perhaps.

Second, being ascribed to a definition that’s also used to describe a general function of life existence doesn’t say much for the value of that life. While I don’t want to put humanity too far up on a pedestal, there’s enough of the good kind of humanity to say, “let’s look for a different term than ‘consumer’ to describe what we are.”

We are far more than mere consumers. Sufficiently far more that we should be able to use a term that we all understand, but that, when we think about it, diminishes humanity to insect level.

Locusts consume crops. They’re bad for crops and farmers, yet calling both ‘consumers’ just seems wrong.

Finally, despite the rich variety and subtlety of the English language, we often diminish ourselves by over use of simple category branding; towel heads, blue state, red state, frogs (for French), and the like.

It’s time to be more descriptive and specific in our terminology, and less general just because it’s easy.

’I think, therefore, I am’ is much better than ‘I consume, therefore, I am a consumer.’

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

How far back can you trace your family’s roots? Great grandparents on both sides? Perhaps one or two additional generations? If so, your family is special. Most of us have difficult tracing family roots back more than a few generations beyond grandparents. Maybe that’s a good thing.

A friend began just such a journey and found that his family name (father’s side) was changed about 150 years ago. Why? One family member was such a criminal and notorious crook that other family members simply started over with a new name.

Maybe it’s not a good thing to climb too high in the family tree. You never know what sort of fruits or nuts you’ll find there.

That brings up a good question or two. I can understand the term ‘roots’ for tracing our family history. I can also understand the use of the phrase ‘family tree.’ The term ‘tree’ is appropriate because of the constant branching off to new limbs; just like a family.

However, I fail to see how we go about combining the metaphors of ‘tree’ and ‘roots.’ Roots beget trees, right? Yet, there are more branches in a tree than there are roots. Yet, if we trace our roots, we find there are more family members before us, than exist currently.

I’m in favor of a new metaphor to describe ‘roots’ and ‘trees’ of a family.

How about avenues? Or, streets? Or, just branches and not roots?

Regardless, tracing a ‘family tree’ back more than a few generations is a major challenge, though interesting.

The McElfresh name hails from Scotland; not Ireland or England as we once thought. At some point in history, perhaps a few hundred years ago, McElfresh was probably Mackelfriesh, or something similar.

The change to ‘McElfresh’ seems to have occured in the late 1700’s on the East coast of the US. Why? It’s better to ask why Pluto is both a dog and a planet.

Since the 1700’s, the name McElfresh has branched out from the East to the West. Maryland. Pennsylvania. Ohio. Kentucy. Illinois. Indiana. Missouri.

There are perhaps just a few thousand McElfresh families in the US, so the name is rare. Tracing efforts by other relatives yield similar results—relatives arrived in the US in the 1700’s from Scotland, and traveled West.

This branch of the name (me, our boys) is about as far West as you can go and not end up in tomorrow.

Would it be worth it to trace the family back to Scotland? What’s the point? The ‘McElfresh’ family members in Scotland came from somewhere else. So, why not trace those? Assuming they came from England, or France, or Germany, or Greece, their relatives came from somewhere, too.

It would never end.

Worse, that’s only one side of the family, the McElfresh side. My mother’s side goes back equally as far with as many ‘branches.’ Tracing that side would double the work, because all those family members came from somewhere, too.

Finally, I’m not convinced that knowing much about a family or family name beyond more than a few generations carries much benefit (except for the high and mighty who may love to point out that their family came over on the Mayflower) other than satisfying what should be a mild curiosity.

Most scientists, anthropologists, and historians will point out the same thing; mankind came from the Mideast and spread throughout the world, very slowly and over thousands of years.

Knowing who they were, knowing something about their lives, may satisfy a curiosity, though I suspect that all family branches for all names are populated by a mixture of saints, beggars, slaves, scoundrels, farmers, and kings.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

I’ve known some very rich people. Rich as in worth tens of millions of dollars, some even more. I worked for each in one capacity or another. With few exceptions, there are certain work traits those millionaires have in common. It’s how the rich get rich and stay that way.

Generally speaking, those I’ve know who are rich got that way through business ownership. Start a business, build a business, sell the business, make big money.

First, let me define ‘rich’ people. Those who are worth more than, say, about $10-million. Of course, the $10-millionaires might not think they’re really rich compared to the $100-millionaires, but since I’m much lower than a single millionaire and it’s my definition anyway, the definition stays.

Most of us further down on the economic food chair look to the rich through different eyes. Some of us have been fortunate enough to work with the ‘rich’ up close and on a daily basis.

From my perspective, there are certain traits that these rich people have in common. From that exposure, there are a few traits we could use to improve our own socio-economic position in the food chain. Some you may want to avoid.

Second, hard work isn’t on the list, though rich people, from what I can tell, work hard. They’re just better at getting other people to work hard.

That’s an important distinction. Wasn’t it George C. Scott, when playing George Patton in the movie, who said, ‘I don’t want you to die for your country. I want you to make the other son-of-##### to die for his country.’

So it is with hard work. Rich people are good at getting other people to work harder.

Sometimes that ‘motivation’ toward others is by brute force of personality, sometimes by the position of simply being a boss, owner, executive.

Hard work is part of the equation. So is patience, though some millionaires I’ve worked for did not often display patience with others, situations, or circumstances.

Intellect does not seem to play much of a part toward getting rich in the monetary sense, though all those I’ve worked for were intelligent; not average.

The single overriding trait among those millionaires for whom I’ve toiled? Greed.

Greed. The desire to obtain more, own more, control more, show more, get more. More what? More power. More prestige. More opportunity.

With few exceptions, greed shows up as a strong trait in every case (with the exception of Stan Brannan of Wichita, KS; who may have been the most level-headed executive and millionaire I’ve worked for).

How? How does the greed display itself?

As an example, I worked for the owner of a company that ran a number of call centers; average people who toiled on the telphones all day taking orders. His company did not provide sick days.

Sick days are usually not required by law. In this case it was not. His reason for not providing sick days? ‘They’ll just use the time to go to the beach or sleep late. Why pay people for not working?’

There’s a logic in there, though it’s simplistic. Most companies provide employees with five or 10 sick days a year. Get sick, stay at home for a day or two so you don’t spread you ‘sick’ to others. That’s logical, too, but rewards only the sick.

Smarter employees now provide PTO—paid time off. It combines vacation days and sick days in one package. The healthy are rewarded with more days off. The sick still get time off and get paid, but are not really taking advantage of the system.

A call center may have hundreds of employees. They’re average, hand-to-mouth folks, waiting for the next paycheck. Some get sick. If they’re going to lose a day of pay staying at home, the neediest will go to work anyway.

They infect other employees, that affects productivity, and reduces sales and profits.

Only when that company owner began hiring experienced managers did the company begin growing dramatically and having even more success, hence an eventual sell out, and millionaire status. Oh, the ‘no sick days’ policy changed.

That’s one example. There are others. I’m sure you’ve known some wealthy people who were kind, pleasant, and enjoyable human beings. Perhaps they inherited their money.

How do the rich get rich and stay that way? They’re better at getting other people to do what they want than you or me. How do they stay that way? They learn to make their money work for them, instead of them working for their money.

That’s what you and I do. We work for our money. We work for someone else. Getting rich requires us to get others to work for us and getting our money to work for us.

Greed helps, too.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

I used to listen to the “wall of sound” that made up popular music. I was young.

These days, I pay more attention to the lyrics than the music, though both have a full right to carry the other.

Are the lyrics of Sarah McLachlan’s music less valid without her voice? Does Brook Benton sound more sad because of Tony Joe White’s lyrics than the years of being who he is?

These are slices of life that come to life in word, voice, music, and become the living poetry of generations.

How do you write like that? How is a mere phrase carved from a moment of life with such clarity and emotion?

Some lyrics come with subtlety, others hit you over the head with the obvious; a story. Such is the case with Maryanne and Wanda, the best of friends in a story told by the Dixie Chicks.

Sorry. No awards there, but that part of Wanda’s young life comes through loud and clear. How do you write about such moments?

Ever been to Mississippi? You have if you heard Alanah Myles’ “Black Velvet.”

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but a verse or two of a popular song can bring up a hundred pictures.

From Johnny Rivers in 1964 there’s “hurry home drops.” The picture is painted.

Simple. Efficient. We live in more complex times. Are musical artists, writers, producers as effective at generating the pain, sorrow, and hope of the heart?

Sarah McLachlan carries a voice of purity, pain, and promise, requiring lyrics to match.

My only wish is the ability to pull from the heart such emotion and carry it to others, either written or vocal. I don’t know how they do it.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

OK, it doesn’t work on everyone but it does work. From what I can tell, getting rid of people is an art. Or a lack of hygiene. Perhaps a little of both.

The former is socially acceptable though left to those with the talent to dispatch others to do their bidding (or, just to be dispatched).

The latter is less socially acceptable, though highly effective. The side effects may have something to do with why it hasn’t caught on.

The News & Telegraph in the UK reports on a product that does just what we’ve wanted one to do for as long as I can remember wanting to repell people.

It’s repels people. Specifically, The Sonic Teenager Deterrent (also named, the Mosquito) only works on teenagers. It’s just a matter of time before the gadget can be fine tuned to a repel a person of your choice.

A Romulan Disrupter would do much the same, though they’re outlawed. Or, rather, will be outlawed in a few hundred years.

The Mosquito is a serious tool; a simple electronic gadget which sends out an ultra high frequency noise. Guess what? Only those 20 years old and under can hear it.

The sound is so distressing to teenagers that they reportedly clutch their ears in discomfort, further jamming their Apple iPod ear buds into their heads, causing even more discomfort.

Within just a moment or two the sound (soundless to those of us who are more mature, or who listened to too much rock ‘n roll in our own youth) becomes excrutiating and the teenagers leave the area.

It’s the perfect people repellent.

The News & Telegraph says the device is so successful that it has been endorsed by police and local authorities. Already teenagers hate it.

It can only be a matter of time before the gadget ends up as standard fare above every 7-11 store in the US. When crowds of unruly youth begin to congregate, talk dirty, make obscene gestures, and spill their Slurpees, on comes the Mosquito.

The sound won’t bother other 7-11 customers, but the disruptive teenagers will be repelled to another locale.

I’ve read of similar devices which repel insects, spiders, and rodents in and around a home. Teenagers are worse, hence the Mosquito represents a more viable solution.

Isn’t it just a matter of time before the device is available with a fine grain tuner which can be set to repel anyone from anywhere, regardless of age, sex, or hygiene?

Why can the device be heard by teenagers and not adults? Besides rock ‘n roll and the damage caused by iPods, cells within the inner ear die or are damaged as we age.

The ones that go first are the ones that hear the higher frequencies. At certain frequencies, adults are deaf, teenagers are not. It’s simply a matter of knowing which frequencies work on which part of the population, and blasting them with soundless sound accordingly.

If the next version can be dialed and tuned to rid your home of pests (relatives who eat too much, friends who talk too much; you get the idea), then I’m a buyer.

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

Chechnya has been torn apart by war for more than 10 years. In the process of war, men die. That means fewer men to go around for the remaining eligible women.

Acting Prime Minister Ramzan Kadyrov (who would want the job on a permanent basis?) has proposed a simple solution: “Each man who can provide for four wives should do it.”

That’s a radical approach to take when the spoils of war have spoiled the economy and there are not enough men to go around.

To clarify, in the strict sense Kadyrov is not proposing polygamy. Simply put, polygamy is having more than one spouse; (male or female).

What he’s proposing is actually polygyny, which is having multiple wives.

Chechnya is the break away province of Russia and is mostly Islamic. Some say that polygyny is allowed under Islamic law (as it is in Saudi Arabia), but it is not allowed in Russia.

Polygyny is part economics, part tradition, part religion, and part unchecked sexual appetite. Or, so I’m told.

King Solomon had 700 wives and 300 concubines, plus wisdom, wealth, and God’s blessings.

Despite what we in the western part of the world may think, polygyny is popular in many other parts of the world. Africa. The Middle East. Asia.

OK, that’s not Peoria or Boca Raton, but we have our own issues with fidelity within the western marriage arrangement, as over half fail, and the winners and losers move on every few years in a strange game of musical chair adultery.

What about China? The government policy for decades has been one-child per family, while condoning abortions of girls. That produced a surplus of men, which means there’s more competition for good quality women.

China’s situation is the opposite of Chechnya, but you see the point. How do you repair the extremes? Or, do you just leave it alone and foster a few generations of miserable men, and miserable women, though in different countries.

Polygyny in Chechnya and polyandry in China might help the economics of relationships in both countries.

Should polygamy be give a second look in modern society?

Additional musings and nonsense can be read on the McElfresh.org site (with photos, stories, a photo gallery, and an audio podcast). Should you require non-licorice tasting musings, try RonMcElfresh.com. No photos, no podcasts-- no holds barred musings for the thoughtful generation. Either way, it's the same price.

That dought ended last year when I moved back to family and home in Los Angeles. During therapy and recuperation I had plenty of time to catch up on television.

Daytime TV isn’t much to write home about, so I won’t. There’s soaps, which I loathe. There’s Oprah. I admire her money and makeup.

There’s Dr. Phil. I have a special project for him to help AT&T. There’s CNN, MSNBC, Fox. More laughs.

Judge Judy is fun fare and a good chuckle, but gets old after her third or fourth demonstration of a professional life deeply embroiled in perpetual menopause. Times two.

Then there’s the Bravo channel. I love those folks. And the people who invented the digital video recorder (DVR, PVR).

That’s where I found The West Wing. I don’t know which year of The West Wing reruns I started, but it didn’t matter. Bravo would run them six or eight at a time, and repeat again later in the day.

I recorded them all, one after the other. And watched each one with the same relish that makes a hot dog so good at a baseball game.

Why? What made The West Wing so special? Besides the fact that it won a record 13 Emmy Awards in the first year.

Two words. Aaron Sorkin.

There should be no doubt. When Sorkin was at the helm, dialog was crisp, crackly, realistic, poignant, and perfect. Each character carried lines that were in character, continuous.

No television drama was better. More dramatic, perhaps. Better quality writing, producing, directing? Nope.

From what I gather, seeds of The West Wing were sewn from another Aaron Sorkin adventure, The American President, starring Michael Doug