Marsby in March

Look for this logo to start popping up around town in coming months. It's the logo for my new play, debuting in March at the Civic Center. Congrats to graphics artist Tamaralee Shutt  on a great job!

Tim Green at the Bat

Green's books: Always on point

The Outlook wasn't brilliant

For the Skaneateles 11 that day.

The council voted unanimously

To not let the Lakers play.

It took a quick decision 

By a learned judge.

To get the Lakers on the field,

Despite the ethics smudge.

 
The townsfolk, they debated,
Called the media unfair.
But Tim Green loves attention,

Hence his blow-dried hair.

He led his team to victory,

That cold October day.

His favorite play was "72 Green",

Things always go his way.

A lawyer/football phenom,

Success just seemed to flow.

He even found his bio-Mom,

Then hosted a TV show. 

Author, commentator, philanthropist.

Valedictorian, senior class.

A real-live local Renaissance Man,

 Or just an arrogant a---?

The three women on the School Board,

They'd feared what Tim Green meant.

They voted for the candidate,

Who lacked a p.r. bent.

Four star-struck males swung the vote.

The team began to win.

There was a brand-new quarterback:

The coach's next of kin.

It was shaping up like always, 

A new Tim Green best-seller,

About a brave and handsome coach,

a selfless, friendly feller.

Who shows a Rustbelt hellhole,

(Some poetic license there),

The path to pride and dignity,

That everyone can share.

But rumors would not dissipate

As players moved to town.

Some of them stood 6-foot-six

and weighed 400 pounds

Some of them were quick as cats,

and jumped like kangaroos.

And some could cover 40 yards,

In under 4.2.

"How could it be?"

Some skeptics asked,

That things could change so fast?

"How could the talent be so deep,

When usually we're last."

An investigation showed the truth:

Recruitment had occurred.

Coach Tim Green, well, he denied it,

But carefully chose his words.

He sounded like the lawyer,

Which you'll recall he is,

Said he'd not been implicated,

Yet exoneration would be his.

Smart money held he'd surely win, 

and have the final chortle.

Setbacks happen not to Tim:

They happen to mere mortals.

Soon the slate would get wiped clean,

The season would be saved

When your jersey says "Tim Green",

The rules for you are waived

But when the judge returned to work

 To make a final ruling

It came to pass the judge himself 

Was in no mood for fooling.

He ruled against the football team,

Their season now is done.

Sometimes, I guess, it's not so cool

To be the coach's son.

 

The glint is gone from Tim Green's eye,

The swagger from his gait.

Skaneatles now must accept: 

Their coach is second-rate.

Oh, somewhere in some other town,

 The sun is shining bright.

The string quartet is playing somewhere, 

 And somewhere fishes bite.

And somewhere men are laughing,

 and children run and chase.

But there is no joy in Skaneateles. 

Tim Green lost his case.

 

 

.

 

 

 

I, Wellness Columnist.

http://whatsupatupstate.wordpress.com/2011/10/24/healthy-monday-humorist-jeff-kramer-gets-serious-about-his-health/


Hi All,

Here's the link to my kick-off column in a new magazine published by Upstate Medical University. I'll write monthly as their health/humor guy.

If you've seen me in person lately this first column might seem a little dated. I wrote it during the summer at the start of my slim-down campaign. But check it out anyway as well as the rest of the magazine, which is quite excellent. I'm proud to be part of it. JK

Time For A Trick Play: Obama Uncensored

Maybe the White House has already figured this out and called NFL Films President Steve Sabol. President Obama needs to get miked up pronto, just like New England Patriots Coach Bill Belichick was, so Americans can hear it all, unvarnished and unspun: The doubt, the frustration, the anger the joy, the sadness, the humor.

Is it a risky idea? Yep. But sometimes doing nothing is a bigger risk, especially when you're heading into an election cycle on the dawn of a double-dip recession. And lest we forget, it was Obama who promised that the health care debate would be shown behind the scenes and uncensored on C-SPAN. It didn't happen, but it should have.

Like a lot of Americans, I've tired of Obama's mellifluous speech-making, and I hunger for something real. Just as Belichick candidly laments to quarterback Tom Brady on the sideline that he has tried everything but can't get the team to respond, Obama could be revealed sharing his true thoughts on, say, Pakistan.

I bend over backwards for these guys. I send them millions of dollars. I include them in the family of nations when they were hiding bin Laden. I even say "Pawk-ee-stawn" when I know damn well it costs me votes in key swing states. And they attack our embassy in Kabul?? That's bull*&^%, Hillary. Major League bull*&^%.

Then a humanizing transition to a domestic matter:

Michelle! If you're going to Target don't forget that gift card we got from the crown prince of Bahrain. I know it's only 50 bucks, but what the hell ...

The parallels between Obama and Belichick are worth pondering. Belichick has five Super Bowl rings. Obama won the Super Bowl of politics. Both have been described as cerebral and aloof. Both have tasted the sweet fruit of ultimate victory, and the sour swill of unfulfilled expectations. Both shun the media or spoon-feed it cliches.

Only now Belichick has something Obama doesn't: A prime-time NFL Films documentary.

Before "Bill Belichick: A Football Life" aired last month on the NFL Network, the Patriots coach was one of the most reviled figures in sports, except by his players and the vast majority of New England Patriots fans. To most everyone else he was a broodng, bloodless character absorbed in the tactical chess match of football but indifferent to the human element. When he was fined $500,000 and stripped of two No. 1 draft picks because the Patriots were filming rival sidelines in violation of league rules, he was labeled a cheater.

Who knew all it would take to turn Belichick from a pariah to a prince would be a few hours of candid camera on satellite TV?

Friends of mine who have long loathed Belichick are suddenly telling me they like the guy.

Boston-based sports media columnist Bruce Allen wrote: "When people watch this film and see Belichick in a completely different way than they are used to, are they going to wonder why the local media at times is so focused on how he acts in press conferences ...? It seems like a fair question to ask."

The New York Times -- no friend of the Patriots -- lauds the two-part film for showing Belichick as a "fiery, funny, profane, passionate person."

Obama and Belichick are both tactical geniuses at the top of their games, but the coach seems to have grasped something the politician hasn't:

It's harder to hate someone when you know them.

The clock is ticking, Mr. President. Bench the b.s. and put transparency in the game.

Heard at the Syracuse Airport

The other night I was returning to Syracuse from a West Coast trip. As I entered the terminal late at night, a fellow passenger sighed and said: "Other airports smell like wonderful food. This one smells like Clorox."

Hey, at least they're killing germs along with good first impressions.

*   *   *   *  *

Pizza to travel for

From my travels, here's a plug for The Independent Pizzaria in Seattle -- and yes, there's a Syracuse connection.

You'll find The Independent Pizzaria in tony Madison Park about a block from Lake Washington. It's small and is open Wednesday-through Sunday, dinner only. Expect to wait-- and to be glad you did.

This is first-rate stuff, and as an incurable pizzaholic I don't say that lightly. The menu is in Italian but the friendly staff helps with that. You can go basic or exotic. The Farmer, a pizza with soft egg and prosciutto, blew all of us away, and we had some less--than-adventurous eaters in our party. My only regret is that I had a hard time concentrating because I was catching up with old friends. Damn them!

Upon leaving, I paid Tom the highest compliment a native Seattleite can give a chef.  I told him that from now on whenever I return to the Emerald City of my youth, I'll now be making two mandatory  food stops: Dick's Drive-in ( A Seattle institution) and his place.

Btw, there's a Syracuse connection to the pizzaria. Tom grew up here, and his parents, Vicky and Joel, walk dogs with my wife at Helping Hounds in DeWitt.

http://houndsrescue.com/

http://www.theindiepizzeria.com/blog/

http://www.ddir.com/


* * * *
Good news on the super-Chihuahuas I blogged about earlier. Sibling puppies Chu Chu and Cha Cha have been adopted to separate homes. The two adult dogs are no longer at the shelter either. One was adopted and the other is in foster care. None of this is any thanks to me, but it's good to know there are people out there who have room in their hearts for Chihuahuas grandes.

* * * *
Congratulations from this New England Patriots fan to Buffalo Bills fans for a much-deserved victory this past Sunday. Now, can we please move past all this "Brady is a lady" crap?

 For the seven years or so I've been traveling to Orchard Park to see my Pats play. Most Bills fans are terrific -- long-suffering, but terrific -- but there's always a contingent of idiots who find it the height of hilarity to throw homosexual slurs at future Hall of Famer Tom Brady. It's not cool, and it's not funny, especially a week after a 14-year-old Buffalo kid killed himself after being the subject of anti-gay bullying.

If an appeal to basic human decency doesn't carry the argument, let me try this: In ending a 15-game losing steak against New England, the Bills just beat one of the best quarterbacks of all time. So where is the logic in Bills' fans impugning his manhood? When you run down your opponent, you devalue the accomplishment of beating that opponent.

I understand that attending an NFL game isn't the same as attending a lecture on Jane Austen. But stupid is stupid and cruel is cruel ... in any venue. If being married to a super model, winning three Super Bowls and being the first unanimous MVP pick in league history makes you gay, I''ll take an Amaretto Sour, please.

Eruff is Eruff: Adopt These Super-Chihuahua Siblings Now

Today KramerPost unveils "Eruff is Eruff," an occasional feature spotlighting good dogs that, through no fault of their own, keep getting overlooked for adoption at Helping Hounds, a dog rescue where my wife, Leigh, volunteers.

www.rescuehounds.com

Choo Choo and Cha Cha

You'll find Helping Hounds in one of the out-structures at the Shoppingtown Mall in DeWitt, N.Y. Staff and volunteers can usually tell which dogs will get snapped up the quickest and which ones will struggle to find homes. Puppies and small dogs tend to fly out of the shelter almost as soon as they arrive -- sometimes before they arrive. But now and then some excellent canines languish inexplicably.

Such is the case with Choo Choo and Cha Cha, a brother-sister pair of Chihuahua-Terrier  mixes plucked from a high-kill shelter in Tennessee. They're about 5 months old.


I met Choo Choo and Cha Cha just today, and they're delightful: Calm, well-mannered, affectionate with people and each other. If Leigh and I weren't already at the municipal limit (3) of dogs in our home, I'd be tempted to grab them myself.

The siblings have spent 3 weeks at the shelter, an unusually long time for small-breed puppies. What seems to be the hang-up? Several prospective adoptive humans have commented that the puppies are too large for what they want in a Chihuahua.

I find this infuriating on several levels.

BREAKING NEWS: KRAMER TELLS L.A. TIMES HE CAN"T WAIT TO CAMPAIGN FOR OBAMA

For three years in '90s I wrote for the Los Angeles Times. Well,  I'm back ... if only for a day. This time I'm the one being interviewed:


http://www.latimes.com/news/politics/la-pn-kramer-qa-20110810,0,6916887.story

Trampoline Assembly: Could It Be Any Easier?

Children (mine) at risk 

Congratulations. You have purchased the Pure Fun trampoline, the finest backyard trampoline money can buy. Unfortunately, you purchased it seven months ago, back in January, for your daughter Lily's 8th birthday. Now it's August.  In another five months Lily will be 9.  The trampoline still isn't assembled.

Pretty weak, wouldn't you say?

Here at Pure Fun we suspect that Lily is no fool. Lily understands that the trampoline could not be assembled while the ground was still covered with snow, but by now she knows you're stalling. You have failed to deliver on the sacred promise of birthday magic. Small wonder she doubts your credibility and competence as parents.

We've seen this before at Pure Fun. Our trampoline arrives in a 400-pound box containing hundreds of pieces. Then it sits in the garage unopened for months. In time all manner of items are piled upon it: bike helmets, tools, clothing, trash. The huge box is an annoyance and an eyesore, but that beats trying to assemble the Pure Fun trampoline, or so you tell yourself.

But you're so wrong.  Fact is, the Pure Fun trampoline is easy and fun to assemble, particularly on the most sweltering day of the year when you're already pissed off because your wireless Internet connection isn't working. Just  follow these steps:

Doing My Best to Defend the Indefensible in Foxboro

As sports fans we’ve all been there. Suddenly your favorite team acquires a player you despise -- and that’s when the rationalizing begins.

I’m in that place now with the New England Patriots. When they started winning Super Bowls last decade, the way they did it resonated with me. They were selfless and business-like. They didn’t mouth off. They let their play do the talking.

Albert Haynesworth

Later it came to light that the Patriots were taping opponents signals from their sideline. No matter. I dismissed it as political witch-hunt against Coach Bill Belichick by a hated rival and a jealous league. The transgression was a technicality, I argued. I still believe that. 

Then the Patriots acquired Randy Moss, a gifted receiver and notorious malcontent. Not a problem.  Playing for an intelligent, well-run organization like the Patriots would “cure” Randy of his antisocial behavior. Lo and behold it did. For a few years anyway.

My Shining White House Media Moment ... Sort of

One of my oldest, dearest and most successful friends, Peter Nicholas, and I spend a lot of time discussing whoever happens to be President of the United States. For Peter, these chats are part of his job. He covers the White House for the Los Angeles Times. In me he gets unfettered access to the common man, the modestly educated rube from the hinterlands with an occasional -- very occasional -- pearl of insight.

The "Johnson Treament." 

For me the allure is one degree of separation. Peter actually knows Barack Obama. He rides on Air Force One with him sometimes. I have a packet of AF1 M & Ms to prove it. It has occurred to me more than once that perhaps something I say to Peter about foreign or domestic policy could get relayed by him to the President, with profound implications for the nation and the world.

This past Tuesday I came pretty close. I can't recall if I called Peter or Peter called me, but at that moment the divergence in our respective career paths could not have been more starkly rendered. Peter was in D.C. covering the budget crisis. I was skulking around the far corner of a cemetery in DeWitt, N.Y. trying to let my dogs run free without getting a ticket.

We began by talking about Obama's recent speech blaming a GOP cabal for the budget impasse. Peter asked what I thought of the speech. I told him I thought it was clear and irrefutable -- and that it served no purpose. After all, what is anyone here in the hinterlands supposed to do about this mess? I told Peter that Obama was wasting his breath on the wrong audience. We discussed whether the President's need to score rhetorical style points, to win the argument, gets in the way of real results.

You know what they say about guys with big uvulas

Not to brag or anything, but if you had a massive uvula, wouldn't you want to shout it from the rooftops?

This past Monday I had a medical consultation for an upcoming visit to a sleep clinic. It was here that I learned my uvula -- the floppy bit that hangs down in the back of the throat and is responsible for basically nothing -- is so big that it might be obstructing my airway at night, causing sleep apnea. 

"You have an enormous uvula," the lady doctor gushed.

See, guys. Size really does matter.

Closely examine the image of my uvula at left. Impressive, isn't it? In normal people you'd see space between the uvular tip and the back of the tongue. But that's not how I roll. See how my uvula, at least the part of it's that visible (God only knows how far the thing extends into my gullet), just hangs there like a slumbering sea cucumber? It might have to be surgically reduced or removed, which is sad because I'm proud of my uvula and loathe to bow to society's expectations of what a properly sized uvula should look like. But I do like to breathe.

 I'll have more later on this important topic, enough to make you gag.  

Meanwhile, if you have a story about your uvula, this would be the time to share.

Back in the Saddle

Hi Everyone,

Sorry about the long layoff. I have been dealing with a few health issues, including laziness, but they seem to be resolving themselves. The bigger issue is that I come from a generation long, long ago when writers were actually paid for their work -- not well usually but at least they got something. This blogging for "fun" is an adjustment for me. Still, I'm ready to press on, at least until I get sued.

A few developments, thoughts and travel notes:

--On doctor's orders I've been losing weight, about 30 pounds since June 1. I've got at least that much more to go. Then comes the real battle: keeping it off. I will be chronicling  my weight loss adventure in a new magazine published by Upstate Medical University. The mag is scheduled to debut at the Great New York State Fair, which opens Aug. 25. Be sure to grab a copy, and say hi if you see me. I'll be the guy face down in a bucket of corn dogs.

--I took a meal or two off my strict regimen during a trip to Kansas City last week. No regrets there. Kansas City is a serious barbecue town. Some friends and I visited the reigning king, Oklahoma Joe's,  which is technically just over the city line at a gas station in Kansas City, Kansas. My friends and I didn't do a lot of talking during our meal, which should tell you something right there, but all had basically the same opinion: As barbecue goes there is nothing particularly distinctive or even interesting to say about it, except it's perfect. We could discern no magic ingredients. There were no unusual signature dishes. What you get is a sublime, unobtrusive balance between smoke and heat, sweet and spice, and top quality meat. It's like eating a version of Beethoven's 5th Symphony. We've all heard it before, but this time it's being played by an orchestra made up entirely of angels.  Go there.

--I'm also giving big props to the small-yet-still complete Negro Leagues Baseball Museum in Kansas City's Jazz District. You leave feeling weirdly appalled and uplifted at the same time. Appalled that for almost 100 years following the Civil War, White America treated some of nation's best athletes as if they did not exist, or worse. Uplifted that these players still found a constructive outlet for their talents. Go there, too.


--Free T-shirt op: Also while in K.C. we hit a steakhouse in Martin City, Missouri, Jess and Jim's. It was once a favorite of Dale Earnhardt and Walter Cronkite. I had the bright idea of picking up a T-shirt for my eight-year-old, Lily, a committed young carnivore. I picked neon green. There was a cute logo of a steer emblazoned on the front, and the name of the joint. It cost me $11. What I didn't see until I got home and started to give the shirt to Lily was the large-lettered slogan on the back: "You Can't Beat Our Meat." Even this Dad realizes that's not appropriate attire for a child. Lily's loss could be your gain. The size small shirt is free to the first person to request it. Just email me at jeffmkramer@gmail.com. No one under 18, please.

Fin de Siecle

It took the guy at the fish store to utter the perfect epitaph to my run of nearly eight years as a columnist in this town.

I was visiting Syracuse Aquarium in Jamesville to buy food for our pond fish. My man Chris there didn't know I'd resigned in early April. He asked if I would be writing about the recent misadventures of Syracuse University basketball player Fab Melo -- booking name: Fabrico P. de Melo. For those who have fallen behind on the Orange crime blotter, the seven-footer was arrested this past weekend on an  allegation of domestic violence against a young woman and her car's turn signal.

City Court Judge James Cecile released de Melo on his personal ridiculousness. Meanwhile, Central New York was left wondering why the big fella won't snatch balls off the glass with half the savagery he showed -- allegedly -- vandalizing his sweetie's ride.

But enuffo of Fabrico.

When I gently pointed out to Chris that I hadn't been in the paper for two months, he acknowledged that he doesn't read the Post-Standard every day, as if that's something to apologize for.  It was mere coincidence that the last column of mine he saw was March 28, my final column in the P-S.

"I use the paper to wrap fish," Chris noted, not being facetious.  "And I saw your column there."  

I don't mean to sound, well, koy, but it's beyond fitting that the newspaper containing my final column was used, quite literally, as fish wrap. Life imitates cliche.

Anyway, I'm guessing Post-Standard readers have all kinds of practical uses for the paper besides dropping it in the recycling bin unread.  Drop me a line, and let me know what they are! 

I'm getting subtle pressure from certain readers to elevate the level of  my blog discourse, so today -- with President Obama heading to the Middle East -- here's my Fix-it plan for that troubled corner of the world.

As Obama suggests, Israel's borders should be returned to pre-1967. What is currently the West Bank should become a New Palestinian State. Then the following sequence should occur:

Immediately after the New Palestinian State declares statehood, it’s enemies, including Israel and the United States, should mass on its borders, declare the Western versin of Jihad and enforce a no-fly zone. Our mandate should be to drive all inhabitants of the new nation into the sea. Great Britain, which is good at these things, should enforce a blockade so the criminal state cannot get weapons or additional people to defend itself. If possible, we should attempt to round up the rogue nation's leaders and haul them before the International Criminal Court.

 If the new nation, by dint of its guile and courage, miraculously survives, it should apply for membership in the United Nations. The application should be rejected because the New Palestinian State is a threat to global stability. Once the New Palestinian State has signed an armistice with us and our allies, it should be allowed to join the UN, but the vote should be deeply divided. As sworn enemies of the new state, we should vote against its admission to the community of civilized nations.

 From this point onward the New Palestinian State should develop a close, collaborative relationship with a major nuclear power. Pakistan is a logical candidate.  With the nurturing assistance of Pakistan, the New Palestinian State can evolve into a nuclear power in its own right, thus lending an aura of  Apocalyptic portent to an already volatile region.

Roughly twenty years after our initial invasion of the New Palestinian State, the US and its allies should again mass menacingly on the country’s borders. Our warships in the Persian Gulf and bases in Iraq can help ratchet up the threat. Our goal should be to place the New Palestinian State in abject fear for its survival. If everything goes as planned, the new Palestinian State will do the right thing, give up and cease to exist. If it does not and instead launches a successful preemptive attack that results in territorial gains that make it even harder to be invaded, we must take strong action.  We should condemn the New Palestinian State as a criminal occupier and insist that the borders be returned to how they looked when the New Palestinian State was nearly destroyed at its birth.

Only when the New Palestinian State agrees to these simple, humane measures will we have lasting peace in the Middle East.

Northern Exposure

Everyone tried to be so grown-up and artsy about it, but now that The Covey  Theatre Company’s production has wrapped up its Syracuse run of “The Graduate,” can we dispense with burying the lead?

MOE HARRINGTON WAS NUDE ON STAGE!!!!

.

RIGHT HERE IN SYRACUSE, N.Y.

FOR, LIKE, A WHOLE MINUTE OR SOMETHING.

AND I SAW IT!!!!

photo courtesy of www.ameliabeamish.com

The first lady of Central New York theater, playing the iconic role of Mrs. Robinson, took it all off in a poignant, discretely lit scene. In doing so she joined an elite group of entertainers who have performed au naturel in local venues that don’t require a two-drink minimum.

“I thought of it as just another costume change -- a very tight costume with a slight breeze,” Moe told KramerPost.

Nine weeks of grueling workouts and eating mainly egg whites and cottage cheese transformed the curvy diva into a cut cougar. From my first-row vantage Saturday at The BeVard Studio , I was mightily impressed. On top of everything, I think there was a play going on.

 The highpoint came when I turned to my wife Leigh to discover that her view of Moe was blocked by another actor, some young guy who was definitely not nude. For reasons I cannot explain, this made me extremely happy.

Moe said afterwards that she felt “supported” by the audience and cast.

“A few middle aged women came up and thanked me for doing it as a show of solidarity for all women.” 

This is, perhaps, progress -- a sign of an  evolving Syracuse primed to doff its cloak of dowdiness and embrace a more open-minded ethos. 

“There were people who didn’t come to the show because of the nudity, and that’s fine,” Moe said. “But at the end of the day you can’t complain about something you’ve never seen, otherwise you’re a Republican.”

Incidentally, Moe will be in my new play, Reaching for Marsby, next March. The current script calls for her to appear fully clothed. In light of recent events, a major rewrite is underway.

Two for the road

Yes, I want to live in an America that harnesses the power of wind and sun, where quality health care is a right, not a luxury and where our children have the tools they need to compete in a global economy. But there's  something else I want. I want a 5-year national  moratorium on "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas.

I didn't used to hate the song, but I do now.  I heard it the other night -- again -- this time at Venue on N. Salina Street in Syracuse. It was my clue to call it a night. I'm not the only one in revolt. There's a Facebook group R U Sick of that G.D. Black Eyed Peas Song, "I Gotta Feeling."


http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=159706445831&v=wall


I'm its newest member.  There are only 12 of us, but we speak for millions -- those who hate "I Gotta Feeling" and those who hate it but just don't realize it yet. If you're a radio deejay, a pre-teen planning a birthday party, the owner of a hip-hop club or anyone else who has the power to shut down this song, please do the right thing. 


Let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it.


Mazel tov.

And while we're at it, how about a moratorium at all sporting events on that Cha Cha Slide riff "Everybody clap your hands"?


Thank-you.


And God bless America.

The awards lunch that never happened

A last bit of bookkeeping from my previous gig. The column below was scheduled to run in a certain Syracuse daily on April 4.  An editor, or possibly editors, killed it the night before, and no one told me (the writer), leading to my resignation. There were a couple of versions of the column but here's the one that should have -- and could have -- run. 

They’ll be honored at a luncheon for making Central New York a better place. The eight 2011 Post-Standard Achievement Award winners are an impressive bunch. But what about the other end of the spectrum? 

So as not to overlook them, I’m hosting a ceremony, too. The Jeff Kramer Human Train Wreck Awards will be at noon at the DeWitt Arby’s on Erie Boulevard on April 28, the day after the Post-Standard event.  If you’re on the guest list (see below), lunch is on me, provided you show valid photo I.D. (Your own, not someone else’s.) 

Meet the winners:

Moon River

Bar joke -- or disease? 

When my "friend" Charlie Miller took this photo of me last night at
Kelley's Bar and Restaurant on Onondaga Hill, he thought he was being amusing. But for millions of men like me, Posterior Cleavage Exposure Disorder (PCED) is no laughing matter. Afflicted by a long trunk, thick, short legs and no hips, sufferers of PCED constantly contend with shirts that aren't long enough and ill-fitting pants prone to sliding into arears. How you treat the differently waisted says a lot about you. Remember, we're God's children, too.

Most ATM cards accepted.

Into the Blogosphere

This is the initial posting of my new blog, called KramerPost. It has no theme or purporse or art. Presumably all that will come with time. I'll start by posting one of my columns that never ran in the Syracuse Post-Standard because it ran afoul of ... I'm really not sure. Here's the column ... it was supposed to run last August:

Normally I like to keep it light in this space. but now and then a topic pops up of such urgency that the public’s health and safety must take precedence over entertainment. Such is the case today as I’m ethically bound to discuss a life-threatening medical emergency known as canine paraphimosis.

Earlier this month we were on a family vacation in Massachusetts when the smaller of our two shelter dogs, Rondo -- a buff, Chihuhua-like animal -- experienced what veterinary texts describe as the “red rocket” becoming stuck in the” cleared-for-liftoff position.”

To a lesser degree, this is nothing new. During the two years since we adopted Rondo, we’ve learned that the passionate Chihuahua nature isn’t easily tamed, even by neutering. It’s not unusual for us to be watching a ballgame on TV or an episode of Project Runway and look down to see Rondo, all 13-pounds of him, having his way with our larger co-dog, Larry, whose befuddled expression suggests he’s holding a cancelled ticket to see Bret Michaels perform at the Regional Market.

But this time E.T. wouldn’t go home even after several hours. Credit my 10-year-old daughter, Miranda, for realizing that it had gone on long enough.

“Mommy, call the vet,” she said.