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.