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.