When times are tough have you ever suggested that it was time to circle the wagons? Or, maybe it got tough enough that you needed to rally the troops? But, when the going gets really tough it might be time to gather the family. Who can you count on more than family? After all, “blood is thicker than water,” isn’t it? What though is the origin of that phrase?
Meaning: Family comes before everything else History: In ancient Middle Eastern culture, blood rituals between men symbolized bonds that were far greater than those of family. The saying also has to do with “blood brothers,” because warriors who symbolically shared the blood they shed in battle together were said to have stronger bonds than biological brothers.
Blood is indeed thicker than water. But, unfortunately, when actual blood flows from one’s body it certainly can create an emergency. Emergencies require prompt action. Prompt action might have to be taken on the spot. This situation might be so difficult that you might need to “bite the bullet.” Why bite on a bullet?
Meaning: Accepting something difficult or unpleasant History: There was no time to administer anesthesia before emergency surgery during battle. The surgeon made patients bite down on a bullet in an attempt to distract them from the pain.
Blood is thicker than water. But, too much of it and you might need to bite the bullet. Your family sure hopes not.
Do you remember just a few (or many) years ago when your teacher spoke the nine most dreaded words you heard that day? “Today we are going to have a pop quiz.” Remember what your (printable) reaction was? Do “oh boy,” “jeez,” “gosh darn,” or even”dammit” or stronger come to mind?
Well it’s that time again unfortunately. We have but one geographical question for you. And it’s all centered around a tricky old world area. Are you ready?
What’s the difference between England, Great Britain, and the United Kingdom? Go ahead, admit it. You’ve used them interchangeably at times and may not have been entirely clear on what distinguishes one from the other from the other.
First the easy part. England is, well, England. England is a country that is part of Great Britain as well as the United Kingdom. It shares land borders with Scotland to the north and Wales to the west. England is separated from continental Europe by the North Sea to the east and the English Channel to the south. Think London, the queen, Big Ben, Wimbledon, and parliament.
It gets a bit trickier from here. Great Britain is the totality of the island mentioned above. So, England, Scotland, and Wales comprise Great Britain and share the aforementioned borders. With an area of 80,823 sq mi, it is the largest European island, and the ninth-largest island in the world. In 2011, Great Britain had a population of about 61 million people, making it the world’s third-most populous island after Java in Indonesia and Honshu in Japan.
And finally, The United Kingdom is the combination of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. It’s been such since 1801. It’s often simply referred to as “The UK.” It’s actual name is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. No wonder it’s called “The UK.” The United Kingdom includes the island of Great Britain, the north-eastern part of the island of Ireland and many smaller islands. It is a sovereign country unto itself. It’s estimated population is 66 million as of 2011.
The Union Jack flag (which actually combines the three 19th century designs from England, Scotland, and Ireland) is the official flag of the UK since 1801. Notably Wales is a part of the UK, but the flag was designed prior to its invasion and inclusion in the union.
You may be ready to wave the proverbial white flag after sorting through this.
We have much to be thankful for. Realize that. Embrace that. And, take a moment today to embrace someone or many and tell them how thankful you are to be able to enjoy your time with them.
If someone or something has you down, remember that the situation could always be worse. Brighter days are just ahead. They always are. Look for them, work towards them, and you will find them!
Remember, Father Time is undefeated. But, you can give him a hell of a game with the right attitude.
We continue today exploring the meaning of phrases that we use in everyday life. A couple of weeks ago we confirmed that it was better to butter someone up than to eat humble pie. We do our best below to give you another hair-raising experience.
When one gives maximum effort, whatever the endeavor, it is always appreciated. If you do your best you may succeed, or you may not. But, its hard to find fault with someone who gives it their all, or one who “goes the whole nine yards.” But, did you know that going the whole nine yards is a term derived from World War II, nearly 80 years ago?
Meaning: To try one’s best History: World War II Fighter pilots received a 9-yard chain of ammunition. Therefore, when a pilot used all of his ammunition on one target, he gave it “the whole 9 yards.”
Those of us of the male persuasion have tried our best to be patient waiting for our significant other to put the finishing touches on their makeup, dress, and hair. Sometimes it takes a bit longer than desired. But, that is no time to relax. In fact, it’s the exact opposite of that. It’s no time to “let your hair down!” That’s a phrase that is actually centuries old.
Meaning: To relax or be at ease History: Parisian nobles risked condemnation from their peers if they appeared in public without an elaborate hairdo. Some of the more intricate styles required hours of work, so of course it was a relaxing ritual for these aristocrats to come home at the end of a long day and let their hair down.
You actually might feel centuries old as well by the time your better half is finally happy with how her hair looks for an evening out. But, we have a few words for the wise men. Since she has gone the whole nine yards working on it an immediate compliment is highly recommended.
In the spring of 1983 I was 23 years old, one year out of college, clean-shaven after my bearded line up episode, and one year into the work world. I knew so much. I knew so little. The south Louisiana outside sales territory that I gleefully covered was growing nicely. Selling Duracell batteries to 23 different classes of trade offered a great work education, modest money(though it seemed like a lot then), and a bit of freedom and fun. Some days beckoned to bring more freedom and fun than others.
On a particularly sunny Friday I decided that a half day of work and a half day of play was just what was needed to begin my decadent slide into the weekend. But, as I went from one sales call to the next in the early AM one hour outside of New Orleans, I wondered what the half day play part of the equation should be.
Around the near turn they go at the old Fair Grounds.
I stopped to get a newspaper and a soda. As I read the sports page the proverbial light bulb turned on. My favorite over raced racehorse was running in the second race at the oldest race track in America, the New Orleans Fair Grounds. Post time for race one was 1:15.
As thoughts of beers, cigars, horses, and gambling swirled through my head I knew that I needed an accomplice to share the winnings, swill, and smoke. Hmm. The pay phone swallowed my dime and the call went out. On the other side of the line was one Joseph Roy Miller, aka Joey, aka Jojo. Joey and I were high school buddies prior, four-year college roommates then, and are best friends to this day.
Ring. Ring. Joey was finishing his studies at University of New Orleans at that point. After school he worked at a laboratory to pay for it as well. “JoJo, Dump Truck is running in the second race today. He’s always in the money. I’ll pick you up in front of the Life Sciences building in an hour.” “No, No!” said JoJo. “I’ve got a Microbiology class at noon and have to work after that.”
Anyone in sales knows that “no” means “yes.” “I’ll pick you up by 12:30 latest,” I said as I hung up the phone before he could respond. There were but two problems with this. And, they soon reared their ugly heads. The first was that my last appointment of the morning, day, and week wanted to talk too much and buy too little. I was now late. The second problem is that I had no way of alerting Joseph of the tardiness. Cell phones, like Al Gore’s internet, were not yet invented.
The company car, a beauty of an olive-green Chevy Malibu, rolled onto campus. There stood furious Joey. “Get in, we are going to be late,” I offered in a self depreciating attempt to defuse the fuse. He said a few PG-13 or worse things back to me. It sounded like he didn’t appreciate standing there while missing class and also calling in sick for work, only for me to be 30 minutes late.
I attempted to shift the conversation to the ponies and the day. “I’ll get the parking, the programs, the tip sheets, and the first cold Dixie beers.” “Big deal,” he smashed back. “We are going to miss the second race too.” “We’ll still make it,” I confidently responded. The Malibu may have run through a few orange (somewhere between yellow and red) lights getting there. Once parked we race-walked to the bowels of the grandstand. He was still filling my ear with hatred. The more he howled the more I laughed. “Two programs please.” “Ah, Dump Truck is the five horse today.”
With the first race long gone, we heard the track announcer loud and clear as we stepped through the turnstile. “The horses have reached the starting gate.” Jeez. This is a last call of sorts for placing bets. One quick glance at the lines and we knew getting down on Dump Truck would be dicey. I jumped in one line, and he in the very next. I got to the window and wagered a huge, for then, $10/10/10 win, place and show bet on the 5 horse. “They’re all in line.” That means “and they’re off” is soon to follow. Joseph got his w/p/s bet ticket a scant few seconds before the ring, signaling the gate opening, echoed across the grounds.
We hustled outside and joined the rail birds track side. It was a dollar to gain entry to stand. It was two bucks to sit in the outdoor grandstand. It was a steep three dollars to sit inside. We stood.
The race announcer chirped about the horse’s positions as they roared past us at the start. Nary a mention of the old and over worked Dump Truck was heard. We saw the five on the jockey’s silks trailing the field. The race is long we said. He’ll make up ground we assured each other. He continued to languish in dead last at each quarter pole.
As they turned for home on the longest stretch run in America the five horse was saving so much ground we couldn’t even see him. The announcer clearly had given up on him too. Still no mention of the old boy. “And down the stretch they come,” he bellowed. And there suddenly, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, was the five climbing past his competition one by one. “A sixteenth of a mile to go.” We were hopeful. The five blew past the second place horse as it cruised by us and hit the wire. “WINNER, the five.”
As we waited for the tote board to make it official we high-fived in joy. We also wondered aloud how he came from nowhere, won the race, and yet we never heard his name. It was weird, fun, and soon to be financially rewarding we hoped.
“The results of the third race are official. The winner is the five horse, Royal Flush.” Royal Flush pays $12 to win(on a two dollar bet).” Royal Flush? Royal Flush??? We looked at each other and pulled the bet tickets from our pockets.
And there it was. We had missed the second race. We had raced in to bet what we thought was the second race. It was, however, the third race that we had blindly bet on. We won. We won over $120 each! Huge! We bet the five horse in the third race and had no idea about his chances. Dump Truck had gone off in the second. Dump Truck was hosed down and back in the barn eating some hay 20 minutes before we bounced blindly to the betting booth.
“As we cashed our tickets laughing out loud before LOL was even LOL, we went over to the board where the previous race finishes were posted. And, there it was. Dump Truck finished a distant fourth, and out of the money, in the second race. I mentioned to Joey it was obviously better to be late than never. He mentioned to me that my arm was going to hurt after he punched me. “Want another Dixie, Joey?” Cigars never tasted nor smelled better than they did on that afternoon.
What’s the moral of the story? Easy. It’s better to be lucky later than good never. And, it’s fun to have great memories with a great friend.
This morning begins with the first of a new running feature for boomboomsroom.com that we hope and trust that you will enjoy. It’s story telling time and provides you with this writer’s moral to boot. Gather around friends.
On a beautiful afternoon in the spring of my junior year at LSU I had my usual one and one half hour of Business Law 3201 class staring directly at my beard covered face. A bearded lawyer who taught the class, whose name escapes me to this day, walked in to the already assembled 75 or so person class. As he plunked his briefcase on his desk loud enough to get the chatter to subside he uttered one loud word. “JOHNSTON.” Surprised that he knew anyone’s name, much less mine, I weakly answered with, “yes.” He responded with, ” You have a beard, don’t you? See me after class!” The class let out a collective, “woooo.” I spent the next 90 minutes wondering.
After class I found out that it was about nothing that I spent the previous 90 minutes wondering. Said professor/lawyer explained to me that a lawyer friend of his had taken the case of a friend of his accused of rape. He went on to say that there was going to be a line up that afternoon and they needed bearded guys who quasi fit the description of the bearded accused. He asked if I would help him, his lawyer friend, and the accused. With as much thought as most 21-year-old adults give to choices I said “sure.”
And off we went directly to the lead lawyer’s office. At the large mahogany conference table gathered seven bearded lawyers, the accused, and one LSU student. As I listened, and listened only, to how this allegation and charge came about it was easy to summarize that they thought that this was a rush job by the DA’s office. It was likely driven by the accuser’s familial relationship with someone in that office. The lineup would go a long ways towards proving that thought right or wrong.
As we drove I opened my mouth for the first time. I asked where the line up was going to be held. The answer was the East Baton Rouge Parish(think county) Jail. I shouldn’t have asked. Silence again consumed me.
Upon arrival we walked through a series of loudly closed and locked doors behind us. We were asked to change out of our clothes and into orange prison issued jumpsuits to homogenize our look for a better lineup. One slight problem reared it’s head shortly thereafter. The lineup required two groups of six each. Short three, the jailer improvised providing three prisoners to join us. My group happened to be the one that was three shy, so the three selected detainee’s joined two lawyers and I. That added a bit to the angst. The groups were separated with my group going second. The six of us were placed in a holding room, without direct supervision, the size of a small bathroom. That was yet another problem for my rising blood pressure.
The time came for us to read the words that the victim quoted to the detective that were exchanged during her terrible night of a few weeks ago for voice recognition. Then, we were positioned behind a one way mirror for sight recognition. This was anything but pleasant, especially for the victim.
When it was over the original nine gathered in a room to change back into the clothes that we wore prior to the orange parade. When exiting as a group an armed jailer grabbed my arm and asked me “where do you think that you are going?” My blood pressure peaked. He then laughed at his own joke and motioned me forward. I failed to see any humor.
Back at the mahogany conference table we learned that the victim didn’t pick the flimsily accused for voice nor physical recognition. It turns out that she identified me and one other as a possible voice match while identifying an existing prisoner as a possible physical match. This would cause the case against him to fold quickly and quietly.
The weekend came and I went home. Mom and Boom Boom eagerly listened to my story. My mom, ever the worry wart, worried that they might now think I did it. Perry Mason and mom had little in common. Inspector Clouseau and mom did. The laughter helped the blood pressure.
Friday became Sunday night and I drove back to my dorm. My roommate and I were watching some TV. The screen flashed with breaking news. A manhunt was underway outside of the jail complete with barking dogs, cops, and helicopters. A lineup at the jail that evening included a few prisoners. They overpowered two guards, took a civilian hostage, and made a run for it. My blood pressure tested new highs at the sight and sounds emanating from this tiny black and white TV.
As the class and the semester ended, grades followed. In my business law class we had three total tests and I had scored a solid “B” on each. The report card showed an “A” in B. LAW 3201. I smiled. My blood pressure actually went down for once. The prof threw me a bone.
‘The moral of the story is?’ you ask. Don’t grow a beard! Or, something like that.
editor’s note: The post that follows is not meant to demean the downtrodden. It only expresses our view that while many are well intended to help those in need, perhaps the problem and the solution needs examination. Further we know many of our readers do great work in this area to make the best of this problem. We would appreciate your candid feedback on this if you wish.
From 1951-1971 a very popular TV show had a 20 year run with an unbelievable 672 episodes in “the can” as the Hollywood crowd used to call it. Impressive. It was called The Red Skelton Show. It starred none other than a quite famous actor/comic named, you guessed it, Red Skelton. Red did standup, had a couple of guests, an occasional musician, and did several skits with characters that he developed quite well. It was truly a variety show.
One of the characters that Red developed quite well was Freddie the Freeloader. As you can see from the linked clip the jokes were about a down on his luck homeless man. Let’s repeat that, “the jokes were about a down on his luck homeless man.” In today’s world even the thought of that would not be whispered in creative circles. It isn’t what we do today. Today we help people. We make all feel good, feel equal. Or, at least we think we do.
This writer actually met Red Skelton at a poorly attended book signing of his many years ago. It was so poorly attended we had the opportunity to get better acquainted. My impression in a short 15 minutes was that what Red actually attempted to do in all of his works was show a world as it was and do so in a kind and funny way.
Today his message would not even be heard because his premise would be looked on as outrageous by those who choose what actually goes “in the can.” It would also be panned by those who wish to shape the narrative for political gain by telling those that are willing to listen that others are insensitive.
You see Freddie the Freeloader, by his own admission was a “hobo.” If you can believe Wikipedia, a hobo is a migrant worker or homeless vagrant, especially one who is impoverished. The term originated in the Western—probably Northwestern—United States around 1890.[1] Unlike a “tramp“, who works only when forced to, and a “bum“, who does not work at all, a “hobo” is a traveling worker.
So, a hobo was a homeless worker as opposed to a tramp, vagrant, or a bum. That’s a small consolation prize perhaps. Eventually, the words tramp and bum fell strongly out of favor for “the homeless.” Homeless, soon enough, sounded too demeaning and was replaced by “the underserved.” Recent trips to Portland and other cities that embrace/accept high populations of whatever you choose to call “them” now refer to “them” as “campers.” Yes, if you haven’t been to sunny Portland you haven’t seen the many campers. If you haven’t been to downtown LA you haven’t seen the square city miles of sidewalks of tents pitched.
So, we must wonder aloud, does what you call a person who unfortunately has a problem or problems that lead to this life make that person’s life any better? Does it make you or them feel any better about their plight? More importantly, what are we doing as a society to reduce the number of campers by solving the root cause or causes of their descent?
We ask because we don’t know. Recent surveys by multiple services and government agencies show that in spite of everyone’s best efforts the homeless population stands at a guesstimated 550,000 people. It’s down from a 2008 Great Recession peak by about 70,000. If you look at a glass as half full I suppose that is progress. But, if you look at a glass as half empty, isn’t having over one half of a million people sleep on the streets of the most developed country in the world sad? It is.
Some folks are in the camp (no pun intended) of “you are what you make of yourself.” Others want to give everyone everything to either make themselves feel better about themselves or truly think they are making a bad situation better. We wonder if there is a middle ground that should be vigorously explored.
Goodness knows a warm bed for a night or a sandwich during the day is a nice and needed humane gesture. We just wonder if the root cause is being addressed aggressively enough. In other words what got someone to this spot? Are we treating the symptom or the illness? The symptom is homelessness. The illness is? Addiction? Mental illness? Physical disability? Job loss? Indifference? Laziness? Several of those can be helped. At least one or two don’t deserve it.
We are very familiar with a worthy mission in Houston, TX. It is The Star of Hope. It has multiple programs for men, women, and children. Taken from their mission statement is “Positive life changes are encouraged through structured programs which focus on spiritual growth, education, employment, life management and recovery from substance abuse.”
The program within the program that we are most familiar with helps mothers who have been domestically abused and have or would be living in the streets with their children were it not for this program. Picture an old school motel layout. Hotel rooms are more like small efficiency apartments. There is a cafeteria, a meeting room or two, and a few offices. The one and only goal is to get them back into society in a productive manner ASAP. The requirement to live there is that either you have a job, are actively looking for one, or are headed back to a school to get to a trade or job. All children must be enrolled in a school. The help given is only for those looking for a hand up, not a hand out. But the help given demands that you understand the difference between the two. And, that, we believe is a real key to success.
We don’t know, but are fairly certain, that there are many fine outreach programs across the US. We wonder aloud though, “isn’t there a better way, a quicker solution, a more concerted effort available to us if we put our collective heads together?” No, we aren’t talking about another bloated government tax dollar throw away. We are talking about civil people doing civil things.
Or, is this the far end of the tough side of the bell curve and we should just do what we can(whatever that means)? We’ve been to black tie fundraisers and ate steak and drank champagne and donated money for a couple other homeless causes. It felt good I guess, but it didn’t do anything. In 1986 we connected our hands together for “Hands Across America.” It felt good I guess, but it didn’t do anything.
We suppose the answer lies in who you think “campers” are. We suppose the answer lies in what you think “campers” can become. We don’t think it’s what you call them.
We continue today exploring the original meaning of phrases we use in everyday life. A few weeks back we examined what putting a feather in our cap meant. We found out for us “Yankees” that it actually was a bit insulting when put into context from the Yankee Doodle nursery rhyme. Today we offer a couple more for your perusal. Let’s start. Or, better yet, let’s “break the ice.”
When we begin from zero in an attempt to get somewhere in a conversation, sales call, or on a project we want to naturally progress beyond ground zero. So at a minimum, after we introduce our side of the story, we say “well, at least we broke the ice.” Where did that come from and what did it originally mean?
Meaning: To commence a project or initiate a friendship History: Before the days of trains or cars, port cities that thrived on trade suffered during the winter because frozen rivers prevented commercial ships from entering the city. Small ships known as “icebreakers” would rescue the icebound ships by breaking the ice and creating a path for them to follow. Before any type of business arrangement today, it is now customary “break the ice” before beginning a project.
I doubt that the above explanation left you speechless. But, if it did some might say that “the cat got your tongue.” Well if the cat got your tongue in the hundreds of “civilized” years gone by it would have been quite a bit more painful than just being stumped to the point of being speechless. Why? You might not be glad you asked.
Meaning: Something said when a person is at a loss for words History: There are two possible sources for this common short saying. The first refers to the cat-o’-nine-tails – a whip used by the English Navy for flogging. The whip caused so much pain that the victims were left speechless. The second refers to the practice of cutting out the tongues of liars and blasphemers and feeding them to cats.
Given the choice, the choice is clear. Break the ice and keep your tongue.
In the fall of 1992, some 26 years ago, The Cosby Show created by Bill Cosby ended an incredible eight year run. It spent five years as the number one rated television show. Bill Cosby starred in it too as Dr. Cliff Huxtable, nicknamed the “Greatest Television Dad.”
In the fall of 1996, some 22 years ago, one Eldrick Woods(call him Tiger) “created” on the golf course by his father began an incredible run on the PGA tour. He spent five straight years from 2005 till 2010 as the number one ranked golfer in the world. TV ratings for golf doubled on the weekends he was in contention for any ol tournament and tripled if it was a major.
In the fall of 1998, a 33-year-old partner, and rising star in the law firm Kirkland and Ellis named one Brett Kavanaugh, left to join Kenneth Starr as Associate Council in the office of Independent Council. Kavanaugh was a principal author of the Starr Report to Congress, released in September 1998, on the Monica Lewinsky–Bill Clintonsex scandal.
Now fast forward to on goings in this week.
Disgraced
A now 81-year-old Bill Cosby was sentenced to no less than three years and up to 10 in the Pennsylvania state prison system. He was convicted of drugging and sexually assaulting a then Temple women’s basketball coach in 2004. He was deemed a “sexually violent predator” by the presiding judge. Over 60 women came forward in the last many years to publicly accuse Cosby of one assault or another. The statue of limitations expired on 59 of them.
A now 42-year-old Tiger Woods completed a journey that has him back on top of the golf world. He won the final PGA tour event and was welcomed on the Ryder Cup team.
Comeback Complete
His fall from the top started on Thanksgiving night 2009 when his texts to a mistress was discovered by his then wife. His fall from grace included no less than 11 women coming forward with tawdry tales of their trysts with Tiger. Rehab for sexual addiction was followed by a loud divorce. His confidence was shaken and his invincibility taken. Severe back troubles led to multiple surgeries and a long physical rehab. A detour on the rehab road came when he was arrested for DUI. Blood tests found a medicine cabinet and a trace of marijuana in his system.
The Whole Truth
A now 53-year-old Brett Kavanaugh sits very close to a seat on the US Supreme Court. His ascension to the door step of the number one court in the land via various higher level judge appointments makes for one impressive resume’. However the star of the Starr report about Clinton’s sexual scandal must sit patiently as a star witness, Dr Christine B. Ford, testifies about her recollection of an alcohol infused supposed sex scandal of his own. He then gets his turn to testify. She contends that a then 17-year-old Kavanaugh sexually assaulted and may have even attempted to rape her at a party in 1982.
Cosby’s legacy is rightfully in ruins. Tiger’s rebound is rejoiced. What is Judge Kavanaugh’s future?
The Cosby Show was a sitcom that coined TV ratings gold. Tiger’s aura is a reality sports show that coins TV ratings gold. Tomorrow’s Senate Judiciary Committee testimony will be a reality TV show that no sitcom writer would dream to write.
The Cosby Show ended each week to the tune of “Kiss Me.” Trust me. How will tomorrow end?
It would take an insanely accomplished, confident producer in Hollywood to sell this script. Someone like Harvey Weinstein.
Some of the more intricate styles required hours of work, so of course it was a relaxing ritual for these aristocrats to come home at the end of a long day and let their hair down.
that Red developed quite well was 
In 1986 we connected our hands together for “Hands Across America.” It felt good I guess, but it didn’t do anything.
