What Exactly is a Cheesehead?

A generic response to the question posed in the title of this post might simply state that a cheesehead is a fan of the Green Bay Packer football team. According to the dictionary a fan is someone with a strong interest in a sport, art form or famous person. The term strong interest does not begin to describe a cheesehead. Looking further, one might discover the term fan is derived from fanatic. This is getting closer.

We train cheeseheads before they can walk.

First, there is the unparalleled nature of a professional football in a working class community of slightly more than 100,000. Recent expansion of Lambeau Field, where the Packers play, makes it possible to hold more than three quarters of these citizens at each and every game. Few high school stadiums can make such a claim. Not only is the city of Green Bay, the smallest city with a major sports franchise, but also the team is owned by a group of stockholders, mostly residents of Wisconsin, rather than an individual. Many of these stockholders are some of the most notable cheeseheads.

The "G" is for Green Bay, not General Foods.

Second, cheeseheads are incredibly loyal. Real cheeseheads don’t turn in their jerseys for Jets or Vikings paraphernalia just because one of the players who retires decides to return, but decides he won’t compete to get his job back and deserts his fans for cities that hand the car keys over to the whiny kid. In the same way, they continue to cheer for their team even after three straight losses. Such is the case this week. It comes as the result of an injury to their star quarterback, Aaron Rodgers, who was one of only 3 quarterbacks to start for the Packers during the previous 340 games (approximately 20 years). With the loss of Rodgers, the team was led by the third starting quarterback in as many games. Many young cheeseheads have never endured a losing streak like this before now.

Packers Helmets as well as Cheeseheads
are always in style.

Third, some cheeseheads have been through ups and downs, and downs and ups and are as tough as Wisconsin weather in winter is cold.  Those of us, like myself, who grew up with Vince Lombardi (fondly remembered as St. Vincent), have the Packer sweep, which was both a running play that rumbled for long yardage and a winning a series of winning streaks that ran for several seasons, emblazoned on our cheese coated cerebral cortexes. We endured the likes of Don Horn, Jerry Tagge, Scott Hunter, Jim Del Gaizo, John Hadl, Jack Concannon, Lynn Dickey, Carlos Brown, David Whitehurst, Jim Zorn, Alan Risher, Randy Wright, Anthony Dilweg, Mike Tomczak and Don Majkowski starting at quarterback for the previous two decades, and that’s not to mention the three guys who only started one game apiece. During this time period these quarterbacks set records for the number of times they found themselves flat on their backs due to the gaping holes in the offensive line. After enduring such a devastating drought, veteran cheeseheads find themselves prepared to hunker down and await the return of the usually durable Rodgers.

Finally, a cheesehead is a person who thinks he looks distinguished wearing a pie shaped slab of foam rubber with holes carved in it to resemble Swiss cheese, but dyed to a bright yellow reminiscent of cheddar.  Whether attending mass at the local Catholic Church, sitting on a stool with a shot and a beer at a nearby tavern, or standing over a Hibachi grill turning bratwurst in the parking lot, the cheesehead is properly attired with foam wedge on his or her head.

            So, look out Vikings. You may have the greatest running back ever to play the game, but no matter how many guys you dress in those silly horned helmets, they’re no match for the cheeseheads.

Becoming an Author

An Untarnished Moon-photo by D. Kabat-Silverstein

A few months ago I bored you with my analysis of What Kind of Idiot Writes (August 22, 2013). Those readers that actually read to the end of the post know my conclusion was writers write because they must. They don’t have a choice. Like their fellow artists, actors and musicians, they can choose whether they express their skill as a means of finding continuity or spirituality, or they seek to share their expression with other people. A final decision regards trading on artistry as a commercial enterprise. A few brave or foolhardy souls choose to make a living from such craft. The writers who actually enter the world of selling words to the few willing to pay for such nonsense are called authors.

It is hard to say at what point in my life I first realized I was obsessed with the insufferable need to write. Throughout junior and senior high school I chose sports and part time jobs over writing for the school newspaper. In college I took both expository and creative writing classes, and filled notebooks with some mediocre poetry. My conversion to wanting to write for the screen came during my years in graduate school, so I took a course in television writing. None of these courses, in my opinion, made me a better writer. This didn’t stop me from writing two horrendous and one fairly good screenplay. I even pitched the latter to a few Hollywood producers.

Paradise in a Bird's Eye-photo by D. Kabat-Silverstein

Two years ago last February, while continuing to earn a living as a teacher, I began work on my first novel. A year ago last May, after fifteen months of constructing a world of my own invention, I shared Fermentation with a few friends and family members. Wanting to take the next step, a friend led me to a mutual acquaintance that had recently become an author. Actually, he had published a few nonfiction stories before writing his first novel, which was then published by the same publisher that published his nonfiction books. He informed me I needed to have my writing edited by a professional before submitting it for publication. Fortunately, he connected me with his talented editor. His agent, however, was unavailable.

Putting the Final Touches on It
-photo by D. Kabat-Silverstein

So, as noted in last week’s post detailing what I had done during my month long hiatus in October, after a year of having agents decline my work, I went back to the proverbial drawing board and painstakingly revised my manuscript. Late Tuesday night (it was Wednesday morning in Michigan, where she currently resides) I received the newly revised tale along with her brilliant recommendations for additions, omissions and changes. With few exceptions, I have already accepted most of her grammar alterations.

As I set to work incorporating a major change my editor proposed, which will elevate this novel to a level that will put agents and publishers who pass on it at risk of losing their status in the community, if not sizable income, my confidence grows. At the same time, once this revision is complete and I return this second final draft for tweaks to make it shine, I will not rest and until I have secured an agent for representation and found the right publisher to make me an author.

So, Where Ya’ Been?

Dear Fans,

I want you to know how much I appreciate both of you being consistent followers and contributors to Hi Oh Silver. Having taken off the entire month of October, I knew I could count on your loyalty to bring the viability of this blog back to the forefront upon my return this month. More than likely, you have been asking yourself what happened to me during my absence.

First, I revised my novel. Since its completion in the spring of 2012, my first novel has received professional editing and over thirty passes by literary agents. This revision, which is currently being scrutinized by my editor, removed flabby language, changed passages from passive to active voice, and tightened the plot. I am confident the perfect literary agent for my work is only a hundred more passes away.

Colors along Lake Michigan--October, 2013

Second, I traveled to Wisconsin and Minnesota. For those of you who have accidentally stumbled upon this blog and are not as familiar with the idiosyncratic nature of its author, it might not seem apparent that I have not lived my entire life in Southern California. Although my demeanor may seem to bear the marks of a laid-back sun bleached dude floating on the carefree Santa Anas, my true soul is grounded in the industrialized angst of the frigid Midwest. On the second day of the month, we touched down in my native Milwaukee, and spent the first night in my daughter, Beth’s new home, a few blocks from the shores of Lake Michigan.  The next day we drove north to Freedom, a rural community between my wife, Debbie’s native Appleton and Green Bay, home of the Packers and shrine to cheese heads everywhere.

Road through Wisconsin--October, 2013

What made this trip different were the colors. For the previous fifteen years that we lived on the West Coast, we were limited, as teachers, to trips during the spring, summer or winter. This time we were able to once again experience the changing colors of autumn. While I visited with my friend, Mike, a couple dairy farms with thousands of cows—it is the Dairy State; Debbie began her collection of a thousand photographs. After a Friday night fish fry, where we were treated to breaded lake perch, something rare in other parts of the country, we ate dinner at a different sister-in-law’s house each of the following three nights. Then, we drove across the state to Minnesota.

My Three Daughters with Deb and Me--October, 2013

Anoka, where Deb and I started our married life and Heather was born, sits along the northern banks of the Mississippi River about twenty miles from the twin cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul. Our old neighbors, who we stayed with, moved a few miles further to the less densely populated Dayton. A couple nights later we drove back across Wisconsin and spent the remainder of our time visiting family and friends in the Milwaukee area.

Third, Beth came to defend her dissertation at the University of California—Riverside. Not ten days had passed since we returned home that Beth came from Wisconsin and Courtney from Arizona. Heather, who lives in Irvine, joined us the next day. It was the first time Deb and I were with our three daughters at one time since Heather graduated from law school in New York.  Although the extended weekend was all too short, it was a wonderful end to a beautiful month.

Car Guy?

It’s that time of the year, again. While car manufacturers have taken to introducing new models at various times throughout the year, the largest inventory of the coming year’s vehicles arrives at dealers this month. When people look to accessorize their new fall wardrobe they check out the finish on the carriages they will use to transport them to their destinations. Cars, not only for the male of the species as the previous sentence attempts to hint, hold an intimate relationship with American culture.

Front View of My 2002 Nissan Maxima GLE

Across the street my two neighbors recently purchased new vehicles for their young families. Two of my daughters are in the market for vehicles; one will probably purchase a used—now euphemistically referred to as pre-owned—while the other will buy one fresh off the assembly line. Since we are still adjusting to retired life on a fixed income, we had David, our mechanic, change oil and give our twelve year old car a thorough inspection this week.

When I was growing up in Milwaukee, I took pride in being able to identify the latest models our neighbors purchased. By the time I was ten and my brother seven, we squared off in an intense rivalry to see who could name the make and model of random cars as they came into view. (Today, he’d clean my clock.) My parents never bought a new car, but our driveway was loaded with an assortment of bargains. So, if one didn’t work, there was a spare to take its place.

Driver Side View of My 2002 Nissan Maxima GLE 

Everything changed in 1964. Up until then the dream was to have a large luxurious car like a Cadillac Seville, Buick Electra or an Olds 98. With the introduction of the Ford Mustang the urge shifted to lean and quick. Chevy Camaro, Pontiac Firebird and Plymouth Barracuda followed to create the “muscle car” era. All of them produced a state of euphoria for me, but when the Wicked Mr. (Wilson) Pickett sang his soulful lyrics my heart forever was tied to Mustang Sally…1966. I actually owned a 1965 (some versions of the lyrics say he bought Sally a 1965) Mustang, but it had only six cylinders and three speeds, not the classic eight cylinder, 289 cubic inch engine with four on the floor.

Cover of 1966 Mustang Model
My daughters bought it for me 20 years ago.
I'll put it together this year.

Unfortunately, my ownership of that vehicle was short-lived because it drank oil for breakfast every morning and accrued a higher maintenance bill than all of Charlie Sheen’s wives combined. Which brings me to another point. It’s much harder to be a car guy in the 21^st Century. Even if you don’t buy the global warming theory, it doesn’t take a scientist to figure out the black stuff and the liquefied version we pump into our tanks makes a mess of things when our engines burn it. Besides, if the price of the crap continues to rise, only people in Charlie Sheen’s income level will be able to afford it.

Currently, the car I would most like to own (besides the ’66 Mustang) is the Tesla S, an electric vehicle that goes more than 200 miles on a charge, but costs $60,000. A number of manufacturers in the U.S. and elsewhere have said they plan to produce an electric vehicle with that kind of range for about half that price. The sooner they do, the sooner I can get back to being a real car guy.

Welcoming in the New Year—Part Two

Noodle kugel is a casserole with noodles, eggs
and cheese. Often cinnamon and raisins are added
for sweetness. 

When we left off last week I was at the water’s edge attempting to find redemption. As far as I know none of the ducks were harmed as the result of our actions. Being analytical by nature I pause to contemplate if my contrition outweighs the salacious thoughts swirling in my synapsis. Needless to say, human impulse provides abundant fuel for cleansing and purification.

Naturally, while I was working out at the gym this week, the right shoulder of the twenty-something crushing her abs on the machine in front of me had a tattoo with the words, “Judgment is weakened by desire.” Coming in the middle of the Days of Awe, I knew this was a sign. Fortunately, my judgment informs my habitual attendance at the gym, and while I desire the attention of that or any young (or for that matter, old) woman, it never weakened my commitment to complete all of the reps in each set on the chest press and throughout my routine.

The Sound of the Shofar.

Getting back to the Days of Awe, as promised last week, I will attempt to provide a detailed description of what they are and how they are supposed to work. They begin, as previously noted, with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Ten days later, they end on Yom Kippur, which translates to, “ The Day of Atonement.”  Similar to a twelve step program, one must first acknowledge the problem before a solution can be sought. Easy enough, I misbehaved or had impure thoughts. (Go ahead; tell me you didn’t. Put it in the comment section. I dare you.) No heavy lifting on Rosh Hashanah. Like I said, it’s really a happy celebration.

Next, you’re supposed to make amends. We were invited to a party on Sunday to welcome the New Year. It was at the home of friends we used to see around once a month. My guess is it was more than a year since we saw them last. The other couples, which we used to see at those monthly get-togethers, were there, too. While our lives have taken us in different directions, and exclusion does not necessarily imply malice or misconduct (Birthdays, Bar Mitzvahs, Graduations, Weddings and Funerals have limitations; you can’t invite everyone), I never heard anyone say they were sorry. Everyone wished everyone else a Happy New Year and enjoyed the visit, especially the food. The blintzes and kugel were fabulous.

The Hebrew letters spell out Yom Kippur.

Finally, the big day is just around the corner. Tomorrow, at sunset, Yom Kippur begins. That’s right, Jewish days start at sunset of the previous day. I used to think that was ridiculous until I realized how arbitrary it is to begin a day in the middle of the night. (If you question my logic, then explain the reason for 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in a day and 60 seconds in a minute; why not 10/100/100?) Jews fast the day; no food, no water. The metaphor is one a writer readily identifies, a book. On Rosh Hashanah, the first day of awe, it is written, and Yom Kippur, the final day of awe, it is sealed. What is our fate? Sickness, health, hunger, abundance, sorrow, happiness, ignorance, enlightenment, poverty, wealth, death, life? May you be sealed for a good year in the Book of Life. Amen.

Welcoming in the New Year—Part One

Symbols of Rosh Hashanah
from upper left clockwise: shofar, apple
and honey, torah (scroll) 

Most Americans, even those who still have print calendars where the holiday is clearly marked, are unaware today is Rosh Hashanah. The words literally translate from Hebrew to the English, “Head of the year.” In the synagogue, the Jewish house of worship, the Hebrew words, “Yom Hazikaron,” are heard. These say, “Day, the First,” from left to right, but Hebrew is actually read from right to left, so you get, “The First Day.” Or, as David Letterman’s man in Time Square put it last night, Happy Newish Jew Year.

For anyone who has a sense of history, or has checked out the best seller The Bible in original print or modern audio version, the Jewish people and their calendar go back to the time of Abraham. No, not Lincoln, the one who begat Isaac, who begat Jacob—that one. Actually, he was a few thousand years before Jesus, so instead of the calendar reading 2013, it reads 5774. Also, unlike the Gregorian calendar, named for the Roman guy who devised our current model, the Hebrew calendar is lunar. In other words, the layout of the months is based upon the moon rather than the sun. If that isn’t confusing enough, because the Jewish New Year comes so early, Hanukkah, the holiday with the candles and spinning top that normally coincides with Christmas, begins on Thanksgiving.

Sweetness of the New Year: apples and honey

As one might imagine, like in most cultures and religions, the New Year is a time of celebration.   One popular custom to symbolize the sweetness associated with its arrival is to dip a slice of apple in honey. It’s not bad. Really, go ahead and try it. You can let me know what you think in the comment section.

However, as with so many religious celebrations, there is another, more sobering, aspect to this holiday. The first day of the New Year is also the first day of the Days of Awe. There are ten days of awe, during which time it is incumbent upon those of good faith to repent for their misconduct and seek forgiveness from those they have harmed, as well as from the almighty. Next week, in part two, I will explore this in further detail.

Blowing a long twisted shofar (ram's horn)
Symbol of the ram that Abraham sacrificed
instead of his son, Isaac.

Among the many rituals performed during this holiday, one I customarily observe is Tashlich. There are nearly as many interpretations of the term as there are of what exactly its purpose is. Unlike most prayers, which are said in the synagogue, the songs and recitations for this ritual take place at the water’s edge. So, my mother and I braved the 102 degree heat and joined around 50 other souls under the trees near a small lake in a community park. After our collective voices made their plea, each of us took some bread crumbs to throw into the water. As I made my solitary declaration, it did not matter to me whether my misdeeds were being symbolically cast into the sea or my soul purified by the cleansing liquid in front of me. My concern centered on the consumption habits of the ducks and would they survive another New Year.

A Night of Comedy

I'm not sure why they call it the Sunset Strip;
it reads Sunset Bl.

One of the oldest jokes told by thousands of comedians the world over is how their wives can never pass up a sale and how they simply nod their heads at how much money they’re told they saved while discovering there is no money left in their account to pay the bills. I have always considered myself fortunate because Debbie really does not like to shop—even the sales. However, when she is given a gift card, a coupon for something free, or a ticket for a free show, it doesn’t matter that there is a minimum purchase or a sales presentation required, as long as she gets her free item she is satisfied, or more to the point, elated.

For the past several decades Debbie and I have donated blood every couple months. We have always appreciated the water, juice and cookies provided by the American Red Cross after we have given our pint. When they started giving vouchers for the Laugh Factory, we became part of the audience. All right, so it costs a few gallons of gas to drive to Hollywood (Long Beach is closer, but for some reason we haven’t made it to that club, yet.), there is no free parking and a standard two-drink minimum.

The very sign under which we were standing
when we saw Kevin Nealon on our previous trip.

Until last year our trips to the club were on the weekend, because we had to get up early for work during the week, but then we retired. So, our last trip before last night found us waiting in line on a Tuesday night. In typical Hollywood fashion we saw a guy dressed like Jesus, and another guy who looked like a younger version of Samuel L. Jackson. Then, Kevin Nealon, a SNL and Weeds cast member and the headliner, walked past with a clipboard. Later, he was standing next to me in the men’s room. I racked my brain for something clever to say, but realized I might be interfering with his concentration. As I headed for the bathroom door and he bent over the sink, I said, “Break a leg,” to which he responded, “Thanks.”

I think some of the humor at this club
has gone to the dogs.

Since we had two vouchers, each good for a pair of tickets, we invited our daughter Heather and her boyfriend, Jonathan, to join us. We picked them up after they got home from work and drove to the famous Sunset Strip. Traffic wasn’t too bad, so we were able to get a good place in line and sat in the fourth row.

Deb decided to check out the bathroom to see if Whitney Cummings, star of Whitney, creator of Two Broke Girls and the headliner, was in there. As it turned out, she cancelled and sent her Whitney co-star, Chris D’Elia, in her place.  His humor was pretty good, but I particularly enjoyed KT Tatara, whose lack of an Asian accent apparently baffles people. He pointed out he was only half-Asian, as his father was the only Asian besides Bruce Lee in the 70s to marry a white woman, instead of the other way around. Eric Schwartz, the bald headed rapper, who closed the show after D’Elia, delivered one great joke after another. He did a great take on Taylor Swift as a stalker and another on the sign of a heart people make with their hands actually being a set of upside down balls. By far, however, the best joke was that after tax, tip and parking, it cost only $125 for a free night of comedy.