Guess what I found "Clustered" at Meijer?

This has been a trying time for breakfast aficianodos. One of the truly great breakfast foods has all but disappeared from store shelves. Over the past several months I have been able to find General Mills' Honey Nut Clusters at but one store in the entire Indianapolis Metropolitan area - namely a Safeway store on the staid north side of the city. Frankly, it's been hell.

BUT WAIT!!!

I happened to be strolling through our local Meijer store a couple of weeks ago. Without realizing it I found myself sauntering down the cereal aisle when out of the corner of my eye, what did I spy? CLUSTERS!!!! YES!!!!! HONEY NUT CLUSTERS!!!!!! GENERAL MILLS' HONEY NUT CLUSTERS!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!! And much to my surprise, they were packaged as of old - the original happy yellow and blue box with the little squirrel near the top, not the more recent grown up sensible, and yes, handsome, brown and goldish box.

I had all but given up the search and assumed that if only one store in the city was carrying it, that Clusters would soon disappear altogether. But no! I mean Meijer is a pretty big whup, you know? I'd like to think my campaign here at Indy Boomer was the catalyst that forced Meijer to once again stock my beloved tasteless brown flakes and sort of nutty globs - er clusters - but I don't know. I've had no meaningful feedback. I do know that about 40% of all those who have dropped by here during the past several months have been searching Honey Nut Clusters on the net. Who knows? Maybe I did make a difference. Ah, but I must remain humble.

Now I know they still don't carry Clusters at our nearby Kroger store, and the other major, but local grocer, Marsh hasn't carried them for a couple of years. But now, I feel renewed. I'll check out Walmart and maybe Target. If I find them at either of those places, then perhaps I'll have the ammunition I need to cajole the Kroger and Marsh people to jump on the Clusters band wagon.

Life may be actually worth living once again. Power to the people! Could you pass me the milk and a couple packs of Equal?

TLS

MARY TRAVERS

Folk singer Mary Travers of Peter, Paul and Mary fame died Tuesday, owing to side effects from leukemia therapies. She was 72.

I have been a Peter, Paul and Mary fan almost from the moment they released their first self-titled album back in the early 1960s. They brought folk music into the mainstream owing to their superior harmonies, intricate arrangements, and the deft artistry of both Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey on guitar. They took the more rough-hewn recordings of Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger and others, mainly from the American folk tradition, and added elements of musicianship and, yes, a bit of polish to the proceedings.

While I later became a Dylan fan, at first I was put off by his almost atonal performances. Dylan owes a good deal to Peter, Paul and Mary. His great songs might well have lingered in relative obscurity had PP&M among others not reincarnated them more pleasingly to the ear.

I have had four separate encounters with Mary Travers - all many years ago. They were all simply moments, nothing substantive, but in each case coming face to face with her towering personage (she stood at or near 6 feet) - with someone who to me was an icon - left a definite impression on me.

PP&M performed at the Indiana University Auditorium on a Saturday evening back in the fall of 1964. I bought tickets, and actually had a date, who didn't give a rat's ass about me, but was willing to go through what was likely for her an otherwise excruciating evening for the opportunity to see and hear them in concert.

The Friday before, I was in the IU Bookstore shopping for I don't remember what exactly, when, rounding a rack of books, I ran headlong into Ms. Travers coming the other way around. The force of our collision caused us both to drop whatever we were carrying. I stood for a beat, likely with my jaw dropping to the floor, as recognition set in. I was totally flummoxed. We both knelt down to retrieve our respective books, notepads and whatnot; me, with what I'm sure was a large, stupid grin on my face, doubtless mumbling something unintelligible. As we stood, I believe I did manage to utter some sort of apology, as did she, and we went our separate ways. I'm sure my heart rate took a good deal longer to return to some semblance of normalcy than did hers. I had me a tale to tell back at the dorm.

The next afternoon my dormitory's social committee had managed to entice Peter Yarrow to attend a kind of fireside chat, mainly concerning the whoop-te-do that was then being made over the lyrics of their hit song, "Puff the Magic Dragon," with charges by some that they were an allusion to smoking that evil weed, marijuana. At the appointed time about fifteen or twenty students gathered with Peter in the main lounge of the dorm. A while after the discussion started, Mary suddenly appeared and sat down outside the circle of us spread around Peter. Of course a bunch of us jumped up, again in a fumbling, rather spastic manner, imploring her to take a more central seat. She demurred, saying that she preferred just to listen, which she did, only interjecting a comment here and there. At one point our eyes met, and I felt an immediate flush of embarrassment, but she showed no signs of recognition. She just smiled and flipped her great blond hair back from her eyes.

By the way, Mary Travers was a very good-looking woman at that time. Most younger people know her, if at all, only from photos and videos taken in her later years. Not that she had become unattractive, but she had - as so many of us have - gained a good deal of weight. That, coupled with her fight against the leukemia, and just the effects of aging had taken a toll.

A few years later, yours truly found himself working for TWA (aka Teenie Weenie Airlines) at the Indianapolis airport. As I was pretty much a dud on the ticket counter, I was often consigned to "Baggage Services," the airline euphemism for lost and (occasionally) found.

One evening, while sitting at my desk in the tiny office set aside for Baggage Services, the door was flung open with a bang, and I looked up startled to once again see Mary Travers standing before me. She was quite addled. The airline had managed to lose one of her bags. (No, really!) She was, I must admit, rather beside herself and made only minimal sense while shouting out a plethora of colorful and generally denigrating metaphors to voice her displeasure at me, TWA, and pretty much the whole world, which, she assured me, had let her down all too often.

Fortunately, our PR guy soon appeared, took her in hand, and thankfully, out of my office. At that time it was widely believed that Mary, along with all people to the left of Joe McCarthy, were dopers. I suppose she may have had some kind of stash in the bag in question, I don't know. Keep in mind, this was back around 1970. The very first plane hijackings had only recently taken place. There were no airport security checks, no x-rays or luggage searches, no drug dogs. People could, and doubtless often did, fly about the country with their favorite recreational drugs stowed securely in their Samsonites and American Touristers. But again, I have no idea whether that was the case. I don't recall how it was resolved, but we all managed to survive into the next day, happily including Mary Travers with or without her wayward bag.

A year or so later I was living in the Big Apple where, among other endeavors, I drove a cab for about a year. One evening I had a fare from Manhattan out to the Pan Am Terminal at Kennedy Airport. I generally didn't like taking fares to any of the three NYC airports, as I usually wound up driving back into the city empty. But in this instance, I had just dropped off my fare when the rear door popped open and in slid two breathless people with luggage in hand. I only got a glimpse of one of them in my rear view mirror - a guy. Their destination: The Plaza Hotel. Yes!

I was aware the other passenger was a woman, but I could only manage to see a small slice of her head in the mirror without obviously craning my neck. I was generally not all that interested in checking out my fares anyhow, given the natural or acquired New Yorker proclivity for anonymity. After a while they all just became one faceless fare after another. But a few minutes into the ride back to Manhattan, the woman began conversing with her fellow passenger - who, I suppose, could have been her husband. Simply hearing her speak a few words, her voice was unmistakable. I craned my neck. Indeed it was she. Mary Travers was a passenger in my cab. Woohoo!

They settled in, and her companion was soon dozing, but she became chatty during the approximately half hour drive to the Plaza. I mentioned our run-in at the IU Bookstore a few years before and the subsequent discussion with Peter the next day. She had no memory of either. I admit I was rather crestfallen. I was so sure I had made an indelible impression on her. Alas, no. I had the good sense not to bring up the Indy airport encounter.

During the course of my couple of years living in NYC, I encountered a number of luminaries. Frankly, it would be unusual for anyone spending more than a few days in the city not to bump into or at least spot someone of note. But driving Mary Travers to the Plaza was perhaps my most memorable brush with the rich and famous. Even though she had no recollection of our bookish encounter, during her ride to the Plaza she was very talkative, funny, gracious, and, in the end, a good tipper.

I haven't brought myself to start playing PP&M albums just yet, but I'll probably slip one or two into my CD player in a day or so to hear Mary's plaintive voice once again.

Feeling a Little Mortal?

Several weeks ago I began noticing, for want of a better term, a bit of pressure in my forehead, no pain, just a kind of pressure. I also noticed that along with the pressure came fleeting bouts of a kind of dizziness. If I turned my head quickly, it was like the scene before me kept moving a split second or so after my head stopped. I found that not just a little disconcerting.

These bouts have persisted and become somewhat more pronounced over the past few weeks. The pressure comes and goes, but often lasting a couple of hours or more, usually early in the day. These bouts make me tired, and all I want to do is lie down. Needless to say, this has been really disturbing. I kept my own council about this as the family - my wife, Jo and both of our kids - have enough problems to deal with without worrying about the old man.

About ten days ago I finally got in to see my doctor at the VA, and I apprised her of what had been happening. I'll take this moment to give kudos to both the VA and my primary care doctor out there, Dr. Rashida Shah. Dr. Shah didn't hem and haw, didn't hesitate. My visit with her was on a Friday. I had an MRI done the following Tuesday morning. Not bad.

I hadn't heard anything for a couple of days after the MRI, so I called the VA last Thursday and was first told that they didn't have the results. (The MRI had been outsourced.) However, within an hour, Dr. Shah called me back with the news that the MRI results indicated a "spot" on my frontal lobe. Not the news I was hoping to hear. The written report did say that it was not definitive and could in fact be an anomaly. Maybe I belched at the wrong moment, or, uh, something.

Nevertheless, Dr. Shah ordered yet another MRI, only this time using "contrast." Friday afternoon I was back getting my head examined magnetically once again. Last week-end was one of the longer ones I have ever spent. I didn't actually get the results until yesterday (Tuesday) afternoon when, again, I called the VA. I got the same song and dance that the results were not back yet, but again, Dr. Shah called me soon after, and in her words "you have absolutely nothing going on in your head."

Well, that's been suggested to me on many occasions - more than I would like to admit - but this was one time that I was glad to hear it. There are no masses, no lesions, no aneurysms, no "spots." The first reading was apparently a hiccup. Woohoo! Relief was just a phone call away. Of course, that still leaves me with this pressure, the dizziness, and the tiredness. What now?

Dr. Shah thinks that it might be a sinus problem. She has prescribed some kind of steriod nasal spray. She has also ordered an appointment for me with an opthalmologist to see if it could be something with my eyes. I hope to figure out what the hell is going on soon.

As the title of this piece suggests, I have been feeling quite mortal over the past few weeks. Brain thingys are not to be sneezed at; just ask the surviving Kennedys. My wife, Jo's oldest cousin succumbed to a brain tumor in about 6 months from diagnosis. She was in her mid 40s. So, too, did a fellow about my age who lived down the street from us a couple of years ago.

Of course, when I had been set up with the first MRI, I told Jo all about it. As of this writing, all my kids know is that I haven't been feeling well, and I'd been to the doctor. I know I'm not out of the woods yet. I suppose that the MRIs could have missed something. But, at least the reported results made feel less like I have one foot in the grave. I had about convinced myself that I did.

TLS

More Cosmos

Just a few more Cosmos. A little closer this time.

Cosmos

All god's chillin got Cosmos! You got your white, you got your purple, you got your orange, and if you look close in the bottom photo, you got your pink.

A Rose is a Rose, is a Rose...

CHOCOLATE ROSE W/ANTENNAE

The Sky is Falling!

Early Wednesday morning I was having trouble sleeping, which is unfortunately all too normal for me. Sometime after 3 AM I decided, what the hell, I'm going outside to check out the Perseid meteor shower. I slipped on a jacket and put on my old grass-cutting shoes and headed out into the darkness.

Well, it wasn't quite "dark." Unfortunately, high in the eastern sky was a nearly full moon which tends to wash out the view of most of the stars or anything else that one might care to see in the night sky, including meteors. Also, we live on the suburban south side of Indianapolis. While we are some five miles from downtown, there remains a great deal of ambient light from numerous sources which has the effect of washing out the sky even more.

Undaunted, I got a lawn chair and moved around to find a spot affording the broadest view of the sky while blocking out the moon as much as possible. So oriented, I sat watching for nearly half an hour, spotting nothing meteoric.

My first experience with the Perseids goes back to the mid-1960s (yeah, I'm kind of an old fart) on a clear, moonless night, spooning with a young lady out in northern Minnesota lake country in my dad's black and canary yellow 1965 Pontiac Bonneville (it was pretty cool, by the way). I didn't know of such things – meteors, that is. We stopped our "spoonin'" and watched amazed as literally dozens of the damn things whisked across the pitch-black sky. Hell, I thought we were being invaded. "War of the Worlds!"

Since that wondrous night, I have tried numerous times to catch more such glimpses of the Perseids and a number of the other yearly meteor showers with generally disappointing results. Oft times an overcast sky obviated even the possibility.

A few years ago local weather forecasters predicted that that particular year's Perseid shower would likely be the best in many a year – that at its peak, one might see as many as a thousand or more meteors every minute! Well, maybe not a thousand. More like three or four, but still... There was to be no moon.

I was ready, by God! I put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and brought a light blanket and a thermos of fresh coffee, as it was a rather uncharacteristically chilly and damp night for mid-August. I grabbed a lawn chair from the patio and, following the weather forecaster's instructions, set it up facing east and slightly to the north. I was comfortably ensconsed by about 1 AM - primed for checking out prodigious hordes of meteorites, or shooting stars, or "St. Lawrence's tears" as some refer to them.

I sat there for over an hour. Nothing. Nada. I then remembered the weather prognosticators had said that viewing would likely be best at around four to five AM. I was frustrated, but not defeated. Anyhow, I needed to pee. So, I went back inside, tinkled, then hunkered down in bed and caught a few Z's. I actually managed to wake up a little before five. Groggy, and somewhat less eager, I nevertheless toddled back outside and retook my seat, adjusting it to enable a view more directly overhead and to the west as per those afore-mentioned instructions.

There I sat. By a little before six dawn was definitely creeping up on the eastern horizon. The western sky remained dark, but, once again, nothing. Not one goddamn meteor! What a crock! The next evening's weather segments included ardent testimonials of those who had spent a glorious night being dazzled by literally dozens – nay, hundreds – of fantastic streaking meteors, a veritable light show. What the hell?! Were they watching the same sky I was?

Well, I digress. It appeared that my experience this time round was destined to mirror that of a few years ago. But, after a hapless half hour or so, and having shifted my position a number of times, I suddenly caught sight of a white streak directly overhead. Yippee! Then, just a few seconds later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another, then one more. Holy Comet Tails, Batman! I moved my chair out further from the house, sat down and leaned back. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, I was treated to about a dozen more fiery streaks through the night sky. None of them was particularly dramatic or unusually spectacular. But they did make me smile.