It’s our National Anthem, you douche bags

It’s bad enough that unimaginative advertising agencies keep dredging up dead celebrities and old pop songs to help peddle their clients’ goods. But when “The Star-Spangled Banner” becomes the theme music to sell us an overhyped soft drink, that’s going too far. Really, it is.

If by some magic, or lack of paying your cable bill, you haven’t seen this abomination, here it is. (Note: I don’t have any trouble with the Jimi Hendrix version of the song; it’s the whole idea that appalls me.)

Gas price war!

This set of gasoline prices on opposite sides of Route 9 in Columbia County, NY, is causing a lot of brake-stomping, neck-swiveling and jaw-dropping.

All for naught, however.

The lower prices are posted on the marquee of a gas station that has been closed for months.

Actually, the prices shown on the blowup at right of the Sunoco station reflect what amounts to a bargain in that part of the country these days.

Sorry about that.

A world view? Don’t bank on it

See those two banknotes? The top one is a 10-pound British note, the bottom one a 10-pound Scottish note. They have been legitimate currency around the world since long before the United States was even an idea.

As of the close of business Friday, each of them was worth $19.7920 in U.S. currency. It took me less than 30 seconds online to ascertain that rate of exchange. It took me only a little more than that to thoroughly confuse three naive employees of the Pioneer Savings Bank’s Brunswick, NY, branch office where I do a lot of business.

Perhaps I should say “did” a lot of business. After the rank ineptitude and dismissive attitude I witnessed, I’m seriously considering taking my business elsewhere.

The situation was simply this. I had five 10-pound notes left over from a recent trip to Scotland. That means I had roughly $100 worth of U.S. money tied up in banknotes I couldn’t spend locally. So, I went to a bank to exchange the notes for good ol’ Yankee greenbacks.

The first teller literally pulled back her hand when I presented the UK notes, as if I had tossed her a red-hot charcoal briquette.

“I don’t know what to do with these,” she stammered.

“Simple,” I said. “Just look up the current rate of exchange and I’ll see if I want to trade the notes today or wait till the rate is a little more in my favor.”

Not a bad plan, I thought, since the exchange rate was 2.06 U.S. dollars for each British/Scottish pound last week when I got the notes in the Royal Bank of Scotland in Edinburgh — without the slightest problem, I should add.

“I don’t know how,” she said, gesturing in a panicky fashion to a young man I took to be an assistant manager of some sort, although throughout my visit he never introduced himself or his title.

“Oh, we can’t access that kind of information on these screens,” he said, gesturing to the teller’s screen and starting to walk away.

“May I suggest you try a computer with Internet access?” I said. “I know you have them here. It only takes a few seconds to get the current exchange rate.”

He hemmed and hawed, then pointed in the direction of someone at another window. “She’ll have to do this when she’s finished with what she’s doing,” he said rather brusquely, then made a success of retreating to a small office across the lobby. “I have another customer I’m taking care of.”

“She” was finished in about three minutes with whatever business she was transacting, then turned to me and asked how she could help.

“I merely want to exchange these five banknotes for U.S. currency. One is a 10-pound British note, and the other four are each 10-pound Scottish notes. But they’re all worth the same amount,” I explained, wondering why in the world I had to explain something so basic to supposed banking professionals.

She picked up the notes I’d spread on her little teller window ledge and walked to the office where the presumed manager of the moment had scurried. She waited at the doorway for about five minutes till he had completed his business with the other customer. I stood right behind her.

She walked in, put the notes on his desk and said to him, “I don’t know what to do with these things. Are they checks, or what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We can’t do anything with these anyway.”

That was it for me. I walked in the office and, mustering up all the remaining patience I possessed, said, “They’re called money. They’re not checks, for heaven’s sake. Just look at them. All I want is to exchange them back into U.S. currency. And all you have to do is look on the Internet at the currency exchange rate to know how much to give me.”

“We can’t do that,” he said, beginning to sound more miffed than befuddled.

“Why not?” I replied. “This is a bank. You’re supposed to, among other things, change money. Any bank in Europe does it for any currency. It’s elementary banking.”

“Oh, sure,” he said with an “Aha!” look. “In Europe. But we’re not allowed to do that here. What would we do with the foreign money you gave us?”

“You’d send it to your main office, and they’d exchange it at a favorable rate with a central bank,” I said. “You mean to tell me you’ve never been taught how to make such a basic transaction?”

“Well, we just can’t do that,” he said, metaphorically — and perhaps actually, although I couldn’t see under his desk — digging in his heels. “You’ll have to go to some other bank.”

So, I went home, seething and marveling at just one more example of U.S. insulation from the rest of the real world and wondering if that ever will change.

It’s no wonder so many people in other countries think we’re such rubes. Many of us are. And Pioneer Savings Bank has a whole cluster of them.

Low times in the Highlands

ABERDEENSHIRE, Scotland — Here I am, traveling in the Highlands of Scotland, where life seems to move at a snail’s pace, history is apparent all around you, and the place looks rock solid.

Literally, since nearly every structure is made of granite blocks or stone and their longevity morphs from one century to the next with little apparent difference.

Yet all the newspapers are dwelling heavily on only three topics:

1. How silly British Prime Minister Gordon Brown is being made to look because of a tell-all book from ex-PM Tony Blair’s oputspoken wife, Cherie, who (shock and awe!) doesn’t care for Gordon.

2. How rocky the financial situation is “north of the border,” which means Scotland itself where housing prices are skyrocketing, inflation is rising at a faster rate (3.5%) than anywhere else in the United Kingdom (which includes England, Wales and Northern Ireland), and unemployment is on the rise.

3. How bad the alcohol abuse is getting, a particular problem in a country where more than 40,000 people out of a total population of barely 5 million rely on the whisky industry for jobs — and that is not including people in the retail business of selling the stuff.

Some of the solutions that are being suggested from various corners are as hysterical as the incessant reporting on them, except for the Gordon Brown thing which is great theater for the masses who love seeing the balloons of the high and mighty pricked sharply.

For the alcohol problem, the suggestions range from raising the drinking age beyond 21 to raising prices (even though Scotch whisky costs much more in Scotland than it does abroad, due to the regressive taxing policies) or even making public intoxication a higher crime.

As to the financial situation, the ideas range from strict price controls to more restrictive bank loan policies (they have the same problem with sub-prime mortgages we in the U.S. have), although no one wants to officially put forth a comprehensive plan for fear of commiting political suicide.

Oh, there has been one other item in the news. The idea of Scottish independence.

Of course, that one has been rattling around since the 18th Century, when the anti-English rebellion in support of Bonnie Prince Charlie fizzled out after a hideous defeat at Culloden on April 16, 1746. A battle that lasted less than an hour killed 1,500 Highlanders vs. a mere 50 or so English regulars. It effectively broke the back of the Jacobite movement, leading to the banning of such ethnic staples as the playing of the bagpipes and the wearing of the kilts and tartans.

Now there are calls from Sean Connery from the comfort of his homes abroad and other nationalists still residing in Scotland to push forward with a vote on splitting off from the U.K.

As an outsider, I have perhaps a more measured reaction to the idea than someone who is emotionally invested. I think it’s ridiculous. Given all the hoo-haw of financial woes and a bleak outlook for years to come, the last thing that would be needed is trying to establish a truly independent country.

Evidence? Take Scotland’s currency. The Scottish pound is issued by the government, but it also is issued by two different banks. Money from all three sources can be spent anywhere in Scotland, but only those issued by the government are worth anything outside the borders. If they can’t get their act together on a simplified, unified currency recognized worldwide, imagine the problems of being a soveriegn nation with financial woes trying to be trusted financially in a global economy.

Andorra calling

This just in.

After hosting thousands upon thousands of visitors from all over the globe, my drinks Web site just got its first visitor from Andorra.

That may not mean anything to most people, but for someone like me who has had a lifelong fascination with maps, geography and tiny, out-of-the-way countries (see San Marino, Liechtenstein and Kiribati), a real-time connection with someone in Andorra is like striking gold.

I’ve visited a couple of tiny countries — Luxembourg, located at the confluence of Belgium, France and Germany, and Antigua & Barbuda, an islands-nation in the Caribbean, for example — but they’re easily reached.

The Principality of Andorra is a bit more remote, tucked into a 174-square-mile pocket in the eastern Pyrenees mountains between France and Spain, although 10 million tourists manage to get there each year.  

That must agree with the 72,000 locals since tourism provides 80% of the country’s income and the population has the highest average life expectancy of any nation in the world (80 for men, 86 for women). 

One of the biggest attractions is the large amount of area for skiing. This Sunday, for example, the main race of the Andorran Ski Championship will be held and thousands of fans will flock to the mountains for the event.

But that’s the touristy stuff. When I visit a country I prefer to find something offbeat. In Andorra, that can be the bordas, the old traditional mountain homes. More than two dozen of them have been converted to public restaurants, most of which are known for a signature dish. Thus, a tour of the bordas is a gastronomic treat that comes highly recommended.

I’m making out my dining list right now. If I can just link up to my Web site visitor, I may even be able to get a personal tour.

Nice, Tata

If you have enough money you can buy more than a Jaguar or a Land Rover. You can buy the companies.

Tata Motors, an Indian company, apparently is the winning bidder for the marques Ford Motor Co. is looking to sell off so it can concentrate on its troubled American brands.

Mahindra & Mahindra, another Indian car group, and One Equity, an American buyout group, are the other big players in the drama.

Tata plans to have a lot of money when it rolls out its $2,400 “People’s Car” next year. The last time someone came up with a “People’s Car,” it was a certain A. Hitler and his Volkswagen. It was one of the few plans he had that worked out.

The day of the survivors

One of the two groups pictured here can be considered, on this day after Thanksgiving, the survivors. Which one depends on one’s point of view. My money is on the turkeys.

While humans in our shopaholic nation refer to the day after Thanksgiving as Black Friday, in the turkey universe it’s Glorious Friday.

Yesterday was Black Thursday for thousands of them, so the ones still strutting around today and gorging themselves on food we’ve put out for much smaller examples of birddom are feeling pretty good to have survived for at least one more year.

The reason I do not see today’s bargain-intoxicated shoppers — some of whom were up since the wee hours waiting on line for those 4 and 5 a.m. door-opening bargains they probably didn’t need — as survivors is that many of them also will be out at the malls and big box stores on Black Saturday and Black Sunday repeating today’s consumer madness, even in the face of dire weather predictions for the weekend.

The turkeys, meanwhile, will be relaxing and eating berries and pumpkins seeds in relative comfort.

Turkeys are not birdbrains.

A Rx for laughter

TV ads for various medicines, the kind that are murky about what they’re meant to treat, often wind up being lengthy lists of side effects. The same might be said of, oh, maybe tequila. At least that’s what you get on this site.

Common sense, a gallon at a time

BENNINGTON, VT. — With a couple of major holidays coming up, the usual warnings about increased gasoline prices for motor travel have been issued. This year, however, the dire predictions are direr than ever.

We’re hearing reports of per-gallon sticker shock in the $3.30 range around here, but that’s tardy reporting. Plenty of enterprising station owners already have flirted with, or actually hit, that level, so $3.35 or more won’t be a major surprise.

That’s why I made sure I filled up on my usual Mobil gas at a “mere” $3.08/9 on the east side of the Vermont/New York border before heading home a half-hour’s drive into New York from an overnight getaway in Manchester, VT. I’m a thorough believer in supporting local businesses where I live, but I’m not stupid. At a 20-cent or more per gallon saving, the Green Mountain State gets to see the color of my money until the madness ends.

I’m not alone. As the pump attendant — yes, shock of shocks, this guy actually filled my tank and washed the windshield and rear window, all at no extra charge just like in the days of my youth — told me, “One family who lives just on the other side of the border in New York comes here every week in their biggest vehicle loaded with 5- and 10-gallon gas cans. They fill up and use that gas in all their other vehicles during the week.”

Keep an eye on Route 7 east through Troy and the Rensselaer County countryside. That’s the best way to Vermont from the Capital Region and I have the feeling the always-busy road is going to see an uptick in traffic now that the economics of driving there make sense.

DINNER THEATER SANS DINNER, OR THEATER

If the group that started a petition drive to bring the Trader Joe’s grocery chain to the Capital Region is looking for something to do now that its efforts seem to have fallen on deaf ears, they may want to try starting a Sonic boom.

The sprawling chain of more than 3,200 drive-in and eat-in restaurants has franchises popping up all over the country — except for the northern states that border Canada. For the geographically impaired, that includes New York.

In the past year it has opened its first restaurants in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Ohio, Oregon and Washington state. Approximately 25 units are expected to dot the Columbus, OH, market in the next few years and 30 in the Pittsburgh market. And, the first New Jersey unit is now being built off Exit 69 of the Garden State Parkway. Even in places such as Maryland, which has Sonics, they want more and have a petition drive under way to get the company’s attention.

So far, there also are franchises in Mexico and the list of target states for more growth includes Alaska and Hawaii. But, not New York. Odd, since it’s a known brand with a cult following for its commercials even in markets where there are no restaurants. And, it ranks No. 1 in the annual franchisee satisfaction survey conducted by the industry magazine QSR.

Locally, the closest we can come to Sonic is enjoying the clever TV commercials with which we’ve been inundated lately. You know the ones, with people sitting in their cars, enjoying one of Sonic’s imaginative drinks (the chain claims in excess of 13,000 different recipes, but not all available at all times) or meals.

The commercials have made mini-celebrities of some of the actors, especially the “Crantastic” couple doing this radio interview in character.

LIVING HUUUUUGE!

Hey, boys and girls. Come on down to Al Kayda’s Used Cars. Great deals, huuuuuuge savings.

We started in that great subdivision we call the Golan Heights, then moved on to other locations. Now, we’re close to wherever the hell it is you live. Huuuuge!

Am I annoying you yet? If I’m not, it’s not for lack of trying. I’m grossly overweight but I still wear tight polo shirts. I gesticulate at inappropriate times. I mangle the English language …

Still not annoying you? My God, as I said in a recent commercial that purported to show me in Heaven — as if that would ever happen — you have a high pain threshold.

Well, polish up those old vehicles and drive them down to wherever it is we are — our commercials aren’t filmed in the locales where we have our car lots, so it’s tough to keep track — and come on in and read all that small print that makes whatever we’re babbling about in our ads moot and see if you can talk faster than we can and work out a way to get huuuuuge savings without annoying us as much as we annoy you and see if …

Oh, the hell with it. Just send us a blank check. We’ll take care of the rest.

CASHING A DEPOSIT ON SANITY

I couldn’t tell if the gamma rays from space had gotten so intense that the garage was shrinking or my car was growing. Then it dawned on me.

Plastic bag after plastic bag full of unreturned returnable bottles that had begun as a small stack in one corner had seemingly taken on a life of their own. Like unwatched hangers in dark closets, they were multiplying virtually before my very eyes.

It was time to take things in hand — those things being five bags full of plastic that barely fit in the trunk of my Smallmobile. A quick spin to the closest market with bottle-return machines would do the trick.

Eventually that trick was accomplished, but at the cost of 90 minutes out of a pleasant afternoon and a slight case of repetitive stress syndrome; 345 bottles will do that, especially when you have to put 15% of them into the machine a second time because it couldn’t read the bottle code the first time through.

There was some small comfort in the fact there were at least 10 other people vying for time on the machines — a more competitive experience than trying to get time on one of the treadmills at health clubs that oversell their memberships. Or, so I’m told. Thus, I’m sure there are larger garages throughout the neighborhood today.

NIGHTMARE ON AISLE 3

PHOTO FROM THE JOHN J. MAYER COLLECTION

I strolled into BJ’s Wholesale Club in a good mood. Not that shopping is one of my favorite activities, but I always like a store that offers me a 50-pack of tube socks or a bag of oranges large enough to crush a small child. In America, big is good, and BJ’s, Sam’s Club and their ilk satisfy that patriotic need.

Trying mightily not to look at the humongo-view, high-def, take-me-to-paradise, flat screen TVs beckoning me and my checkbook, I let my eyes wander to the left. Hmmm. A pair of lifesize pirate mannequins. Cute. I guess it is that time of year, when I try to avoid being home on Halloween until the ghosts and goblins have all been carted back to suburbia by their car-pooling parents.

Then, a mere two aisles away, the horror hit me. Artificial Christmas trees, lights a-twinkle. And, as God is my witness, the sound of Christmas carols wafting through the air.

That was today. A mere three days from the end of summer. Thirty-six days before Halloween. Fifty-eight days before Thanksgiving. Ninety-one days before Christmas.

STOP IT!

STOP IT!

STOP IT!

I don’t have a thing against making an honest buck. But for heaven’s sake, ease up once in a while. I hated it when my kids were rushed into a prolonged runup to Christmas, and their kids have it even worse.

There is none of that true seasonal wonder and excitement, the anticipation and the mystery of it all. Now, it’s three solid months of “Buy this!,” “I want that!,” “You must have these!”

There is little enough left of childhood these days. Taking back the simplest aspects of it could be so easy if only the quest for dollars didn’t rule everything.

SUPPORT BREWING FOR BROWN’S

PHOTO BY WILLIAM M. DOWD
(Double-click to enlarge image)

VIEW OF THE GREEN ISLAND BRIDGE FROM BROWN’S

Good news for anyone who has ever plopped himself, or herself, down on the rear deck at The Taproom at Brown’s Brewing Co. (seen here) on Troy’s River Street and quaffed some of Gary Brown’s beers and ales.

Brown’s long-held dream to expand brewing operations and perhaps even his number of brews is getting some timely backing.

It’s been five years since Brown purchased the former Flomatic Corp. paper mill in North Hoosick with the aim of converting it into a brewery.

Now, the Hoosick Town Board is applying for a Restore New York grant for that and other projects. If it is successful in obtaining the state money, it could pay for 90% of the restoration costs, with Brown paying the remaining 10%. A firm estimate of renovation costs is not yet known, but it will be in the millions.

Applications for grants are due to be turned in by Sept. 28. The program is open to the entire state and has $300 million to award. The amount of grant money allowed is determined by the size of the community.

MAN OF KENT CHANGES HANDS, LITTLE ELSE

For 23 years, John Stoate proudly brought a taste of his English homeland to Rensselaer County at his Man of Kent tavern and cafe on Route 7 near the Vermont border. Now, it’s up to new owner Jon Bombard to handle such things.

Bombard, 30, (seen here) managed Kevin at Mike’s Place in North Bennington, VT, for nine years before purchasing Stoate’s pub. He says he bought it because he wants it to remain the way he’s experienced it as a decade-long customer.

That means the drinks menu will continue to include its traditional 14 beers on tap and more than 100 different bottled beers.

By the way, the Man of Kent also will continue to include the man from Kent. Stoate, 67, will be working behind the bar on the day shift Mondays through Thursdays.

ROLL OUT THE BARREL (-SHAPED PEOPLE)

Forget the recent reports on soft drinks’ contributions to obesity, diabetes and tooth decay. It’s summer!

The Magic Springs amusement park in Hot Springs, AR, has announced that visitors will be able to drink all the soft drinks they want at the park for free this summer.

As a nod to good health, however, they’ll also be offered free sunscreen creams and free use of riding tubes in the Crystal Falls waterpark.

A PLOT FIZZES OUT

Forget the DaVinci Code, the schematics of the hydrogen bomb, the instructions to Donald Trump’s hairstyle.

The greatest secret extant in the world has remained safe despite the efforts of a trio who tried to sell the priceless formula for Coca-Cola, thanks to some honest folks at arch-rival Pepsi-Cola who contacted Coke and cooperated with the FBI when the co-conspirators tried to peddle the recipe to them.

Considering that the global soft drink market is on the order of $35 billion a year, we’re talking beaucoup bucks for the formula to Coke, the No. 1-selling product and a secret for 120 years.

The woman who initially stole secret documents and new-product samples at Coke’s world headquarters in Atlanta was found guilty in court this week and faces up to 10 years in prison. The two men she sold the items to, for a reported $1.5 million, had earlier pleaded guilty.

It’s good to know that in this topsy-turvy world, some things can remain unchanged.

POLITICS IS POLITICS

A funny thing happened on the way to the president’s office over the past few days.

• In Liberia, the first woman (Ellen Johnson Sirleaf) elected head of an African nation was inaugurated in revolt-shredded Monrovia, the capital city, after the main thoroughfare had been spruced up to look different from the charred, garbage-cluttered streets around it.

• In Chile, the first woman (Michelle Bachelet, seen here) elected head of a South American nation gained office by collecting 46.5% of the popular vote in a runoff.

• In Finland, the incumbent female president (Tarja Halonen) failed to be reelected because she collected only 46.5% of the popular vote and now faces a runoff.

Gender, obviously, means very little when you get right down to the realities of nation leading. Polls are polled, promises are made, civil wars are overcome, people are elected, and “the first …” gets that label out of the way so observers can begin looking at more important things.

For Americans, actually paying attention to what is going on in countries other then the usual suspects — England, France, Japan, China and any place beginning with the letter I — rather than focusing on the gender of the people creating the news might be more instructive. In our own chunk of the world, Latin America is in the midst of gigantic political upheavals that the average American doesn’t know are going on even though they will wind up having effects on our food and oil supplies, as well as our own domestic safety.

WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT?

Discussions about enigmatic facial expressions used to be limited mostly to the Mona Lisa and her famous smile. Now we are discussing whether Thomas Jefferson is smiling on the newest piece of U.S. currency (seen here).

It’s the new Jefferson nickel. The U.S. Mint plans to begin shipping 80 million of them to the 12 regional Federal Reserve Banks. Artistically, the new design breaks the style precedent set in 1909 when Abraham Lincoln became the first president depicted on a circulating coin; his profile and that of all other presidents shown on coins have all been in profile.

The new Jefferson pose, taken from an 1800 portrait, shows the nation’s third president looking forward. Some observers say there is a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. I say they have been playing with the catnip.

Ol’ Tom was many things — scholar, patriot, statesman, inventor, musician, architect, ladies’ man — but he wasn’t known for going around with a grin on his face and I doubt the artist Rembrandt Peale, who executed many a painting of an unsmiling Tom, would have fooled around with the image of such an important client.