Unbelievable!

Six years ago, I wrote a semi-humorous column for Dundalk Patch in which I poked fun at the lyrics of several Christmas songs.

I pointed out the suggestive overtones of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” and the bullying tactics employed in “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

It was a light-hearted, word-nerd analysis of popular songs sung by generations over the years.

In 2012, when I penned (keyboarded?) that column, I could not have anticipated the political climate of 2018, to say nothing of the #metoo movement.

So to say I’m shocked to hear that there are serious efforts to ban “Baby It’s Cold Outside” from the airwaves (and several radio stations have promised to stop playing it) and planned protests of Rudolph is an understatement.

In listening to some of the pros and cons being tossed around regarding the songs and the supposed ill behavior being touted, I am hearing many of the things I brought upon in jest six years ago … the violence, particularly against women, often touted in rap music being one.

I think it’s sad that something that was fodder for a fun, light-hearted column six years ago has now become the latest chapter in the #metoo book.

I would like to think that there are much more serious and real problems in regard to sexual harassment and abuse, and I don’t really think Christmas song lyrics from the 1940s, ’50s and 60’s are the inspiration of that behavior. 

Unfortunately, there are too many other places that model and inspire that kind of abusive behavior — maybe those are the situations we need to be protesting and working to change.

Here’s the column as published on Dundalk Patch on Dec. 25, 2012:

Ever Really Listen to Christmas Song Lyrics?

Around-the-clock Christmas music for the past month has caused me to really listen to the words—and I'm shocked!

By Marge Neal, Patch Staff | Dec 25, 2012 10:43 am ET | Updated Dec 26, 2012 7:40 pm ET

I love Christmas music and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

And I'm not a Christmas music snob—I listen to it all. I have some very musically inclined friends who are a little snobby about their music; if it isn't classical music or traditional folks songs from across the globe, it's junk as far as they're concerned.

Me? I like it all.

And I get to indulge in it all this time of year, thanks to radio stations that play Christmas music around the clock from before Thanksgiving to just after the big day.

I listen to a Baltimore station at home and a Washington station in the car, so I get a fair mix of styles and artists.

I love hearing the old Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Steve Lawrence and Edie Gorme, Tony Bennett (and the new Tony Bennett) and Nat King Cole; the medium-old Paul McCartney, James Taylor, Reba McIntyre and Barry Manilow; and the newer Sarah McLaughlin and Barenaked Ladies, Lady Antebellum and Blake Shelton. And old-timers like Rod Stewart have brand-new seasonal albums out.

And because I've already told you I'm not a Christmas music snob, I like Pachebel Canon and Ave Maria (which get more play this time of year) as much as I like White Christmas and even the hippopotamus song—though I am tiring of the Grinch song.

But have you ever really listened to the lyrics of some of the time-honored songs sung around the fireplace each year?

Don't let the lilting, soothing melodies fool you—some of these songs are mean and demanding and others are a little on the risque side.

While they'll never challenge some modern rap for most hateful song ever, I thought you might get a kick out of me bringing some of these "innocent" songs to your attention.

Let's start with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

Sounds innocent enough, right? It starts out with a group wishing others a merry Christmas, but then the demands start.

The group wants figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer, and they want it brought to them.

Then, after making their demand, they further state that they won't go until they get some, so bring it RIGHT NOW.

How rude.

Next up is "Baby It's Cold Outside," more of a Christmastime pop song first popularized by Johnny Mercer and Margaret Whiting and then Bing Crosby and Doris Day. There are also many more modern versions.

In this suggestive (for its time) song, a couple is enjoying a date by the fireplace while a snowstorm rages outside.

The man does everything in his power to convince the woman to spend the night, while she says her parents, siblings and even her maiden aunt will be waiting for her to come home and judging her if she does not.

"I ought to say no, no, no sir," the lady says.

"Mind if I move in closer," the man responds."

Later in the song, he asks, "How can you do this to me?"

She responds: "There's bound to be talk tomorrow."

In true fashion of probably the 1940s, the songs ends with the impression—but not the declaration—that she spends the night.

There are others, like "Let It Snow" and "Winter Wonderland" — you can look them up if you'd like (the links take you to the lyrics).

But let's end with "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

What is probably one of the most popular Christmas tunes among the elementary school-age set is in essence a song about bullying, with many of the defined characteristics of bullying mentioned.

Rudolph, because he is physically different than the rest of the reindeer, is laughed at and called names by his peers.

He is excluded and shunned; forbidden to play games with the other reindeer in the neighborhood.

Only when his special, different physical attribute saves their butts do they accept him into their inner circle.

Oh, and the really bad guy in this song?

Santa Claus himself.

As the responsible adult, he should have stepped in and put an end to the bullying but he looked the other way.

Guess who's on the naughty list now?

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Christmas decorations at the home of Kathi and Boyd Crouse, also known as Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus.
Photo by Marge Neal

Edgemere: Global Influencer?

Who knew Edgemere could be such an international trend-setter?

Making its rounds around social media right now is news of 50 stuffed bears that are being spotted at various locales in the Parisian community of Gobelins. While the stuffed bears are usually found one or two at a time, 37 of them were spotted at the Grand Hotel des Gobelins, according to an article on matadornetwork,com.

A local bookseller named Philippe started the Parisian phenomenon, with the goal of bringing the community together. He lends the bears out to local residents whom then place them at various spots around town. The beige bears have been spotted in lecture halls, on balconies and at sidewalk cafes, according to photos posted by residents.

The travels of the Bears of Gobelins are being chronicled on their own Facebook page.

The Bears of Gobelins. Facebook photo

As many of you will recall, the Edgemere community recently bonded over the travels of Big Blue, a toy bear that looks like it could be a colorful cousin to its French counterparts. The big blue bear was first spotted hanging from a mile marker on the Baltimore beltway, and then made its way to the North Point Peninsula gateway sign and the Edgemere-North Point Volunteer Fire Company before being taken home for safekeeping by its owner.

Just in time for the holidays, Big Blue has reappeared. He was recently spotted on the playground at Edgemere Elementary School and then he was pictured enjoying an adult beverage at a local bar.

Big Blue enjoying some adult time at the Muddy Beaver.
Facebook photo

While Big Blue’s owner may not have originally started out with the goal of bringing the community together, as was the wish of bookseller Philippe, that’s exactly what happened. Photos appeared on Facebook’s The Edgemere Page, and before long, folks were commenting, laughing at the prank, suggesting places the bear could visit in the future and giving him an abundance of monikers.

Even when Blue disappeared, residents would chime in every now and then, asking if the bear had been spotted recently.

So now he’s out and about again, and 50 of his cousins are all the rage in the French community of Gobelins. It will be interesting to see if the idea spreads even more. I'm sure none of you ever really thought of our little town of Edgemere as a global influencer!

I’m not naming the bear’s owner because I haven’t yet reached out for permission to do so, but thank you once again for the needed warm and fuzzy story!

Star light, star bright ...

In this neck of the woods, there’s probably no better way to celebrate the beginning of the Christmas season than with the annual lighting of the Star of Bethlehem.

So if you don’t already have plans for tonight, get thee to Tradepoint Atlantic in Sparrows Point for the ceremony that pays homage to the community’s roots of steel as well as the Pennsylvania hometown of Bethlehem Steel and the birthplace of Jesus Christ.

Tradepoint officials have gone out of their way to preserve Bethlehem Steel’s local heritage and many of the plant’s more visible, iconic, physical pieces. The company's loving treatment of the star built by employees is but one example.

The 28-foot-tall, 1.5-ton star graced the top of the L-Blast furnace on the steel plant’s property for decades. When the furnace was razed, the star was rescued and stored for future use. After being refurbished, the star was installed on the side of the former plant’s wastewater treatment plant — a temporary location until a higher and more permanent home was identified.

This year will mark the fourth time Tradepoint officials will throw the switch to illuminate the star’s 196 bulbs. More work was done on the star this year, including the conversion to LED lights, according to Tradepoint’s website. And the star has a new location atop the campus’ water tower.

It’s a brutally cold and windy day, but the ceremony from 5 to 6 p.m. is free and open to the public. Follow the event signs on Bethlehem Boulevard and Riverside Drive to get there.

Tradepoint Atlantic workers moved the Star of Bethlehem to its new home atop a water tower.
Photo courtesy of Tradepoint's Facebook page.

Tradepoint Atlantic workers pose with the Star of Bethlehem after installing it on the property's water tower.
Photo courtesy of Tradepoint's Facebook page.

Last year's lighting ceremony when the star graced the side of Tradepoint's wastewater treatment plant.
Photo by Marge Neal

Turning back time

Fifty years ago this school year, 44 rag-tag students, clumped together primarily because of the year they were born and where their parents chose to live, became the latest group of kids to form a community and claim the desks in Room 17 at Mars Estates Elementary School in Essex.

After five years, we were finally at the top of the heap — sixth-graders at last — and to cap it all off, we had the cool teacher that everyone wanted — Ernest C. “Ernie" Nuetzel himself!

Mr. Nuetzel would be the first male classroom teacher for most of us, though there was a group blessed to have him for fifth- and sixth-grades.

That group of kids that moved on to junior high school in 1969 had largely been together since first grade. A few kids transferred in and out of Mars Estates over the years, but the school’s population was relatively stable. And while some kids moved in and out of groups from time to time, most of our sixth-grade class had been together a majority of those six years.

Ernest C. Nuetzel's sixth-grade class at Mars Estates Elementary School, 1968-69. Note the class size of 42 students with  two absent that day, according to Mr. Nuetzel's impeccable class list carefully printed on the back of his copy.

Our parents were mostly blue-collar workers, with many at Bethlehem Steel, General Motors and similar places of employment. We were a down-to-earth bunch, most of whom lived in the nearby brick row home community of Country Ridge or elsewhere along upper Back River Neck Road.

Yesterday, 11 of those kids gathered to celebrate the passing of 50 years since we were those sixth-graders — many of whom, regardless of education later attained, still consider Mr. Nuetzel their all-time favorite teacher.

And again, to cap off the gathering of old friends, we were graced with the attendance of both Ernie and his wife of 57 years, Gail.

Fifty years later, some of those kids gathered to reminisce with teacher Ernie Nuetzel (front row, third from the right) and his wife, Gail (second from right). Photo by Don Wright.

Most of us graduated from Kenwood High School, so we have seen each other over the years at various high school reunions. And connecting on Facebook has really allowed us to keep up day-to-day with both concerns and celebrations. 

But meeting in person with a group of folks with a concentration specifically on our lives as 11-year-olds was special, to say the least. I had not seen several of these folks since high school, and like any group, I was closer to some than others in school.

So to say that it was fun and interesting and fascinating to see those kids after all these years and hear their life stories is an understatement. It was fun to hear stories about life in Mr. Nuetzel’s class that stuck in some folks’ minds but apparently were completely erased from the minds of others.

At one point, later in the afternoon, I sat back and watched folks interact as if they had last seen each other just the previous day. A comfort level settled in and these “kids” laughed, shared stories, hugged, cried, remembered and cared.

Ernie, who retired from Baltimore County Public Schools as a principal, cried or teared up several times as students shared with him the impact he had on their lives. To be certain, and just to provide some balance, he was not perfect in the classroom (find me anyone who is) and most of us have a story about him we’d just as soon forget. But he was a young educator at the time, and the positive anecdotes and life lessons learned in Room 17 far outweigh the negative. 

Many of us have our first memories of Mr. Nuetzel as being the man who, on Nov. 22, 1963 — when we were in first grade — ran around the school yelling the president had been shot.

In the days before universal kindergarten and widespread preschools, we were clean slates with relatively little knowledge of the world outside of our small communities when we started first grade. I remember us as 6-year-olds looking to Mrs. Higgins and asking what a president was. We received out first civics lesson that day.

So on Saturday, Terry, Sharon, Lillie, Debbie E., Tracey, Joann, Debbie W., Carol, Charlie, Mike and I gathered to honor Ernie Nuetzel and reminisce about life in Mars Estates’ Room 17 during the 1968-69 school year. We laughed a lot, remembered a lot, cried a little and learned a lot about the adults we have all become — all while erasing a half-century that somehow has passed since those innocent times.

It was, in a word, magical.

So much for a mental health break

So much for my wished-for mental health break following the conclusion of a too-long, too-acrimonious 2018 election cycle.

Less than 24 hours after the polls closed, the president held a press conference and gloated about his huge victory, because it was all about him. He named all the candidates that won because he campaigned for them (in his mind) and also named all the candidates he believes lost simply because they didn’t embrace his support.

I won’t even go into how he’s clueless as to how his behavior and his policies affect the constituents of those running for reelection and how those constituents vote accordingly, because it’s pretty clear this guy either doesn’t have the intelligence to understand those kinds of nuances, or he’s just so arrogant he doesn’t care.

In any case, what appalled me the most was his behavior at the end of the press conference, when he said he would take questions. This happens so rarely that gasps were audible and practically every arm in the room shot up at the same time.

It’s no secret that 45 hates the press. He claims it’s because of the fake news and lies they spread. In reality, it’s because they are accurately reporting on the fake news he creates and the constant lies he tells. For the first time in this man’s life, he’s being held accountable for his actions by the press — the very bedrock of a free American society — and he doesn’t like it. His solution is to belittle and humiliate journalists, treating them like 5-year-olds as he orders them to sit down, shut up, be quiet and questions their integrity and professionalism.

His treatment yesterday of three reporters in particular should embarrass every citizen of this nation. One reporter asked him about his apparent racism — based on his own behavior and language as well as his production of a fear-mongering political ad that was deemed so racist that several networks refused to air it — and rather than addressing her question like an adult, he turned it back on her and told her what a horrible question to ask, that her very question was racist.

His treatment of CNN’s Jim Acosta, who asked tough questions the president obviously didn’t want to answer, was childish at best and part of his overall diabolical plan to slowly destroy this country at worst. Again, 45 turned it back on the reporter, told him what a rude and terrible person he is, told him to give up the microphone and continued to berate him while a press room aide attempted to physically take back the mic.

With the mic in the hands of NBC’s Peter Alexander, 45 continued to berate Acosta and tell him he treats press secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders horribly.

When Alexander  attempted to defend Acosta as a well-respected, hard-working reporter, 45 jumped on him as well.

The night ended with the news that the White House had suspended Acosta’s press credentials, effectively shutting him out of WH news briefings and any other events open to the press.

In explaining the suspension of his credential later last night, Sanders falsely accused Acosta of “placing his hands on a young woman.”

Video of the incident shows this just isn’t true. The young woman, who Sanders said was an intern, was the aggressor in trying to retrieve the mic, and at one point reached across Acosta’s body as she tried to grab it. If there was any body contact, she caused it. The reporter even said, “pardon me, ma’am,” as she made aggressive moves to get the microphone.

The unprecedented move of the credential suspension just shows this president has no respect for an open and transparent government and shows once again he is a too-thin-skinned, egotistical bully who has no right sitting at the Resolute Desk.

And get this — this most recent show of a temper tantrum best suited for a petulant toddler came less than 24 hours after he said that perhaps he regretted not being a little softer and more civil in his first two years in office, and that maybe he could do that more in the future.

I guess not.

As my mind churned most of the night and I got little to no sleep, I heard the news at about 3:30 a.m. or so of another mass shooting, this time at a bar in California. Another 12 people, including one law enforcement officer, dead, plus the shooter as well.

I need to emotionally process this latest mass shooting and learn more about it before I can write about it, but I can say this now: I can only hope the timing was coincidental and had nothing to do with our nation’s current political climate.

What a difference a second makes!

Talk about an exciting finish!

The New York City marathon was held today and, for the first time ever, an American man won the wheelchair division.

But I’d like to narrow that down for you. A Maryland man just became the first American to claim that title.

Daniel Romanchuk of Mount Airy gave spectators something to cheer about when he defeated the defending men’s champion, Marcel Hug of Switzerland, by a mere second, according to the New York Times. Romanchuk clocked a winning time of one hour, 36.21 seconds.

Romanchuk has been working his way up the U.S. Paralympic Track and Field Team’s pecking order for several years and was named to the Paralympic team that represented the U.S. in Rio de Janiero in 2016.

Teamusa.org photo

The 20-year-old athlete won his first major marathon less than a month ago when he won the Chicago Marathon’s wheelchair division, edging out Hug again by just a second. Great Britain’s David Weir finished third, eight seconds after Hug.

Romanchuk was born with spina bifida, a condition in which the spinal column doesn't close completely. 

He “has been considered a rising star on the scene for some” and “cemented his place as one of the top racers in the game today with his victory, beating a stacked field,” according to a USOC statement after the Chicago victory.

Romanchuk, a University of Illinois student, finished third at the Boston and London marathons this year, according to a United States Olympic Committee statement.

I had the opportunity to interview and write about Daniel a few years back for the Frederick News-Post when he participated in the 2015 Parapan American Games in Toronto, where he claimed the gold medal in the 5,000-meter race. 

The son of Stephan and Kimberly Romanchuk was homeschooled and first got involved in adaptive sports at the age of 2 with the Bennett Blazers, a program for physically challenged individuals operating out of the Kennedy Krieger Institute in Baltimore. He now helps train young athletes through that program, according to his USOC bio.

Way to go, Daniel!

Where's Big Blue?

And into the dark and depressing abyss of election antics, “fake news,” divisiveness affecting local neighborhoods and global communities alike and other generally negative stuff consuming us on a daily basis, steps the Blue Bear?

Here on our beloved North Point Peninsula, a neighborhood post-Halloween prank has taken on a life of its own and brought smiles to hundreds of faces, if local Facebook conversations are any indication.

"In this world of elections, anger, hostility and gun violence, this silly bear brought me joy," Edgemere resident Nancy Leshko Short wrote in a message to me when I asked her what she knew about this saga. "I know it is ridiculous to think that a huge blue bear can bring joy, but a moment of joy was what it brought."

This story apparently began on Thursday morning, when a large stuffed blue bear was spotted hanging from a beltway mile marker near Cove Road. Comments were made on Facebook about it, with some cryptic, in-the-know comments from folks who implied they knew who did it.

It wasn’t long before photographic proof of the bear hanging out at the mile marker was posted, with several people snapping shots and sharing comments about how the sighting made their day as they made their way to work.

This large stuffed bear was spotted on the Baltimore Beltway late this week. Facebook photo

Then it was reported the bear had made its way to the iconic NPP entrance sign and garden at North Point Road and North Point Boulevard. Some conspiracy theorists claim a different bear camps at the entrance sign, and there do seem to be some differences in the bears when photos are compared.

“No, that’s not the same bear — it’s an imposter,” Rick Rosen said in the social media thread about the travels of the toy.

In any case, it’s good to see community members come together and get a few laughs out of something fun and mindless. 

“Whoever brought the blue bear closer to home, thank you!" Nancy Short wrote on Facebook after spotting the toy at the entrance sign. “I just saw him and it made me laugh! He is directly in the spotlight! Good job!”

A traveling stuffed bear has made its way to the North Point Peninsula entrance sign. Facebook photo

Mike Pecoraro posted that he hopes “nobody touches that sacred bear.”

One resident recommended that someone take the bear to Burnout, a locally famous fall bonfire gathering.

“Is this like Elf on a Shelf?” Darlene Lumpkin asked. “Blue Bear in the Hood?”

Edgemere resident Carolyn Daneker wrote that she saw the folks who put the bear at the community entrance and said “they were laughing and having fun.”

Sharon Faul-Schelhause was appreciative of the prank while also seeming to issue a Where's Waldo-like challenge.

“Whoever this is, you are the greatest!” she wrote. “Thanks for giving this community a smile I wonder where he/she will be next. hmmmmmmm”

I’ll keep you posted with Blue Bear in the Hood spottings.

And I add my heartfelt thanks to those responsible for having the community discussing such a lighthearted topic.

RIP ECT

I didn’t think it would be this difficult.

As a two-year employee of the East County Times, I was the staff rookie. As a hardened journalist, I’m supposed to be able to weather the delivery of bad news, no matter how closely it affects me.

But the news that the paper I’ve worked for since September 2016 would be put to its death with the Nov. 8 issue was a hard pill to swallow. While that news had barely sunk it, we were told yesterday that this Thursday’s issue would be the paper’s swan song.

So today, with every word I typed, every verbal exchange with a cherished colleague, every phone call about one subject that usually ended with an invitation to an event or meeting later in the month ending in a burst of tears, I realized I should be in the tissue business instead of the news business.

We all know journalism is struggling. It has struggled financially since the real rooting of online content delivery and it suffered all the more during the Great Recession, with the financial collapse of the housing, banking and automotive industries — which just so happened to be newspapers’ biggest advertisers.

The news business never fully recovered from the recession, and now we have to look over our shoulders and worry about every stranger who comes through the front door, thanks to a president who has declared us all the collective enemy of the people and encourages violence and spilling blood as accepted ways of handling differences and grievances.

Community newspapers such as the East County Times provide a regular voice to communities that are not routinely covered by bigger news outlets. Sure, camera crews will descend upon the community when a murder-suicide occurs, or when a local wins an Olympic gold medal.

But who’s there to cover the creation of a local after-school sewing club and the life lessons it will provide? The dedicated volunteers who take time away from families and demanding jobs to help clean the local river or creek? The PTA fundraiser, the church food pantry, the high school basketball team, the new proposed apartment complex that residents oppose?

It's rather fitting that my final ECT story is about local efforts to preserve a bit of Bethlehem Steel history. I kept this proof page as my own effort in preserving a little bit of local journalism history.                                                                       Photo by Marge Neal

That’s right — the community weekly. Reporters who toil in obscurity, spending their lives in community meetings, photographing special events, taking a late night call on their personal cell phone because the interview is needed to provide a well-balanced story and in general doing everything they have to to produce work of which they can be proud. All for a paycheck that barely covers basic living costs, rarely stretches from one pay day to the next and hasn’t contained a raise in too many years to count.

And you know what? None of that matters because we love what we do so much and we take pride in providing that voice to our community. Sometimes it’s the community where we grew up; sometimes it’s a community we adopt and come to love as if it were our hometown.

So at about 2 p.m. this afternoon, a small but mighty talented staff from writers to designers, paginators and advertising executives, collectively pushed the button that sent a final issue of the East County Times winging off to the printer. More than 31,000 copies of the paper will hit the streets on Thursday, with news of our demise on the front page, and the inside filled with all the usual features readers have come to depend on, including news about a local bank merger, an effort to preserve some lamp posts that once stood sentry on the Bethlehem Steel Corp.’s Sparrows Point plant and plenty of informative election coverage. There are the usual obituaries honoring the lives of departed locals, the police news page and the calendar of events. And more.

News that everyone looks forward to receiving, and that few people understand how difficult it is to provide that service free of charge. As it turns out, it became impossible.

I sure hope someone notices when the Nov. 8 issue — which my colleague Patrick Taylor and I had been looking forward to for more than a year because of election night coverage — does not hit the streets.

Old Dominion Kindness

I admit to being emotionally battered and bruised while on my way to work this morning.

I spent Thursday first worrying and fretting about the latest mechanical catastrophe involving my aging car, and then getting way too emotionally involved in the U.S. Senate hearing regarding the Supreme Court nominee.

The world was feeling heavy indeed as I attempted to merge onto the Baltimore Beltway at my usual point of entry at North Point Boulevard. The view in my driver’s-side mirror told me an unusual amount of traffic was coming and I was running out of merge area.

I admit to being one of those people who actually yields to oncoming traffic when facing a yield sign, instead of playing chicken with potentially fatal objects hurdling at me at speeds of 60 miles an hour and faster. I also do not subscribe to the “I’m coming over, knowing you’ll either slow down or move over” theory of driving.

I play by the rules, wait my turn and merge and/or change lanes when and only when it’s safe to do so.

Just when I thought I’d have to come to a complete stop or ease onto the shoulder, the 18-wheeler in the right lane changed lanes to allow me over. I waved, knowing he probably didn’t see me, as I merged.

The trucker driving the Old Dominion Freight truck immediately put on his turn signal to return to the lane he had been in, so I flashed my headlights and waved again. He moved over, flashed his lights twice as witnessed by his rear lights blinking on and off twice, in acknowledgment of my gesture, and we both continued our journeys.

A small gesture, but it made my day. In a world that seems to grow angrier and more hateful by the day, the trucker’s act of kindness lifted a bit of the weight of that hateful world from my shoulders.

'Two wild and brawny guys'

Journalism is a tough business these days — with corporate buyouts and layoffs, salaries that barely keep up with basic living expenses and the President of the United States declaring journalists the “enemy of the people” as just a few examples of how the career choice leaves a little to be desired.

But community journalism is often the very heartbeat of small town America, and a source of pride and fun for both reader and writer.

Take “two wild and brawny men,” for example.

I recently wrote an article for the East County Times about a local philanthropic organization that needed to find a new free home — and quickly. A tall order, indeed.

Just a couple of weeks after writing that article, I followed up with the news that lifelong Dundalk resident Irene Spatafore had found a new home for Angels Supporting Your Troops Inc. — a care package project for troops serving in war zones — and she was in need of “some brawn” to help her move the organization’s stuff.

She found brawny volunteers in the form of Bob Runk and Dennis Angst, two members of Wells-McComas VFW Post 2678 in Edgemere. The two guys helped her do some cleaning and preparing at the new place and then helped moved supplies, equipment and furniture from the old place to the new.

On a recent visit to the VFW, Dennis, who I’ve met on several previous occasions, introduced me to fellow brawny man Bob. We were all getting a few chuckles out of the brawny reference, including Bob’s adaptive use of comedian Steve Martin’s famous line of “We are two wild and crazy guys.” Bob substituted brawny for crazy and the laughs started anew.

Two wild and brawny guys: Bob Runk (left) and Dennis Angst. Photo by Marge Neal

Just then, a woman walked by and heard the tail end of the conversation and laughed. She looked at me and said, “Do you know how big his head is because it’s in the paper about him being brawny?” 

I laughed and Cindy — it turns out she’s Bob’s girlfriend — moved on.

Print journalists usually have the luxury of moving around town incognito because our mugs aren’t plastered all over television screens or radio websites. I giggled and said to Dennis and Bob, “She doesn’t know I’m the one who wrote the article, does she?”

The guys eventually told her who I was and she came down to chat with me some more. When I took a picture of the guys and said I might get a blog post out of “two wild and brawny guys,” Cindy said, “Oh, Lord, his head will just get bigger.”

But she asked me the name of my blog and how to find it online, and I know that, in the big picture, she’ll enjoy reading it and will be proud of her brawny man, no matter how loudly she complains about “how big his head will get.”

Community journalism.

There’s nothing like it.

And did I tell you that Brawny Bob bought me a beer?

Yep. Nothing like it.

Stuck in the middle

Here we are, two years removed from the 2016 Rio Olympics and two years away from the Games in Tokyo. For archival purposes, I'm republishing a column about the quirky side of the Olympics I wrote six years ago — gasp — for Dundalk Patch during the London Olympiad. Enjoy!

The Olympics: Off-the-Beaten-Path Coverage

In addition to traditional coverage provided by NBC, many news outlets are offering quirky stories and coverage of the Olympics' underbelly.

By Marge Neal, Patch Staff | Aug 7, 2012 1:40 pm ET | Updated Aug 7, 2012 8:25 pm ET

I have to admit I've been pretty much glued to the television coverage of the London Summer Olympics.

I've been buying print copies of newspapers— something I admit to have basically stopped doing, as embarrassing as that is, given my profession— and I've been surfing the Internet in search of the quirky, the obtuse, the fun, the satirical and the funky of Olympic coverage.

And there's plenty of it out there.

Want to see a gallery of the tattoos of Olympians? Here you go.

Pundits have offered up their casting choices should the life of Michael Phelps ever make it to the big screen (though I think Ellen Burstyn is way too old to play Debbie Phelps and I can't see Ed Harris in the role of Bob Bowman, as suggested).

Speaking of swimming, have you ever wondered if Olympic swimmers pee in the pool? Well, apparently they do' and it seems to be quite a common practice—even Ryan Lochte admits to doing it.

I've learned that the IRS expects a slice of the pie from U.S. Olympic medalists on two different levels.

The United States Olympic Committee gives cash bonuses to medalists — $25,000 for gold, $15,000 for silver and $10,000 for bronze.

The IRS expects Olympians to declare those bonuses as income and pay the appropriate taxes.

Based on a 35-percent tax bracket, a gold medalist could expect an IRS bill of about $8,750 for each top prize earned, according to Americans for Tax Reform. American Olympians would owe about $5,250 on each silver medal won and $3,500 for each bronze.

According to those figures, Phelps will owe $45,500 for the bonuses on his four gold and two silver medals.

I can understand the government expecting taxes to be paid on the cash bonuses, though I also think one could argue the token amounts are just small efforts to reimburse the out-of-pocket expenses families have paid over the years to procure top-notch coaching, to travel to competitions and to feed world-class athletes (have you ever thought of what Phelps' grocery bill is?).

Since the bonuses aren't salary for hours worked, and the athletes don't ask for the payment, one could also argue the payments are unsolicited gifts, all or some of which would be tax-exempt, depending on the amount given.

But here's the IRS demand I don't get. The tax-collecting agency has apparently placed a monetary value on the medals themselves, and expects those to be declared as well.

A gold medal is worth $650, according to CNN, and could cost an athlete about $236 in taxes. Bronze medalists will be happy to learn that they will owe only $2 in taxes on the prizes valued at just $5.

Who knew bronze medalists would be the real winners?

In my Internet travels, I've also learned that live pigeon shooting was a sport in the 1900 Paris Games.

Three hundred pigeons were harmed in that Olympiad, according to the WBAL-TV report, and clay pigeons were used in all subsequent Olympics.

Croquet was also a sport in the Paris Games, although only one paying spectator showed up to watch the "competition."

Over the years, sports have come and gone. Recently, baseball and softball were removed from the roster and golf , which was last featured in the Olympics in 1904, will return to the 2016 Olympiad in Rio de Janiero.

Bowlers are lobbying to get their sport added to the Olympic lineup.

I say if curling can be an Olympic sport, so can bowling.

But here's hoping the shooting of live creatures never makes a comeback!