Category Archives: Muddled Musings

My Two Cents Worth; Now Worth 3.4 Cents!

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Żyrardów Like most guys (and this is statistically true), I keep my spare change instead of doing something useful with it, like using it.

At the end of the day, I drop whatever spare coins I have into a plastic jar with the lid cut off. Every four or five months, I lug the 400-pound jug of coins to Coinstar, which tallies the total and rips me off 9% for the counting effort.

That money, in turn, is used on crap. Magic tricks, gadgets and whatzits, candy bars.

But I recently read a story that let me know just how much I was getting ripped off. By the government, no less.

The study by the U.S. Mint found that it cost 1.7 cents to produce a penny, eight cents to produce a nickel. nickel

According to the Treasury’s biennial report to Congress, the government takes a loss of $90.5 MILLION a year in manufacturing the coins, which have become, quite literally, trash for many Americans. The same study found that 2% of americans throw away spare pennies instead of collecting them in a piggy bank, which is becoming about as useful as a pay phone nowadays.

“There are no alternative metal compositions that reduce the manufacturing unit cost of the penny below its face value,” the report to Congress said.

The government makes a mint on other coins. A dime costs 3.9 cents to make, and a quarter 9 cents. All together, the Mint made $289.1 million on seigniorage–the difference between the value of the coin and the cost to make it–despite a $90.5 million drag from the penny and nickel.

I’ve always had a thing for coins. Being a wannabe magician requires you befriend them.

So did being a crime writer all my life. In my first weekend covering cops in Washington DC, a homeless man who called himself Blelvis the Black Elvis approached me for any spare change. Unaware how common panhandling was in DC (in Detroit they just take your wallet), I made the mistake of reaching into my pocket to rummage. That, apparently, is the universal sign language for ‘sucker.’

All I had was 11 cents, a dime and a penny. I apologized and told him that was the sum of my portable wealth.

“That’s more money than I had five seconds ago, thank you,” he replied.

Then he broke into a brief, drunken rendition of Blue Suede Shoes. I’ve paid a lot more for a lot less in return on investment in my life.

Since that day, I have a rule of thumb: If I drop a penny, it stays wherever it fell. If I find a penny, it goes into my pocket, with a wish. Usually it’s that Blelvis has enough change to croon You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog.

Rock on, Abe.

 

 

 

 

 

Rock Music’s Greatest Mansplanations

 

I received a video link that was not only the funniest parody I’d seen in months, but also answered a question I’ve had for years:

How do men get away with such sexist lyrics in rock?

The answer, I guess, is obvious. For there is no powerful creature on earth than a rock god, regardless of what women say about the sexiness of a man’s intelligence. Ever seen a throng of girls screeching and fainting when Albert Einstein arrived on the tarmac after a trip to Liverpool?

Still, as we’re on the cusp of electing our first female president, it seems odd that the fairer sex has not yet demanded fairer treatment, at least in music.

Consider the opening line to the song all rock fans consider an anthem to entanglement-free living, Free Bird:

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGopskR5jSM

While attributed to band leader Ronnie Van Zant, he later admitted that the line came from a letter left to him by an ex-girlfriend. At least the line “And this bird, you cannot change” was uniquely his.

But popular music has much deeper roots in chauvinism. This little ditty came from The Temptations, a group renowned for swooning women dizzy:

Oh, as strange as it seems
You know you can’t treat a woman mean

Despite sounding like it came from the 50’s, that song was recorded in 1984. Was not abusing women  really a revelation then?

Even Tommy Tutone is a bit Tufaced. In his classic Jenny (867-5309), he croons:

I know you think I’m like the others before
Who saw your name and number on the wall

But then he follows unapologetically with this:

I got it, (I got it), I got it
I got your number on the wall
I got it, (I got it), I got it
For a good time, for a good time call…

But at least a quick-thinking YouTuber had some fun with KISS’ Beth. This director may have a job as director of communications in a Clinton administration.

 

 

Happy Bobbie Faye Day!

 

While he never did so consciously, dad was always stealing mom’s thunder.

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While he drew laurels and praise for his amazing work as a city-wise reporter, mom worked the unheralded halls of the same cities: the classrooms.

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As dad won awards from peers and the admiring, mom received the same plaudits, perhaps deeper. From the students who would visit her years later to the parents willing to do outlandish things at parent-teacher functions to land Mrs. Bowles as a teacher. One father offered to dive into a pool, fully clothed, if his child could become her student. He did, and the child was doubly rewarded, with doting parent and peerless teacher.

My guess is that student now runs her own company. And if you’re reading, could I get a grant?

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And while dad’s tales made our Bowles kin legend, the truth is Bobbie Faye Johnson came from some badass heritage herself. Her mother, Daisy, was the only grandparent I knew. And it took me years to realize not every grandmother  rolls her own cigarettes, chews tobacco and carries a revolver is she ever gets into a scrape. Even in her 80’s, you didn’t fuck with Daisy.

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Mom, too, doesn’t take much shit. Dad never took a vacation. But mom had summers off from class. So she’d pile me and sis, from tykehood to teen-hood, in a cramped VW Beetle to haul us to see relatives from both sides of the family.  She never lamented, at least publicly, having to shoulder that all herself. Though she does occasionally voice unsolicited  advice when you hold a knife: Don’t cut yourself. But as she’d say, it ain’t nagging if it’s true.

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While dad willed his way onto his college basketball team, mom was recruited. Peabody College, a division of Vanderbilt University, offered a scholarship to the defensive guard known in hometown Chadbourn, N.C., as Mighty Mouse.

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Like dad, she made little of everything she did. You’d no more knww dad was Pulitzer finalist than you’d know kids with names like Senator Scott and Precious Wellington III were singing mom to the high heavens. As Noah once noted, “When I think, I think of you.”

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Amen, Noah. You’ve been taught well.

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