Another Ponzi Scheme: Friendship Bread

(Note: this is an edited version of a previous essay.  This version will appear soon on Milwaukee's NPR affiliate: 89.7 WUWM)

It’s that time of year again, and the truth is out: those who gleefully hand out kits of homemade friendship bread are in fact NOT kind and warmhearted people, but rather mean-spirited souls who exult in the false hopes and misfortunes of others.

I recently had the honor of receiving the “Friendship Treatment” from Jan, who en route to her yoga class stopped by to offer me a bag filled with a thick, beige liquid along with a printout of instructions. “It’s a ten-day process, and we’re already on day four, so enjoy!” she said, practically skipping back to her van, certain that she’d helped to spread a little sunshine in my dim world, and I admit that initially I was flattered: someone had made bread for me! How thoughtful. How quaint.

For those who haven’t been indoctrinated into the world of friendship bread, the process is basically a ponzi scheme without the financial implications. You start with a few ingredients and mix them in a Ziplock bag. For the next ten days, you squeeze the bag a few times and occasionally add an ingredient or two. Eventually, you divide the mix into four different bags: one that will provide two loaves of bread for yourself, and the rest to be distributed to three friends who will repeat the process, and so on, until every man, woman and child on the planet has prepared, baked and eaten two loaves of bread.

It wasn’t until day ten that I realized just what a scam this bread-making business is. I learned that none of the previous nine days had been necessary at all, because I now had to empty practically every bag, box and bottle in my cupboard to finish the process.

Here are the ingredients I added on day ten:

Sugar, milk, flour, oil, MORE sugar, vanilla, eggs, baking powder, salt, MORE flour, MORE milk, baking soda, instant vanilla pudding mix and cinnamon.

Seriously. I’d basically fallen for a variation of the story “Stone Soup,” in which a man tricks a community to cook a big vat of soup by asking each citizen to add an ingredient, except in this version of the story, I was a community of one.

I have half a mind to give my friend a Ziplock bag filled with water and say, “Here’s a bag of friendship soup. Enjoy!”

So thanks anyway, but I’m going to pass on this charming tradition in the future. You want to be a friend? Bring a six-pack of Guinness over sometime, and if you really must include something baked, offer me your thoughts on world peace.

Murder, Cats and Friendship

Five years ago, my family experienced what can only be described as…well, a double homicide.  During a visit, my sister’s dog killed both of my daughter’s hamsters, not by eating them exactly, but by using his teeth to play with them until they were dead.  And though the event traumatized my children (to this day they block out the dog’s picture on our refrigerator with a strategically placed magnet), the murders did provide us with an opportunity, a silver lining, if you will.  We now had a clean pet-slate, the equivalent of using a small house fire as an excuse to update your living room furniture.  We could now purchase whatever family pet we wanted without worry of compatibility for the rodents we’d been keeping in cages (and whose lids weren’t quite as secure as we’d thought).

On a whim, we chose a couple of cute, flea-ridden kittens, to join our family.  They are now full-grown and flea-free, and they are fine additions to the house, except for one thing:

Do you have any idea how many people are allergic to cats?

I didn’t.  But I do now.  Statistics may tell you that about fifteen percent of Americans are allergic to cats, but I’d push that number closer to fifty.  Either that or the Chicago-Metro area is a haven for those allergic to felines. 

These days, when I invite someone to our home, I add, “I should mention that we have cats,” in the same tone I might use to say, “We keep a collection of body parts in the freezer.   Is that okay with you?”  I admit my offense and wait for a response, which is often something along the lines of, “Oh, um…well, I guess I could come in for a while, but I’ll be sure not to sit on your furniture.”

In the modern age of mobility, finding and keeping friends is difficult enough.  I may have 168 Facebook friends, but they don’t laugh when I tell a joke or offer a toast when I open a bottle of wine.  Human interaction is a necessity.  I need more excuses to get together with friends, not more excuses to keep them from entering my home.

Which is why I’d like to offer all of you this sage advice: buy a dog.  Or better yet, a hamster.  Just be sure to secure the lid with a bunch of those plastic zippy things the next time your sister’s dog comes over for a visit.

Ending It All

We Americans sure love our endings.  For as many as we’ve endured lately, it’s a wonder that we manage to function at all. 

Earlier this year, I read Jane Leavy’s biography of Mickey Mantle, and though it was a fine read, its title was a bit overreaching:

The Last Boy: Mickey Mantle and the end of America’s Childhood

If Mickey Mantle was really the last boy, then I want to know who the heck’s responsible for the trail of Legos that lodged into the skin of my big toe last week.  And as for the end of America’s Childhood?  I gotta believe that our Union and Confederate soldiers conveyed that sentiment 150 years ago. 

But we like endings.  Endings sell books, and publishers have taken note.  Type in “the end of” at Amazon.com, and you’ll get a whopping 7700 titles in non-fiction alone. 

Endings are occurring all over the place, and they’re starting to make me just a little anxious. 

America’s aristocracy?  Gone. 

Gender?  Sorry, that’s done too. 

Romance?  Yep, finito. 

And I think the Occupy Wall-Street movement would be disappointed to learn that Wall-Street, has in fact, already ended.  My kids will be happy to hear that anger is no longer, but not so happy to learn about the end of youth.  Our friends across the Atlantic will be distraught to hear about the end of the European Dream, though I suspect a few might get a sadistic chuckle over the end of France.  Our troops will likely be furious to read about the end of Iraq, but I think we’ll all breathe a sigh of relief to learn about the end of old politics. 

Now if we could only put an end to new politics.

And what about this title: The End of Modern History in the Middle East.  Isn’t modern history an oxymoron?  And if not, doesn’t all modern history have to come to an end, inasmuch as it becomes recent history or ancient history?

Now, some endings make sense.  The decade of the sixties, for instance, did in fact end.  But did it really have anything to do with the Rolling Stones’ concert at Altamont, or was it more due to…I don’t know, the calendar changing to 1970?

Don Henley once sang about the end of the innocence.  But we’ve lost our innocence so many times by now, I’m starting to feel a little dirty.  And did it really have anything to do with Disney?  Or was it because of the Kennedy Assassination?  Or Watergate?  Or Vietnam.  Or…Mickey Mantle? 

This whole idea that America’s purity was soiled in the 60s and 70s has been exploited countless times, but bittersweet nostalgia still sells books - at least ebooks - to a generation that believes America’s best years are behind us.

I for one would like to propose a new rule: an end to books with the word end in them.  That is, unless the title is, The End of Milwaukee’s Wait for a World Series Title.  I’m hoping for that book in 2012.  

Brewers/Cable Essay broadcasted on 89.7 WUWM Milwaukee

Press play to listen to my essay broadcasted on 89.7 WUWM's Lake Effect program on Sept 19, 2011.

To Cable or Not to Cable - OR - Holy Crap! The Brewers are REALLY GOING to WIN their Division!

A little perspective:

In 1982, my friend John and I sat in the last row of the leftfield bleachers at Milwaukee County Stadium during Game 5 of the World Series between the Milwaukee Brewers and the St. Louis Cardinals.  We won.  I was 14.

Guess what?  Now I have two fourteen year-olds.  If someone had told me back in ’82 that the Brewers wouldn’t win another division until I had children as old as I was back then, I probably would have become a Yankees fan.  I mean, come on!

But here we are.  It’s 2011.  I have two Freshman in high school, and this is the first time my kids will actually have something to brag about pertaining to the Brewers.

Let’s face it: 2008 was a mess.  The Brewers lost  15 of their first 19 games in September that year, leading to the firing of Ned Yost.  Yes, they won 6 or their last 7, but their final victory of the season, a necessary one, came against a Cubs team that was resting several of its starters.  That and a Mets loss allowed us to get into the playoffs.  True, it gave us a chance, but no one was thinking we could go all the way, even with CC Sabathia. 

This year is different.  As I write this, the Crew is 10½ games ahead of the Cardinals, and though stranger things have happened in baseball, I am confident (and this is big for a guy who’s usually skeptical) that the Brewers will in fact win their first division title since I was a pimple-faced, cocky little punk in 9^th grade at Brookfield East High School.

It’s all so glorious.

But the question remains: do I now purchase a cable TV package?  After all, both the Division and the League series are to be aired on WTBS, NOT one of the 6 or 7 channels we get on our rabbit ears antennae.

You see, in 2000, my family moved back to the Midwest after a 6-year stint on the East Coast.  After the move, other priorities took hold, and my wife and I spent the first month in our new house not worrying about cable TV, and instead we rented a lot of movies and watched what little we could on our antennae. 

Turns out we didn’t miss cable even a little.

Here we are, over a decade later, and probably about $6000 richer than had we gotten cable.  True, my children are considered weird, and their friends discuss shows my kids have never seen before, but they’ve gotten used to it, and we try to rent what few cable shows are worth watching through Netflix.  My "cableless" children seem no worse for the wear.

But alas, this year is DIFFERENT.  We’re talking MLB playoffs, baby.  If my kids are as unlucky as I, we’ll still be talking about this baseball season TWENTY-NINE YEARS FROM NOW!!  I'll be 72!  Holy crap.

So really, can I honestly NOT get cable?  I think not.

But then I have visions of a three game sweep by Atlanta in the first round of the playoffs, and me stuck with 256 channels of crap for the next twelve months.

But a victory.  A National League Championship Series appearance, or even...gasp!...a World Series.  I would pay a monthly cable fee ten times for that experience.

I’ll be calling Comcast in the morning.