What is the difference between tennis shoes and sneakers?

Ken, that is a fantastic question and I am delighted you asked. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that tennis shoes are sold mainly for use on the tennis courts and probably have some kind of tricky, scientific design specifics that make them more suitable for the abrupt changes of direction and lateral movement inherent in the game that might blow other shoes out like a second-hand, high-mileage retread.

Sneakers, on the other hand, are most likely a rubber-soled shoe that would be worn by athletes and spies alike, who either need excellent traction or stealthy silence in their movement - hence the term "sneakers". I would also offer that the term "gumshoe" for the private eye probably came about from the requirement of stealth in the business of sleuthing. Whether or not a "gumshoe" is the same as "sneaker", I have no idea. I would also assert that a tennis shoe can be a sneaker, but a sneaker is not necessarily a tennis shoe. Let's go to the web...

"Sneakers go back a long way. In the late 18th century, people wore rubber soled shoes called plimsolls, but they were pretty crude—for one thing, there was no right foot or left foot. Around 1892, the U.S. Rubber Company came up with more comfortable rubber sneakers with canvas tops, called Keds. By 1917, these sneakers began to be mass produced. (They got the nickname sneakers because they were so quiet, a person wearing them could sneak up on someone.)" Ta-da, this from factmaster.com. I like the idea of the plimsoll - trying to differentiate between the left and right foot in the dark (especially scampering out a window with a jealous husband in hot-pursuit - just saying) can be trying. Plus, I think the plimsoll would make an excellent slapshoe, should one have the urge to be a circus clown or a silent film comedian.

And this from answers.com, regarding the gumshoe:

Gumshoe

(gŭm'shū')
n.

1. A sneaker or rubber overshoe.
2. Slang. An investigator, especially a detective.

I hope this answers your question - if it doesn't, feel free to hire a gumshoe to get to the bottom of it.

Good day, Sir.

"Pop" versus "Soda" - WTF?

This is a fantastic question, John and I am delighted you asked. I believe your initial inquiry was where and when this arbitrary diversion of terms for our beloved carbonated beverages originated and we will explore that as well. But I believe that it is equally, if not more important to Divine "what the fuck?".

My early childhood days were spent in Northern Ohio, near the banks of the Lake of Erie. If we went into a corner store or tavern or diner, my parents would order we children a "pop" - the local term for the caramel-colored variety of fizzy-drink, be it Coca-Cola, Pepsi or the regional favorite Royal Crown. This was most likely derived from the term "Soda Pop", which in turn must have gleaned its own moniker from the sound that was made when the spigots of the soda fountains from which they were drawn were opened, or the sound the bottle caps made when removed from the carbonated bottles. If we were having a clear soft drink, it was referred to as a "7-Up". This strange intermingling of the generic term "pop" and the brand name "7-Up" was a harbinger of soda things to come.
Sound confusing? Just wait.

When I moved to Arizona, later on in my childhood, I found that "pop" was called "soda". "Coke", of course was Coca Cola, or one could order a Pepsi. RC was left behind in the cloud of dust that made up the trail between Akron and Phoenix. I learned even later on that many folks (mostly in the South) referred to pop as "Coke", regardless of whether or not it was Coca Cola or one of its soda-pop competitors that was being poured.Visiting relatives in North Carolina, I was mildly confused when one of my cousins ordered a "Coke" and was given a Pepsi Cola. I pointed this out and she looked at me as if I had a third eye. An eye that obviously did not know its soda pop.

This is part of the fabric that has been woven the often-confused, distracted tapestry of my life and it's no wonder.

Enough of the "What the fuck". Let's get down to the "where and when the fuck". If you notice the map above, there is a clear line of delineation where the Northern "pop"-people and the Southern "Coke" -folk divide and I will attempt to make good, sound logical sense of the matter.

The soda fountain made its first appearance in 1819, a good 40 years before the Civil War. The first bottled fizzy was in 1835 and the term "pop" was coined in 1861, the year the Great War got underway.
It is my opinion that the entire geographical country referred to the soft drink as "soda pop" - at least for awhile. With the outbreak of the war, the North probably took claim to the "pop" portion of the name as an act of war and ran with it, while the Southerners either dismissed the term altogether in a definitive act of soft drink-defiance or the Northern blockade effectively removed the soft drink from the diet of the Southron altogether, thus nullifying the need for any descriptive whatsoever.

After the war, the Northerners most likely continued their smug use of the term "pop" - it was light, gay and carefree; they were winners. The people of the South, meanwhile, still smarting from their recent defeat, languished in reconstruction and probably threw their Johnny Reb caps in the air with the advent of Coca Cola in 1886, which actually contained the drug cocaine. The drink "was initially sold as a patent medicine for five cents a glass at soda fountains, which were popular in the United States at the time due to the belief that carbonated water was good for the health. It was claimed Coca-Cola cured many diseases, including morphine addiction, dyspepsia, neurasthenia, headache, and impotence." This according to Wikipedia.

Dulled by their dependance on the drink and the drug within, the Southern imbibers were undoubtedly dissatisfied with the non-narcotic soft drinks available and took to calling all soda "COKE", in a desparate attempt to get their hands on the miracle narcotic drink. Years of repetition and empty hope inevitably scorched this ideal into their brains, even long after the actual cocaine had been removed from the recipe.

The term "Soda" was pilfered shortly thereafter by the new kids on the block, the irreverant West, and is a keen example of their forward thinking, land-grabbing attitudes and innate sense of Western, land-grabbing entitlement. By claiming the lead word in the term "Soda Pop", the eternal optimism and free-wheeling nature of a land graced by God with endless sunshine and clear blue seas dug its tanned, muscular elbow into the rest of the war-ravaged nation. With their suddenly outdated "Pop" and "Coke", the North and South and even the Eastern seaboard were looked upon as uneducated, un-hip second-citizens of soda.

And so it remains.

Good day, Sir.

Where's Waldo?

That's a fantastic question, John and I'm happy you asked. I remember this character and the ageless question "Where's Waldo" from when my kids were actually kids. But let's get one thing straight - I don't find Waldo or trying to track him down in the least bit cute. I have never trusted this Waldo fellow and looking into his whereabouts only makes him seem even more shady than I had originally thought. I question his wardrobe, his eyeware and the creepy smile on his self-satisfied mug. I have no doubt that he has come to a bad end. Most likely at the business end of a gay biker bar in a quest to satisfy his seemingly endless hunger for the rough trade. That's pure speculation on my part, of course, based on my own close-minded attitude about striped shirts, stocking caps with tassles and walking sticks carried by youth. For all I know, Waldo could be a lifeguard at Coney Island in one of those old-timey striped one-piece bathing suits, or perhaps serving hard time on a Southern prison chain gang after knifing a drifter, or because his deviant, rough-trade lifestyle is not the least bit appreciated.

Or, perhaps Waldo has made his getaway from the Southern chain gang and finagled his way to the Far-East, where he will no doubt meet a bitter end at the hands of a sadistic Vietnamese prison guard or be hauled before international court of law, like Gary Glitter and brought home to face the music.

Wherever home is - but then, that has always been the question, hasn't it?

I'll bet that wherever Waldo hangs his betassled hat, there are drifters and rough-trade merchants aplenty.

Good day, Sir.

 

What is a gift horse and why on Earth shouldn't we look it in the mouth?

Why, Jerry, that's a great question and thanks for asking. Yes, I indeed asked this question of myself this morning after using the phrase "I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth" in a sentence today. I think I figured this one out on my own in short order, but there may be those out there who are not familiar with the nefarious ways of the horse-trader. While science,  savvy veterinarians and the Internet may have forced the horse-trader and his ilk to straighten up and fly right over the years, there is still something shifty that seems to taint the air around those in the business. I am nearly certain they prefer to be known as horse-merchants or equine distributors or some such like-term that puts much-needed distance between themselves as respectable business-people and the horse traders of the wild west, where this old saw probably reached the apex of its popularity.

In the days when the horse was the primary means of transportation, the horse trader was the equivalent of today's used-car salesman and not above misrepresenting his product in an attempt to pry an extra hard-earned shekel out of the pockets of his prospective clients. This would sometimes result in the unsavory trader being shot, stabbed or lynched by disgruntled customers. It was the way of the west and an occupational hazard.

Unsavory horse traders were sometimes shot, stabbed or lynched by disgruntled customers.

One of the means by which the shady trader would try to bamboozle his clients would be by lying about a horse's age. This little fib might lead one to believe that a horse had suffered many less miles afoot and therefore be much heartier and robust. One way to check the trader's claim would be by examining the horse's teeth, which would show wear and tear and gum damage and other red flags apparent to those in the know on such matters. This little fib might also lead to the trader being shot, stabbed or lynched. It was the old-west version of the modern-day "kicking the tires", only with the possibility of gunplay.

So, if one were so lucky as to receive a horse as a gift (the "gift horse"), it would seem unappreciative to examine the beast's teeth in front of the gift-giver. I am not certain, but I imagine seeming unappreciative upon receiving a gift horse might also lead to the eventual shooting, stabbing or lynching of an unappreciative son of a bitch.

In other words, appreciate your gifts - it's never too late for a necktie party for the unscrupulous or unappreciative.

Good day, sir.

How and when did Buffalo Wings Inflitrate our pizza parlors?

That's a fantastic question, Mark, and I'm happy you asked. The "Pizza Parlor Conundrum" aside, I would at the outset like to take a moment to discuss the tasty treat that is the chicken wing. First off, it took me a long time to dive into the chicken-wing pool. This was because I was horrified to think of all the little genetically-engineered midget-chickens that were being held in a midget-chicken gulag someplace in Minnesota, awaiting their turn at the chopping block. After all, how else could chicken-science have ever possibly come up with something as perfect as the little drummette that made up the meaty portion of the plate? It had to be mini-chickens and I imagined them to be the veal of the dark-meat side of the chicken-world, chained up in little mini-chicken coops, eating bits of a scientifically-manufactured super-grain to fatten up their tiny chicken drummettes. Or maybe the drummettes were taken from the feckless Cornish Hen, which I always considered to be the fragile and meek "little people" of the chicken world. I didn't know and I didn't care - all I knew was that it was horrific and it was more than my young, fragile, compassionate mind could handle.

The mysterious makeup of the chicken wing: The Wingette and the Drummette

 

Eventually, however, the allure of the tangy, spicy sauce inevitably trumped my indignant horror over the mistreatment of the genetically-engineered mini-chickens or Cornish Hens and I dipped my first drummette into the ramekin of bleu-cheese dressing and savored the deliciousness of the dish. It was only much later that I learned that the drummette, of which I was particularly fond, was not harvested from the carcass of midget-chickens, or the Cornish Hen but was actually the meaty part of the wing closest to the full-sized chicken's body and it hinged on the flimsier, two-boned portion of the wing which has always proven to be more problematic and messy when under consumption. Since the full-sized chickens have always been butchered en-masse to appease the planet's taste for fowl, I no longer felt any particular sadness or guilt when it came to the wing. I was now free to dive in, fingers-first with a new-found abandon which somehow liberated me in a tasty way to enjoy the magnificent appetizer.

All that said, there is a reason for my digression and many thanks for hanging in there. It is my belief that it is not necessarily the wings that have infiltrated our pizza parlors, but rather the tangy, zesty sauce which has been concocted for their deep-fried tossing. A combination of hot-sauce, vinegar (or Italian dressing) and butter, it is the perfect storm of taste-sensation and the ideal candidate for infiltrating not only our pizza parlors, but every sector of dining imaginable. I challenge you to find a food-choice that has not been touched by the red-stained finger of wing-sauce. Aside from breakfast cereal and ice cream (and just wait, it will soon be there as well), I am hard-pressed to find an example. Buffalo Chicken Salad, Buffalo Chicken Sandwich, Buffalo Chicken Fingers and sides of Buffalo Sauce are readily available in nearly every eatery in the country - nay, the world. And I am not entirely convinced that this is a bad thing.

As for the days of yore, when one could stroll into a pizza parlor and order a thin-crust pepperoni and an ice cold glass of draft beer and little else, I believe those times have gone the way of silent film, the Polaroid Land Camera and the rotary telephone. If a restaurant - be it a pizza parlor or a take out Chinese joint - is not diverse in its offering, the spoiled, entitled, self-absorbed restaurant diners that make up our populace will move to the next bistro that will be able to satisfy their culinary wanderlust. We have become a nation of instant-gratification junkies and this applies to our taste in food as equally as it applies to our need for music, movies and information on the fly. That, my friend, is how Buffalo Wings infiltrated our pizza parlors. As to the exact when, I point to the moment that Teressa Bellissimo, owner of the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York created the sauce to toss her deep-fried chicken castoffs into back in 1964. From that moment forward, it was only a matter of time before the recipe would snake its insidious way into our restaurants and our hearts.

Good day, Sir.