The phantom ringy-dingy

If turnabout is fair play, then I got what I deserved the other day when my office phone rang. Upon answering, all I heard from the other end was distant, indistinct chatter. No one within that chatter was speaking to me; a couple of "hellos" on my part went unanswered.

It was weird to be hearing a conversation but not quite make it out and not be able to make my self a part of it. It was dreamy in a way – I was there, but not there. What it was, I think, was a pocket phone call, and I deserved the call because I've been guilty of late of making pocket phone calls myself.

For those who aren't aware, pocket phone calls are the calls your cell phone makes while it is stored in your pocket or handbag or wherever. You don't intentionally make this phone call. Somehow, the movement of your leg against the cell phone key pad in your pocket dials a telephone number. You have no idea whatsoever you're making the call.

I have to believe the incidents of these types of calls are growing as more and more people get the smartphone devices that have full keyboards that are vulnerable to random dialing. People who have the clamshell type cell phones -- the ones with a cover that opens and closes over the touch pad -- don't make pocket phone calls. But the growing preponderance of Blackberry phones raises the chances that their owners are going to make calls they have no idea they’re making.

I recently upgraded from a Treo to a BlackBerry smartphone. I don't recall making any random pocket calls with my Treo because it has an automatic locking mechanism for the keyboard once the device shuts off. You can't do anything until you press the unlock button.

The Blackberry doesn't automatically lock. You have to manually lock the phone, then hit a three-button sequence to unlock the phone to perform any of the functions, such as make a phone call.

I don't normally use the lock function. Usually the phone is in my shirt pocket where it doesn't get into much trouble. And using the three button unlock function is really kind of a pain in the neck.

It was soon after I got the phone, when the phone was in my jeans pocket during a weekend of travel that I started making mystery calls. I -- or more precisely, it -- dialed a former colleague from a newspaper in Massachusetts and it dialed my daughter. Somehow the speed dial button for my daughter was pushed while my phone was stowed in my jeans pocket. I'm not sure at all how I dialed the former colleague. Enough buttons to get into my phone's address book would have had to have been pushed, and I can't fathom how that can happen.

In the right front pocket of my jeans, I have to have pretty smart thighs to coordinate enough movement against the keypad to make a call that lasted 59 seconds while I was having lunch with friends on a Saturday in Worcester, Mass. And even smarter thighs the next day to give my daughter Elizabeth a phantom call for 22 seconds while I was watching a college hockey game.

I won't begrudge the phone calls you may inadvertently make to my office or my cell phone. I'll try to call attention to your error by shouting “hello, hello,” but you won't hear me because your phone will be nestled snugly in your pocket or bag. I've been there, done that, will probably do it again. I feel your pain, I feel your ring. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s a monthly plan for unlimited pocket calls.

History as movie fiction

You've probably heard the comment: Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

We in the news business are often accused of just such a thing, though I can honestly say I've never been party to a story where facts were dismissed or overlooked in order to make the story better. But I can't say the same about some movies.

That struck me recently as my wife Jane and I watched "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" with Cate Blanchett in the title role. You'd think you were watching history, when upon closer inspection you are watching a good story that didn't let the facts of history get in its way.

Maybe it's me, and the fact that when I read a book or newspaper or watch a television show or movie I tend to see it through the eyes of the editor that I was. I expect good writing and editing, truth and accuracy. I accept that entertainment often involves the suspension of belief, but I can't give a pass to entertainment that presents itself off as lifted from the headlines or lifted from the pages of history when in fact it is created from imagination.

I was intrigued by "Elizabeth" when I saw it at the local Blockbuster because in December I had visited London, where, with the help of my son who had spent a semester there, I totally immersed myself in British history.

"Elizabeth" -- for which Blanchett received a well-deserved best-actress Oscar nomination -- tells her majesty's story as England, having divorced itself from the Catholic Church, faced invasion from the very Catholic Spanish King Phillip II and his famous armada in 1588. We learn of her relationship with Sir Walter Raleigh, and her relationship with Mary Stuart -- Mary, Queen of Scots.

The movie will have you believe that, in relatively quick succession: 1) she was smitten by Raleigh at a time when she was weighing her options to pick a husband, then was enraged when Raleigh took up with her maid of honor, 2) Raleigh had a direct hand in the events that ultimately led to the defeat of the Spanish Armada off the English coast, 3) Mary was beheaded as a direct result of an assassination plot tied to the invasion, and 4) that England lived happily ever after as a result of Elizabeth's enlightened rule.

But history tells us that it didn't quite go down this way.

Raleigh regularly fell in and out of favor with the queen and with the royal court. After Elizabeth's death, he questioned her defense of England against, and was beheaded by her successor in 1618. His relationship with the queen's maid of honor took place years after the events related in the movie. Raleigh likely had nothing to do with the sinking of the Spanish Armada in the English Channel. The execution of Mary Stuart, again had nothing to do with events related to the Spanish invasion.

Did I enjoy the movie for what it was? Sure. I just have to apply more disbelief, accept entertainment for entertainment's sake, and stay away from the history books afterwards.

Wall Street Journal writer Cynthia Crossen in a recent "Deja Vu" column spoke of fiction and ruses in what we assume is a factual story. She cited early 20th century newspaper columnist Heywood Broun, who wrote that the minstrel never preceded his story to royalty of the fiction he was about to relate. And, if someone should pipe up that "it never happened," said Broun, "...it was the custom to take that man and drop him in the moat; for ancient man was not disposed to let any factualist spoil a good story."

I should keep my mouth shut, lest I end up in the moat.

Recalling the recall of my beer

What would Homer do?

I thought of Homer Simpson, and his overindulging love of Duff beer, when I was faced this week with the recall of my six-pack of Samuel Adams beer. It turns out the six-pack of Summer Ale bottles I had purchased at my local Hannaford's over the weekend was part of a national recall because of bits of glass that might be mixed in with the beer.

The voluntary recall by the folks at Sam Adams caught my eye in a story posted on Boston.com I read after returning home from work on Monday, just before I was going to crack a beer to drink as I made dinner. I had just purchased my beer a couple of days before, and I couldn't imagine that the lot numbers on the bottle would match. I was shocked, frankly, when the lot numbers in the recall notice matched the lot numbers on my bottles.

No recall has ever affected me. But I was pretty excited -- I was part of a national consumer alert, one that made headlines and was being featured on the nightly newscasts.

The company created a web site specifically to address the recall. Its statement said:

"During a routine bottle inspection at one of our breweries, we detected possible defects in a small percentage of bottles resulting in the random presence of bits of glass, most the size of grains of sand, but some small slivers in some bottles as well. Based on this sample, we quickly began testing bottles of Samuel Adams at all of our breweries and identified that the problem appeared to be isolated to a single glass plant of the five that supply us.

"We assembled a panel of food safety, medical and packaging experts including a medical doctor who have thoroughly evaluated the samples. People who bite or swallow a fragment could possibly be injured. While the possibility of injury to an individual consumer is very low and the Company has had no reports of any injury, we do know that the risk is not zero, so we are voluntarily recalling all products in bottles from this specific glass plant that we believe could possibly be affected. While we believe that the number of bottles that actually contain glass is significantly less than 1% of the bottles we are recalling, we are taking this measure to protect the safety of our drinkers."

I have to be honest. In the spirit of Homer Simpson, the thought of pouring six bottles of beer down the drain was abhorrent. So I did what any thoughtful beer-drinking individual would do -- I went looking for a strainer.

How bad could it be? Sam Adams said the glass particles only affected about 1 percent of the suspect bottles. What were the chances? I could strain the beer into a glass, catch the offending glass, if any, and be good to go.

I called the wife. Did we have a strainer or something that I could use as a filter? I'm sure she thought it had something to do whatever I was cooking for dinner, and she guided me to some cheese cloth in the lazy susan. It was when I explained the purpose of my filtering needs did I get the dope slap of reality from the woman who pledged her love for me for richer or poorer, for dumb or dumber: Under no circumstances should I attempt to strain my beer of possible shards of glass.

She bought me a substitute six-pack on the way home -- no Sam Adams, at least for now, and later in the evening I applied on-line for my refund and poured the suspect beer (whimper) down the drain.

Homer would have found a way to drink his recalled beer, even as bits of glass were burrowing into his intestines. But smarter heads prevailed in my beer episode. Even though ... I bet if I had used the coffee filter I would have had a shot.

The Egg McMuffin story is bologna

It was reported this week that the inventor of the Egg McMuffin died. Herb Peterson, according to an obituary written by the Associated Press, invented the Egg McMuffin in 1972 as a way for McDonald's to introduce breakfast into its menu known primarily for burgers, shakes and fries.

But the truth be told -- my Dad invented the Egg McMuffin, though the history of food will never acknowledge it. He called his sandwich the Briand Special.

Millions and millions of Egg McMuffins have sold over the years. My Dad's sandwich never made it beyond the family kitchen, but we believe the Briand Special was the first breakfast sandwich long before the Egg McMuffin.

The Egg McMuffin, as everyone probably well knows, combines grilled Canadian bacon, a slice of cheese and a fried egg between two pieces of a toasted English muffin.

The Briand Special, as my family well knows, combined a slice of fried bologna and a fried egg between two pieces of a toasted English muffin.

I'm not sure on the exact circumstances on the creation of the first Briand Special. My memory has it happening in the late 1960s, born of need and happenstance. You see, my Mom was the family cook, and an excellent one at that. She always found different and plentiful ways to feed a family that ultimately grew to four boys and four girls, not an easy task. She's still the master in the kitchen, as far as I'm concerned. Whatever prowess I manage to show in the kitchen comes from her.

Dad, on the other hand, was a kitchen klutz; he barely knew his way around a toaster. So out of need on the rare occasion that my mom was taking a time out from the kitchen he likely used whatever was on hand to feed himself, which happened to be English muffins, sliced bologna, eggs, butter and a frying pan.

Peterson worked for an advertising agency that did some early jingles for McDonald's, and he was a franchise owner in southern California. While he fashioned his Egg McMuffin after his love of Eggs Benedict, my Dad's recipe was very utilitarian and was fashioned after his need to eat: fry the slice of bologna, fry the egg, toast the English muffin, combine into a sandwich, and don't forget the ketchup ... that's right, ketchup.

Family lore seems to agree that a Briand Special is not a true Briand Special unless the egg is cooked over easy, yoke in tact. That way, in taking your first big bite, yoke will spill from your sandwich (be careful to have a plate under it). You then sop up the yoke as you eat your sandwich, which creates an interesting looking palette of red ketchup mixing with yellow yoke. A piece of advice: Have lots of napkins on hand.

I like to think that I cook more in the tradition of my mother -- balanced, interesting meals. But occasionally, especially on the weekends, I'll bend to that genetic need for a Briand Special.

Herb Peterson may get history's credit for the Egg McMuffin, but my family knows the truth.

My sister Margaret, in passing around an e-mail to family upon reading of Peterson's death, said: "I'm sure Dad was waiting at the Pearly Gates looking for a royalty check."

Amen to that, sister.