What to wear when visiting the Vatican...

Oblique/St. Peter's Square, Vatican City

Written by Jim Heffernan/DuluthNewsTribune/6-7-25

I like new Pope Leo XIV, although it remains to be seen how he’ll turn out (sainthood maybe?). Seems like it takes 200 to 300 years. There have been several Pope Leos before Pope Leo XIV — 13 (XIII) to be exact, according to all 10 (X) of my fingers plus three (III) toothpicks.

 

Pope Leo XIV is the first American to head the Holy See, prompting many to exclaim “Holy Mackerel!” — with all due respect, of course. 

 

When I was a kid in school, all of the classroom clocks had Roman numerals marking the hours I through XII. That pretty much sums up what I learned in school. Once you get beyond XII, though, it can get tough to figure out what the Roman numerals mean. I’m lost on the Super Bowl. The last one was LIX; parse that if you can.

 

I do think Roman numerals add a touch of class to individuals who achieve great fame and success, like kings, queens and popes, or descendants of rich guys like Scrooge McDuck (the Disney favorite who had so much money he had to push it around with a plow). His grandson, Dr. Scrooge McDuck III, is a distinguished physician and not a quack.

 

But enough secular stuff. Let’s get back to Leo popes, or Pope Leos, and other popes. I was brought up a Lutheran, so my pope lore is very pooped. But I have some.

 

I was scared of Pope Pius XII, the pope of my childhood. At movies I recall seeing Pius XII in a lot in the newsreels they used to screen between showings of the movies. This was in ancient times before TV became ubiquitous.

 

They always showed slender and austere Pope Pius XII (he was pope from 1939 to 1958, Google reports) being carried around seated in a portable throne on the shoulders of the gaily clad Swiss Guards, although I didn’t know then that they were Swiss Guards. They looked like classy pirates, to coin an oxymoron.

 

Pius XII never smiled, but, understanding a little bit about world history now as a grownup, he had very little to smile about. He took over the Holy See right at the outbreak of World War II (hey, more Roman numerals) and served throughout that war and the Cold War and various and sundry other wars. Dour times. All times are dour, come to think of it.

 

Still, as a youngster, and a Lutheran one to boot, I was slightly afraid of the austere pope, although I thought it was kind of neat in those pre-Popemobile days that he never walked anywhere and was carried on the shoulders of six (VI) men. I was a lazy boy and would have preferred being carried around like that myself.

 

I hadn’t given my childhood Pope Pius XII much thought since I was a kid but ran smack into him a few years ago on a trip to Rome. Walking into St. Peter’s Basilica, there he was depicted in a huge mural on a wall. He still wasn’t smiling, although he might have if he’d known about my Vatican pants.

 

This was back in the days — the ‘90s — when men’s casual pants often had zippers just above the knees and if the weather suddenly went from cool to warm you could unzip the lower legs and go around in shorts so your calves and shins wouldn’t overheat. Well, when the group we were with in Rome was told men weren’t allowed to wear shorts in the Sistine Chapel or Basilica I donned my khakis with the zippered knees.

 

After exiting the holy sites on a warm Rome day, I quickly unzipped each leg and, voila, I was in shorts. 

St.Peter's Square, Vatican City

Since then I have always called them my Vatican pants.

Vatican pants aside, as soon as the new pope declared he would be named Leo XIV I was reminded of an earlier Leo pope, Pope Leo III (just three fingers), serving toward the end of the first century in the year of our Lord 795 or so. I recalled from somnambulant world history studies in college days (History LX?) that it was Leo III who crowned the renowned Charlemagne as emperor of just about everywhere in Europe back then.

 

Everybody knows about Charlemagne, but hardly anyone remembers that his father was Pepin the Short, and his grandson was Charles the Bald and great-grandson was Charles the Fat. This was almost 2,000 years before political correctness. Learning stuff like that is what college is all about.

 

Finally (and it’s about time) I want to wish new Pope Leo XIV well. He is neither short nor fat nor bald. That should stand him in good stead. We’ll see in a couple of hundred years how it all turns out. Unfortunately, I will no longer be with us.

 

Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org. 

Opinion: Stubbed toe was Biden's doing, Trump tells Martian…

 

Opinion: by Jim Heffernan- published in the DuluthNewsTribune/May14, 2025

Here’s the latest fake news that’s unfit to print...

 WASHINGTON — President Donald Trump, seen limping on the White House lawn, said today that he stubbed his toe in the Lincoln bathroom due to a remodeling project in 2003 ordered by former President Joe Biden.

 

“It’s Biden’s fault,” Trump asserted. He assured reporters that his stubbed toe would “heal soon” and his gait would return to normal. He said the injury would not prevent him from golfing. “That’s what golf carts are for.”

 

Describing the incident, he said he had just emerged from a shower in which “I washed my beautiful hair despite an inadequate shower head” when his bare foot hit a commode that had been ordered moved by Biden, resulting in the injury.

 

Observers said this is the first time in American history that toilet routines of a U.S. president had been a subject of public discussion and concern. A president’s bare feet have never been an issue in the past.

 

It was the latest surprise incident involving the 78-year-old president who had recently completed the first 100 days in office in his second term. Observers were shocked when the patriotic president appeared in public without an American flag lapel pin on his blue suit.

 

When it was pointed out in the daily press briefing to raven-haired press secretary Dartha Vader, the session was immediately ended and media members were ushered from the White House as Secret Service personnel converged on the Rose Garden, sunglasses affixed.

 

When the area had been secured, it was announced that the lapse was the fault of former President Biden whose remodeling project in the Lincoln bathroom had discombobulated President Trump, who was still groggy after his usual three hours of sleep. “He just woke up…er, not woke but he’d just awakened,” a spokeswoman said.  “The president is never woke.”

 

The American flag pin was returned to his lapel a few minutes later as the president presided over an Oval Office gathering honoring aliens from Mars whose arrival by flying saucer after the 2024 election had been covered up for security reasons by former President Biden before leaving office.

 

“These are fine aliens who are a great credit to Mars, where the United States soon will visit,” Trump said. “Biden placed the United States at great risk by not welcoming them to the White House when they demanded: ‘Take me to your leader,’ although Biden was no leader,” Trump went on.

 

Secretary of State Marco Rubio and other cabinet members praised Trump for his effusive welcoming of the Martians. “You are the greatest greeter of space aliens since the cast of ‘ET’,” Rubio asserted to the smiling president who adopted a humble demeanor for the first time since his inauguration in January. 

 

Close associates of the president said it was likely the Martians were sent to America by God when the country finally elected a leader worthy of the title “leader” in intergalactic terms. “God would never have done such a thing when Biden, who was more interested in remodeling the Lincoln bathroom than making peace with the universe, was president,” an aide rhapsodized.

 

For his part, Trump reportedly asked the space visitors if they’d ever stubbed their three-inch toes.

 

Film at 10.

 

jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org.

Largely true confessions of a classical music nut...

Johann Sebastian Bach (Wikipedia)

Written by Jim Heffernan for the DuluthNewsTribune/5-3-25 It’s not exactly Bob Dylan or Prince, I was thinking as, arms waving, I conducted a large symphony orchestra. Resounding through the concert hall was the second movement of Beethoven’s sixth symphony (the one with the great thunderstorm). The concert hall was our living room, with nobody home, the CD player blaring. My own Homegrown Music Festival.

 

I wouldn’t dare do such a thing if anyone was watching. Enter the men in white coats. (They’ll be back!)

 

Can’t help it though. I’m a classical music nut, have been since childhood, a proclivity that has survived through dozens of musical genres I have listened to during my long life, including the estimable Mr. Dylan — more on whom later.

 

I was in my teens in high school when Elvis hit and he changed everything in popular music. I thought he was great, even though I maintained my suppressed love of classical music in my high school years, attempting to be “cool” (and failing). Brahms is great, but not cool, like Chubby Checker.

 

Before Elvis, much popular music could only be looked upon today as “sappy.” The 1950s radio was humming with such songs as “How Much is that Doggie in the Window (arf-arf)” and “The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane” (tribute to a newborn). How about “On the Baby’s Knuckle or the Baby’s Knee, Where Will the Baby’s Dimple Be?” Great questions of our time. Or that time, I guess. Oh, can’t forget “The Shrimp Boats are a-Comin’, There’s Dancin’ Tonight.” But not the “Peppermint Twist.”

 

I always had classical music to fall back on though, earworm-wise.

 

It goes back a long way in my life, to fairly early childhood. There was a lot of classical music in my growing-up home because my mother was an accomplished pianist who played it on our piano. Plus, we had recordings of some of the great composers.  Bach was big, Bing not so much.  

 

Once as a child I was on a program in our church parlors in which Sunday school kids were interviewed. I was six or seven years old. When they got to me, the adult interviewer asked me several questions and it came out that I liked music. 

 

“What kind of music do you like? I was asked.

 

“Certainly not Shostakovich,” was my response.

 

People in the audience roared with laughter in appreciation of this rebuke of a Russian composer. One woman hugged me. It was when the Cold War was heating up right after World War II and anything anti-Russian was appreciated in America. 

 

At that moment I decided I would grow up to be president of the United States but it turns out I had to settle for living room maestro. Ironically, later in life I grew of appreciate Dmitri Shostakovich’s music, although I’m not that crazy about trying to spell his name. Google knows how.

 

Still, the music goes on and on, as do the years. I thought the folk singing Kingston Trio was pretty cool in the early ‘60s and also embraced some jazz — Shearing, Brubeck — but classical music from the romantic era (largely 19th Century) has remained my staple although I also can also go for baroque and dip into the 20th Century. Remember that century?

 

Beatles? I missed being a fan, but they have their moments. What about rock ’n’ roll? It can’t be avoided. If it could, I would. I once I wrote “I’ve got a right to hate the blues” in a column and got hate mail. Prince is huge, but not for me. My rain ain’t purple. Sorry, kids. (My own kids, great fans.)

 

Can’t forget Country/Western. It’s tuneful, I admit. I once wrote a Country/Western song called “It’s a One Woman Kitchen/She’s Out There Cookin’ All the Time” that went over big in the doghouse.

 

Moving on in the world of music: What about hip-hop? Many of my generation are hopping to their orthopedic surgeons to see about getting new hips. Being a registered geezer, that’s all I have to say about that genre. (Don’t tell my grandchildren.)

 

Why all this now? Bob Dylan has suddenly reappeared in our lives with a recent concert in Mankato, Minn, that has received quite a bit of attention in his home state, as has the movie about his early life, “A Complete Unknown.” Saw it. Liked it.

 

Being such a stuffy classical music guy, it has taken me a long time to appreciate Dylan’s art but I have come to realize he is a brilliant thinker, a gifted poet and a talented musician with a plain singing voice for conveying his thoughts. Grand opera it ain’t, though.

 

Dylan’s ability to stay in the public eye and maintain his enormous popularity for 65 years while seeming not to care is unique. He has never sought glory in his birth town or where he grew up — Duluth and Hibbing. If I had done that well, I’d have demanded a ticker-tape parade.

  

My sticking with classical music in these troubled times can be upsetting though. In a restless overnight dream, I failed to pull the drapes while conducting the massive Gustav Mahler Second Symphony (titled “Resurrection”) and somebody must have seen me waving my arms and reported it.

 

Glancing outside in my dream I noticed two strange men approaching the house. They were wearing white coats. That was okay, though. “I’ve always trusted the kindness of strangers,” as Blanche said in “Streetcar” when they came to get her. (Oops, don’t get me started on theater.)

 

Rrrrring went the alarm clock. I was resurrected.

 

Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org.

Duluth link figured in early Trump show firing...

Jarvis, 2022/Wikipedia

Written by Jim Heffernan for the DuluthNews Tribune/4-5-25

I only viewed Donald Trump’s TV show “The Apprentice” one time. I tuned in because the granddaughter of a good friend here in Duluth had made it to the final segment after surviving for several weeks.

 

In this half hour, she would either win it all or be fired.

 

Of course, I was aware of Trump’s celebrity but I’d never paid close attention to him before. This all took place around 20 years ago, long before he entered politics.

 

As he appeared as the “boss” on the program, I found myself fascinated by his coiffure. Over the years my hairline had been receding, and, lamentably, I’ve had to live with it. I’d never seen a “comb over” quite like the one Trump sported.

 

But enough about hair for the moment. I tuned in to his “reality” TV show to see the granddaughter of my long-time friend and his wife, a Duluth couple who raised their family here. My friend and I had met when I took a news reporter job at the Duluth Herald and News Tribune in the early 1960s.

 

He was a seasoned journalist who had had considerable past experience as a newspaper and wire service reporter. He had left journalism to operate a business started years before by his wife’s family in Ironwood, Mich. Hard economic times had led to the demise of that business and my friend returned to journalism, moving here and taking a job as a newspaper reporter.

 

He was quite a bit older than I, but we became fast friends in spite of the difference in our ages. He and his wife had started a family, two daughters raised largely in Duluth.

 

A few years later, as his kids were growing into their teen years, my friend left the newspaper and went to work for the city of Duluth in a job as a business developer whose main objective was to seek out and persuade businesses to start here or relocate from elsewhere. Goal? Jobs for Duluthians.

 

His moving on didn’t end our friendship, though. After all, his office in Duluth City Hall was just across the street from the newspaper, so we continued to frequently have lunch together and have other contact, including socially with our wives.

 

As years went by, his daughters went to high school here, one of them continuing her education at UMD. It was there that she met her future husband and after graduating, marrying and moving to the Twin Cities, she had her first child, a girl, my friend’s first grandchild.

 

As with most who welcome a grandchild into the family, my friend was overjoyed and captivated. His love prompted him to talk about the little girls they named Rebecca, nickname Becky — Becky did this, Becky did that, Becky’s so smart — so often I and other friends would good-naturedly kid him about it. I found out some years later how that happens when we welcomed grandchildren.

 

Time marched on, as it always does, and my friend’s granddaughter grew into a stellar high school student who gained some public attention in the Twin Cities even then. Following graduation, she went on to the University of Chicago, after which I lost track of her for a few years.

 

Then we heard she was competing on “The Apprentice” on which host businessman Donald Trump conducted “job” interviews with a group of contestants, eliminating several by “firing” them until the final segment, with two contestants left, one of whom would be fired and the other offered a job.

 

That’s when I tuned in to see the fate of my friend’s granddaughter, whom I’d met once at her grandparents’ anniversary celebration. Coincidentally, she had broken her ankle and had appeared on the show with crutches. The other “survivor” of weeks of firings was a male of similar age. He seemed like a fine young man, but, of course, I was rooting for my friend’s granddaughter, Becky.

 

Trump fired Becky at the end of that segment, and he offered her opponent a job in one of his real estate enterprises. I’ve never heard of him again.

 

But Becky has been heard from. She is Rebecca Jarvis, chief business, economics and technology correspondent for ABC News in New York. In addition, she appears regularly on ABC’s “Good Morning America,” frequently co-hosting with George Stephanopoulos and the other regular morning hosts, and also on other ABC programs.

 

So there’s a connection with Duluth. Her grandfather, my good friend, was Jerome “Jerry” Marks, who ended his career as an industrial developer for the city and the Seaway Port Authority and retired to Florida, where he passed away a few years ago. But he and his wife, Helen, lived long enough to see Becky on “The Apprentice.”

 

Rebecca’s mother, Gail Marks Jarvis, a graduate of Duluth Central High School and UMD, also worked for the Duluth and St. Paul newspapers and later became a syndicated financial columnist for the Chicago Tribune. Rebecca’s father, Jim, is a lawyer.

 

Donald J. Trump, he of the incredible comb over (Trump Hair Arrangement Syndrome?), went on to get elected president of the United States…twice, and is still firing people. And I’m still losing hair, darn it.

 

Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org. 

Working class doesn’t have to involve actual work...

Written By Jim Heffernan for the Duluth News Tribune/3-8-25

Looks like Musk and Trump have taken over the Republican Party’s elephant from tusk to rump.

Hey…that has a ring to it.

I’m a donkey guy myself. Can’t help it; I come from a “working class” family, although I’ve never been that nuts about working. I think my father, a union man, voted for the GOP’s Eisenhower.  Practically everybody did. I’m so old I saw Eisenhower twice, more on which later. And don’t get me started on Truman. Saw him too. Missed Lincoln.

(Side note: Proper journalism requires using first names as well as last on initial mention. So, for the preceding paragraphs the first names are Elon, Donald, Dwight, Harry and Abraham. Thanks.)

I was never that comfortable with coming from a working class family because of my lack of affinity for work. I had an older relative on my father’s side who was infamously lazy and when I was young, I was constantly warned not to be like him.

But I couldn’t help it. I was never that nuts about “work,” preferring to sit around in my youth doing not much. Some young men of my generation were proudly known as “good hard workers.” I never had that problem.

It was noticed by an observant neighbor woman who told my mother I sat around too much. I didn’t even care for playing sandlot sports; too much work running around the bases or up and down the field. And don’t get me started on golf, and I never did. I preferred lying in hammocks, looking at the stars or going to theaters and looking at the movie stars.

When I got older, I held a few jobs that actually involved physical work, but then I discovered journalism, much of which involves sitting around until a house burns down, somebody gets shot or a flood occurs. Fine with me.

Before I found journalism, I found the study of economics in college encouraging (you get to sit around a lot in college), especially economist Thorstein Veblen’s “The Theory of the Leisure Class.” Finally, a social class I liked.

Veblen was a colorful Norwegian — yup, it can happen — who spent much of his life in Minnesota well over 100 years ago. He was highly respected in academic circles but not so much by the very wealthy, his “Leisure Class.”

I don’t sense that Trump and Musk (or Musk and Trump, if you prefer) think much in terms of their class affiliation, comfortable with being in the upper, billionaire classes, even leisure, although they seem pretty busy these days dealing with lower classes.

One sign of membership in the Trump/Musk classes: French cuffs. Trump never appears on TV without French cuffs poking out of his suit coat sleeves. This is a sure sign of an affluent upper class member, especially when the cuffs are fastened with gold cufflinks.

I suspect that many of the people who voted for him have never worn French cuffs.

Earlier in this treatise I mentioned seeing Eisenhower twice. The first time was at the Minnesota State Fair when I was a child shortly after World War II. He was still a general, wearing his uniform wandering through the fair with the governor. The second time was in 1952 while he was campaigning for president in Duluth. His motorcade drove to the airport not far from my home and I saw him smile through a limo window.

Truman, who as vice president became president when Franklin Roosevelt died in 1945, campaigned here in 1948. They let us out of school early so we could see him being driven down Superior Street sitting high on the back of a convertible, smiling and waving. He won.

I believe I mentioned those presidential visits in a column several years ago, but many of the then readers are no longer with us. Now I’d better get my (Biblical word for donkey) out of here and lie down.

Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org. 

Gulf of America? How about Lake Duluth...

Written by Jim Heffernan fortheDuluthNewsTribune/2-1-25

Here’s a big dose of fake news.

I recently ran into an up-and-coming future local politician with a lot of interesting ideas. We met seated on adjoining stools at a local pub enjoying what used to be called a “brew.”

 

This fellow vowed he is going to get into politics in the near future but hasn’t decided which political office he’ll run for. Maybe mayor, maybe Congress member, he said, or maybe it could lead to governor and then who knows where, “vice president?”

 

I was struck by his dedication to political issues, which he would outline to me if I promised not to reveal his name. “Not ready to go public yet,” he declared. Fair enough.

 

He said he admires our new president and added that some of his own ideas for the future were inspired by the recently inaugurated chief executive.

 

“For one thing,” my newfound acquaintance said, “I like his idea to change the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America. Why should Mexico get all the credit?”

 

“Hmmm,” I articulated. I’m not sure where I stand on that issue but I didn’t challenge him.

 

“I’d go further, though, for around here,” he continued.

 

“How’s that?”

 

“I believe we should change the name of Lake Superior to Lake Duluth.”  

Whew, that was a new one on me, but I let him ramble on. I’ll paraphrase rather than try to recall his every word. He said it’s unfair that the city of Superior gets all the credit for having the same name as the world’s largest freshwater lake (in terms of surface, not volume) just like Mexico gets all the good vibes from being the namesake of the Gulf.

 

“It just ain’t fair,” he asserted. “Duluth’s taller, broader and bigger and it’s got way more Kwik Trips than Superior,” he went on. “And look at all the brewing happening on this side of the bay.”

 

I had to admit that Superior used to be a much better beer town than Duluth. No more?

 

“If I get elected to political office that’s the first thing I’m going to introduce,” he vowed. “Lake Duluth. It’ll Make Duluth Great Again!”

 

“Don’t you think the city of Superior would resent this?” I queried.

 

Taking another sip of brew, he asserted: “Why should they care, they’ve got all the top nuns of the Catholic Church — the Mother Superiors.”

 

Flabbergasted, I moved on, asking him what his second issue might be.

 

“Well, our once and present president wants to secure the island of Greenland for the United States of America,” he asserted. “Great, I’m all for it,” he went on, “although I never figured out why they call it Greenland when it’s covered over with ice and snow.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” I responded. “Maybe Iceland was already taken.”

 

My new barstool buddy went on to say that in the same spirit as the idea of the United States taking over Greenland, Minnesota should take over Isle Royale in Lake Duluth — “I like to call it that” — pointing out that while Isle Royale is close to Minnesota’s north shore, it’s the property of the state of Michigan. 

 

“Yup, you’re right,” I had to admit.

 

“If Michigan won’t give it up, I believe the Minnesota National Guard could easily overpower any of Michigan’s defenses and secure Isle Royale for Minnesota with all the timber wolves, moose and snowshoe rabbits living there in one swell foop.” (Note: He must have meant fell swoop.)

 

I’m not so sure about that, I told him. I was once in the National Guard. These ideas got me wondering what else my newfound political acquaintance might have in mind. “What do you think about the president’s idea to make Canada the 51st American state?” I inquired.

 

“Makes sense to me,” he responded. “I like to fish up there and I’m sick and tired of having to produce a passport at the border just to troll for trout. But I do wonder how they’d get a 51st star on the American flag.”

 

He reflected for a moment, admiring himself in the mirror behind the bar before proclaiming: “Hey, if it becomes a state, I could end up governor of Canada.”

 

I said nothing, but ruminated briefly about that idea as I took a final sip. Let’s see, I found myself musing, “O Canada” is the title of the Canadian national anthem. Maybe they should change it to “Oh-Oh Canada.”

 

“I gotta go,” he suddenly announced, stepping off his stool, remarking as he moved toward the door, “I was happy for all of our fine American dentists, though, when the new president emphasized, ‘drill, baby, drill.’”

 

Waving, I said, “See ya, I think I’ll stick around awhile,” as I signaled the barkeep for a calming libation.

 

Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org. 

Be happier, be healthier in new year via TV...

Written by By Jim Heffernan for the DuluthNewsTribune:1-04-25

I only adopted one New Year’s resolution this year. It is a vow to get healthier. Not that I’m unhealthy now, according to my personal physician, Dr. B.P “Sawbones” Quack, but I’m getting along in years so I figure I’d be well advised to undertake every healthful practice possible — short of eating vegetables an exercising — to avoid involvement of an actual undertaker.

 

So, I have resolved to take more of the medicines they advertise on late-night television. I do much of my TV viewing in the later hours after the 10 o’clock news: Stephen Colbert, Jimmy Kimmel, etc. Then there’s CNN and MSNBC (oh-oh, my politics are showing). These programs feature lots of commercials for nostrums (look that word up; it’s broader than you think) to address various health problems, many of which I have never heard — neither the nostrums nor the health problems they address.

 

I guess I am aware of the subject of one ubiquitous commercial — the heartbreak of psoriasis. I once knew a guy who had the skin problem, but it must be a far greater problem in America than I had ever surmised. Remedies for psoriasis are on TV commercial breaks every night sounding like it is some national concern like a dreaded pandemic or a presidential election. Jeez, it might be a heartbreak, but it’s not…um…not debilitating or anything. I’m sure the good Dr. Sawbones Quack would agree.

 

There are others too — far too numerous to mention. I sit through these commercials, eyes glazing over, barely paying attention. But what gets my attention are the disclaimers at the end of them — all of them. They start out telling about their wonders and then, before signing off, a voice warns of the various horrible things that could happen to you if you take the advertised product.

 

Let me give a fictitious example: Say the commercial is advertising a medicine to combat corns. You know, those pesky little growths on the toe that can be so bothersome and actually painful at times.

 

Here goes: “Forget old-time corn plasters,” the commercial might begin, “get new CornBgone for immediate relief. Just one pill a day and your corns will disappear in a few weeks. Call 1-800-123 4567 and a 30-day supply of CornBgone will be delivered to your door in a few days in an unmarked package so your neighbors will never know you suffer the chagrin of painful, unsightly corns on your toes.”

 

OK, that’s the pitch. Then come the warnings: “Do not take CornBgone if you also have hangnails or athlete’s foot. Call your veterinarian if you notice symptoms of bird-flu-causing whooping crane cough, suffer swine flu over the cuckoo’s nest or hallucinate that you are a bull in a china shop coming down with hoof and mouth disease.

 

“Beware of a musky body odor when taking CornBgone. Consult your dermatologist if this odor persists and avoid public locker rooms and nudist colonies. Finally, CornBgone has also been identified as a possible cause of bubonic plague and leprosy in adults, children and gorillas. If leprosy symptoms persist check your Bible and avoid zoos.”

 

You get the idea. These dire warnings viewed late at night can cause sleeplessness, which, of course, can be addressed by another TV commercial:

 

“Having difficulty falling asleep? Take Sleep Like a Log, the amazing new sleep aid that millions of Americans are using when trying to slumber and only wakefulness persists. One dose before retiring and you will sleep like a log…” and so on and so forth.

 

“Warning: Sleep Like a Log could cause the user to never wake up, a rare condition called ‘death.’ ”

 

Yikes! On second thought I think I’ll retract that New Year’s resolution.

 

Hey, happy (and healthy) new year! (Oops, I just blew two of the six exclamation points I’m allowed each year.)

 

Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org.