A world without Twinkies? Say it ain't so!

Growing up, I always looked forward to the day mom came home with groceries. It meant snacks. And by snacks I mean junk food.


Now we didn’t drink a lot of pop in the Leffler household. And we didn’t gorge ourselves on sweets or chips or anything like that. But that’s not to mean that there wasn’t often something extra tasty in the grocery bags.

Every so often that “something extra tasty” would be Hostess snack cakes — whether they were Ho Hos or Twinkies, it didn’t matter. They were made out of the magical stuff that all kids love — sugar!

In actuality, mom probably bought Ho Hos or Twinkies a handful of times in my life. And I may have bought them a handful of times for my kids in their lives. In other words, I don’t exactly subside on a died of snack cakes. In fact, I can’t recollect when was the last time I had the sugary goodness that is a Twinkie. Maybe that’s because as I grew old(er), I decided that what once had been sugary goodness is now just decadence.

And yet over the past few days I’ve found myself craving one of those cream-filled yellow cakes. Why? Because we might not be able to get them any more. The company announced last week that they were filing for bankruptcy and would cease production of all their goodies — including Twinkies.

I (along with the rest of the Internet) find it funny to think that Twinkies, which are supposed to be able to survive a nuclear holocaust and have a shelf life of forever, may disappear just weeks shy of the alleged end of the world (according to the Mayan calendar). I find it even funnier to think that this revelation has made me want one.

But you see, Twinkies are more than a sugar-filled death stick. They’re a part of my youth. And I’d imagine they’re a part of America’s youth. I have a feeling I’m not the only one thinking back on days when mom brought the groceries home and I “helped” put them away (primarily so I would know what goodies she brought and what cupboard they went into.)

So a Twinkie-less future just seems unAmerican to me.

But wait! Monday a judge told Hostess that the company needs to go to remediation to try to work things out with its union and continue to produce their sugary goodness.

So I’m hopeful for the future. And thankful for Twinkies. May there be a bounty of them on your Thanksgiving table.

Scott Leffler is thankful for more than just Twinkies. Follow him on Twitter @scottleffler for a running tally Thanksgiving Day.

I’ve added a holiday to the calendar this year

I have an incredible memory sometimes. While most people are able to recollect experiences, I can remember the calendar dates of those experiences.

As such it seems like it’s always an anniversary of something. In other words, I always have a reason to celebrate. It’s always a holiday in my head. As if the normal calendar items weren’t a big enough deal, this week was the anniversary of when I bought my car, my hedgehog’s birthday and Guy Fawkes Day, among other trivial items.

Some days are more important than others though. Like my birthday. And Halloween. And Christmas. And given their close proximity on the calendar, Halloween time really means the start of the neo-Christmas season. And my birthday is so close to Halloween that THAT means the start of Christmas. To simplify it, my birthday equals Christmas. Because after Halloween there’s nothing important until Christmas — usually.

The fourth Thursday in November, the rest of America tends to celebrate a holiday that I don’t usually recognize: Thanksgiving. As I did last year, I offered to work this Thanksgiving, in part to get out of having to endure the annual “celebration” that is Thanksgiving.

For those of you familiar with me from my radio days, my contempt for Thanksgiving should come as no surprise. For those of you who aren’t familiar, just google “Scott Leffler Thanksgiving.” It’s page-ranked.

Nonetheless, my loving mother asked if I wanted to do Thanksgiving this year. Bless her heart, she’s always trying. At first I said ‘no.’ But after thinking about it some more, I decided that I would actually celebrate America’s favorite giftless holiday. But I’d do it on my terms.

While I don’t “particularly care for” (pronounced “remotely like”) turkey, the thing that frustrates me about Thanksgiving the most is having someone spend hours — or days — creating a meal that I don’t like … and then give me the stink eye when I don’t rant and rave about how much I love it.

There’s this theory that “us men” can just sit in the living room and watch football while the “women folk” cater to us. Except I don’t work that way. I don’t believe in antiquated gender roles. I do laundry. I cook. I clean. I bake. True, I’m a bachelor and in my current situation, I’d have to do all those things. But I also did them all when I was married. And I’ll continue to do them all should my “bachelor-hood” change in the future.

In addition to my refusal to buy into gender roles, there’s the fact that there’s nothing more stressful for me than watching someone else work while I sit on my patootie. It’s guilt-ridden stress through and through. And it makes every bite of dinner guilt-ridden and stressful. It ruins the whole meal - to the extent that you can further-ruin turkey, at least.

So this year, I’m cooking the turkey. I’m making the mashed potatoes. I’m doing the stuffing. I’m hosting. Cleaning. And making doggie bags when we’re done. And then I’m going in to work. Guilt- and stress-free.

I hope this crazy plan works. Because while I may not like turkey, I prefer it to eating crow.

Scott Leffler is a Libra who likes long walks on the beach, burgers and pizza. Just not turkey. He often posts pictures of his dinner on Twitter @scottleffler.

There's nothing flakey about it

The new apartment is so much bigger than my previous place. That means that several items which I’ve had in storage are actually being used — or prominently on display.

Sunday afternoon I was cleaning up and organizing my bedroom, one of the last rooms in the house to be tended to. (I never got my bedroom painted in my old apartment, despite living there for 18 months). I took my box of Flutie Flakes and put them on top of my dresser, surrounded by a couple of stuffed hedgehogs and a stuffed bear.

And my girlfriend immediately started picking on me!

You’re thinking she was picking on my for owning stuffed animals, right? That’s where I thought she was going to go when she started laughing. I mean, what self-respecting adult male has a collection of stuffed animals that he keeps on display?

But, no, she had seen the hedgehogs and the polar bear before. It was the Flutie Flakes that apparently drew her attention.

The box is in pristine condition — still unopened. They go for about $10 on eBay. Of course, I didn’t know that until about 30 seconds ago because I’ve never considered selling it.

For one, it provides “10 essential vitamins and minerals.” For another thing, it’s kind of signed. In the same manner that all first-edition Flutie Flakes were signed. And lastly (this may be key), my dad gave it to me.

“I’ll bet 10 percent of men in Western New York still have a box of Flutie Flakes,” I told her.

She seemed to doubt this supposition on my part and contends that any self-respecting male that does have a box of Flutie Flakes has them hidden in a closet somewhere so his wife or girlfriend won’t throw it out.

I know I’ve said previously that I’m not a huge sports fan, but c’mon. Doug Flutie? How could you not like the guy. For a while, he was the hero of 50 percent of guys in the Buffalo area. The other 50 percent, for some reason, hated him.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe the “shrine” (her words not mine) to the Flutie Flakes is a bit much.

Eventually, they’ll end up on a shelf along with other items she’ll think should embarrass me but don’t, like my tin Labatt Blue sign which she suggested should go in the “man cave” (attic).

But for now, my box of Flutie Flakes will be prominently displayed in my bedroom — where no one other than her or I will see them.

But I have to ask you guys, where do you keep yours?

Election night bloopers and jokes

I’ve mentioned before that politics is one of my favorite sports, and election night is my Superbowl.

Just like the real Superbowl, no two election nights are the same. Sometimes things go exactly how you expect them, and sometimes there’s a wardrobe malfunction at half time or a wide-right field goal with time running out.

This year, I was quarterbacking election coverage for the Lockport Union-Sun & Journal. We had our team in place and were in the typically boring part of the evening — the “now we wait” part.
In truth, there are several “now we wait” parts. We wait for polls to close. We wait for results to come in. And then we wait for candidates to talk to us. This was the second “now we wait” part, waiting for the numbers to come in.

I sat in the newsroom waiting for fresh numbers from the board of elections, and our team was out in the field waiting to talk to candidates and taking pictures of the evening’s candidates’ parties.

Our staff photographer, Joe Eberle, was popping back and forth from Republican headquarters at Danny Sheehan’s to Democratic County Clerk Candidate Pat Murphy’s headquarters at the Shamus Restaurant. Meanwhile, one of our freelance photographers, Heather Grimmer, had set up camp at Lockport’s Democratic headquarters, the Davison Road Inn.

The Davison Road Inn, or D.R.I., was the home to Democratic mayoral candidate Mike Pillot and candidate for alderman, Shirley Nicholas.

We knew the mayoral race was going to be tight and could go either way. The refuse and recycling issue in Lockport had made Mayor Mike Tucker vulnerable. It had done the same with 1st Ward Alderwoman Richelle Pasceri. In fact, she had lost the GOP primary to Nicholas for that very reason.
Potentially, we had two upsets on our hands, and we wanted to have a photographer on hand to snap pictures of the happy winners at Democrat headquarters, if that’s the way it played out.

Unfortunately, our photographer, Heather, was asked to stop taking photographs — and leave — by adherents to the Democrats’ campaigns.

“We don’t like the Union-Sun and we’d like you to leave,” is the paraphrase that was relayed back to me.

Heather — a professional photographer, but a novice at politics — called to ask me how to proceed. Me — not being a novice at politics — was rather upset at the lack of class and professional decorum on display by the Democrats. And frankly, I was a bit shocked. I mean, this just isn’t the way it works.

Side note for those who don’t know me well: The only thing I dislike more than Democrats are Republicans.

Heather had every right to stay at D.R.I., a point reiterated to her by the staff of the D.R.I. But I told her to leave the restaurant without taking any photos. If the candidates and their people didn’t want their pictures in the paper, then, by golly, they weren’t going to be.

And all I could think was, “If this is the way these people treat others, I hope to God they don’t get elected.”

They didn’t. Karmic justice, if you ask me.