The Hollywood hoopla season finally came to a close last night with the 85th Annual Academy Awards.

Just five days before we as a nation might get stuck with $85 billion in spending cuts, all attention seemed focused on the Dolby Theater at Hollywood and Highland. Despite the looming sequester's consequences – you know, things like thousands of teachers losing their jobs, thousands of federal workers getting laid off, or thousands of children going without vaccinations, to name a few – televisions everywhere were tuned in to the Oscar show.

While this year's host Seth MacFarlane was hitting a few sour notes, I couldn't help but think about former host Billy Crystal's classic Oscar-night quip: "Nothing takes the sting out of these tough economic times like watching a bunch of millionaires giving gold statues to each other."

I know. I know. Don't be cynical. Movies can take us away from our tough times. We can enter a theater and forget about our troubles and woes, as we become lost in a motion-picture fairytale or enthralled in two hours of action-packed thrills or entranced by a tale of love and mystery and suspense. 

I grew up a block from our movie theater. Friday-night features and weekend matinees 
were wonderful, magical escapes into other lives in other worlds.

Even the moments leading up to a movie were spectacular – buying that ticket, ordering popcorn and a Coca-Cola, finding a good seat. Then the house lights would dim until complete darkness enveloped me. Slowly, the giant, dark, maroon, velvet-looking curtains parted and opened, and that huge screen was uncovered in all its glory. A feeling of awe and excitement washed over me. Movie time! Well, maybe I had to wait for some previews of coming attractions, followed by a cartoon, and somewhere in there was a stupid ad urging me to go to the lobby and buy some snacks, even though I already had some.

But then the movie started. First came the MGM lion or the Columbia lady with the torch or maybe that 20th Century Fox logo accompanied by that unmistakable music. Now it was movie time!

Some films I still remember watching as if I watched them just yesterday. I was a little guy when Paramount Pictures released "Shane." It was one of those rancher-settler conflicts, and I thought Alan Ladd would never start kicking some bad-guy butts. I still experience that anxious anticipation when I watch that old favorite today.

I saw a similar premise in another western, when my parents took me to the Fox Theater in St. Louis to see Glenn Ford in "The Fasted Gun Alive." I clearly remember eating at a nearby cafeteria – the chocolate-cream pie I ate for dessert was outstanding –  before
walking up the block to the theater to watch Ford play George Temple, whom I thought would never start kicking some bad-guy butts. Man, the anxious anticipation! Umm, that chocolate-cream pie. What memories.

The feature film that I most recall from my childhood is "House of Wax," starring Vincent Price. I was a little squirt, and that movie scared the bejesus out of me. I saw the horror film with my older cousin, who found humor in my harrowing fright. Humor? I had nightmares for weeks. I probably suffered post-traumatic stress disorder!

Such is the power of film. So, I guess I can see how so many people get so worked up when it's Oscar time. It's entertaining. It's fun. It's an exciting and colorful component of our culture. I guess.

However, I want Billy Crystal to come back and host next year.

The End

It's the battle of the bulge. And I need to maintain good cholesterol numbers.

My quest to stay heart healthy began about 15 years ago in Southern California. One doctor said I had to exercise – cardiovascular exercise – at least 30 minutes, at least three times a week. Another physician said I could jog, but no more than three times a week, or I might get arthritis in my right leg, which was broken and still has 14 metal screws in it. The cardiologist tried to kill me on the treadmill, while telling me with a smile that cardiovascular disease is the leading cause of death for men and women of all
races and ethnic groups, and white men have the highest age-adjusted coronary heart disease death rate. And the dietitian told me to stop eating steaks and pork chops and a lot of other good stuff, or I might end up as one of the 85,000 Californians who die each year from cardiovascular disease.

These days, I'm living in Illinois. Recent statistics can be hard to find, but I was able to dig up a Centers for Disease Control 2009 National Vital Statistics Report that said more than 27,000 Illinois residents died from heart disease in 2006. That's a lot fewer than the 85,000 reported in California 15 years ago, but the Land of Lincoln is a lot smaller than the Golden State. Let's look at it another way. According to the CDC, more than one out of four deaths in Illinois are due to heart disease.

So, I shall continue jogging regularly to be sure I get plenty of cardiovascular exercise. Right now, however, I wish I was jogging along the beach in SoCal instead of slipping and sliding in the snow and ice here in the Prairie State.

The tougher challenge is controlling what I eat. I'm a chowhound. I really love food.

I only wish I could eat like I did when I was young. During 20 years working for Uncle Sam, he sent me to the best cuisine cities in the world. A couple of years assigned to the U.S. Embassy in Paris, where the people don't eat to live, but rather live to eat. More than three years with the recruiting service in Kansas City, the barbecue capital of America, where back then the Kansas City strips came directly from the stockyards to your plate after a hasty pass over the grill. Two years in New Orleans – properly pronounced either nawlins or newawleeahns – where all the military services headquartered their reserves and where all kinds of waterborne creatures tasted delicious.

Even Saigon had some great restaurants, and some of the best soups and sandwiches came from the carts of Saigon street vendors. Then there was Iwakuni, Japan, about 45 minutes from Hiroshima, where eating was a marvelous adventure everyday and, oh, so satisfying.

Now I'm told to watch out for those eggs and the more than 200 milligrams of cholesterol per yolk, push away that pepperoni pizza with the Italian pepperoni grease floating on top of all that cheese and the pound of wheat dough, and get back to more traditional dinners. Traditional except for the meat portion, that is. My plate must not hold more than three ounces of meat, while containing many more vegetables. And step away from that bread, wheat-belly man, or you might end up as one of the five people who die every hour in Illinois from heart disease, stoke or other cardiovascular disease,
according to the Heart Disease and Stroke in Illinois State Plan 2007-2012.

Whew! Listen, I enjoy those eggs. I could eat three every morning, over easy, quite easily. I crave that bread – and I'd kill for a pizza – but Dr. William Davis tells me in his book, "Wheat Belly," that modern wheat can contribute to not only my cute little wheat belly but also to heart disease. And now that three-ounce meat portion is supposed to be served up as fish or chicken breast most often, with fewer and fewer appearances by beef and that other white meat– right, pork. There go those slabs of greasy, sloppy spareribs.

Heart-health awareness takes center stage this time each year, because February is American Heart Month, sponsored by the American Heart Association. In it's latest webletter, reminding everyone of American Heart Month, the University of Illinois Hospital and Health Sciences System points out that 68 percent of men and 48 percent of women experience either a heart attack or sudden death as their first sign of heart disease. Holy cardiovascular exercise!

I guess I better go slip on my jogging shoes and hit the road, or hit whatever road is free of ice today. Maybe I can work out some of my underfed frustration. Unfortunately, it also works up a heck of an appetite!

What is zero dark thirty?

I saw Kathryn Bigelow interviewed about her film "Zero Dark Thirty" – it's nominated in five categories at the 85th Annual Academy Awards show this coming Sunday – and she told the interviewer that zero dark thirty means 30 minutes past midnight.

Say what? Thirty minutes past midnight?

I used the term "zero dark thirty" many times during my Marine Corps career. My fellow Marines always understood me when I used it. I understood them when they used it. But we never understood it to mean 30 minutes past midnight.

"Awright, Marines! Hit the rack! I'll see you at zero dark thirty!"

That simply meant: "Go to bed and get some rest, people. I'll be back before the sun is up and shining on your young butts."

The Marine Corps gives its men and women plenty of opportunities to rise before the sun. During annual rifle requalification week, for example, we jarheads have to get up at zero dark thirty in order to chow down, draw our rifles from the armory and be on the 200-yard line of the rifle range at the crack of dawn.

Here's another good example. When I arrived at my first permanent unit after boot camp, infantry training and reconnaissance school, I was initiated by being assigned to a few weeks of mess duty. That's the same as KP. I had to get up in the wee hours to get to the mess hall, or chow hall, by 4:30 or 5 a.m. – that's zero four thirty or zero five hundred – to start preparing to help serve breakfast. In other words, I had to get up at
zero dark thirty to be at the chow hall by zero dark thirty.

You see, in the Corps, zero dark thirty is any time in the wee, dark hours of the morning or maybe the middle of the night but certainly before there is even a hint of approaching daylight.

I don't know the origin of Bigelow's "30 minutes past midnight" explanation, but I did find that interpretation during an Internet search. However, most interpretations of zero dark thirty sound like my understanding of the term.

Why should I care, right? I know; it sounds silly. Unless you're a diehard gyrene. When I said, "I'll see you at zero dark thirty, 1st Platoon," my troops always knew they had to arise early the next morning, before the sun could shine, but not at half-past midnight!

Speaking of early, care to catch a few catfish tomorrow morning? Just remember that the early bird catches the fish, so I'll pick you up pretty darn early. Better set you're alarm for zero dark thirty.

Today is Presidents Day, a day set aside to honor our presidents, originally to honor Washington and Lincoln particularly. 

Some of the people I most admire – I'm talking about people who have inspired me – were American presidents.

Reading history books as a kid, I became an avid admirer of George Washington. He was our leader during and after the Revolution, and he was my first hero. No, he was my second hero. My dad was the first.  

And growing up in Illinois, the Land of Lincoln, I was a fan of Abraham Lincoln. Our 16th president had a profound affect on me. For example, I had little confidence in myself as a kid­ – until I studied Lincoln and his background and what he was able to achieve despite the hardships of that background, and I'd experienced no hardships. The creator of the Emancipation Proclamation also influenced my thinking about the injustices of racism; I was free of such prejudices at an early age, despite the inequalities I saw all around me in the1950s and early '60s.

"CBS Sunday Morning" featured a segment several weeks ago that looked at the greatest leaders who have lived in the White House and why they were great. I cannot remember who reported on our greatest presidents, but his list pretty much matched my tally.

Washington and Lincoln, of course, were on the roster. John Adams was there for his honor and honesty. Teddy Roosevelt made the list for his courage, integrity, patience and determination. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was there particularly for his persuasion, and the segment revisited FDR's fireside chats and his leadership during World War II.

Surprisingly to some, Gerald R. Ford appeared on the list. He was there for bravery. After all, it took someone fearless, with real guts, to pardon Nixon. Speaking of bravery, Ford served as a U.S. Navy officer in the Pacific during World War II.  

On Presidents Day 2013, I find it particularly troubling that we're being bombarded these days by offensive remarks and images of President Obama. One image that appeared on Facebook a few days ago depicted my president alongside such murderous tyrants as Hitler, Stalin and Amin. It's sad to see the intolerance, arrogance and ignorant bias of so many people spewing out so much political ugliness and intolerance.

I am not saying I voted for Obama or didn't, and I'm not saying I agree with him in every way. My point on this Presidents Day is that as an American, I feel obligated to support the man duly elected by my fellow Americans to lead our great nation. My support could come in the form of disagreement, voicing my opinion to my elected representatives, hoping to change my president's course. But he's our president, and I abhor the disrespectful actions and remarks of some who lean to the extreme. 
 
I am an American, and I support my president. And I shall always admire those men on that greatest-presidents list.

Hail to the chief!

It's that heart-thumping, passion-driven, most-loving day of the year.

Did you buy the chocolates? Order the roses? Make the dinner reservations? Come on! Did you at least pick up a lousy valentine card?

It is Valentine's Day, bozo. Snap out of it!

Yes, I usually forget. I forget a lot of important things. I've been married for decades, and I rarely remember that special day, when you're supposed to display true affection for your true love.

This year, I got a jump on preparing for Valentine's Day. I was at the BX – that's the base exchange, although we always called it the PX in the Marine Corps – at nearby Scott Air Force Base about a month ago, when I walked past a store shelf full of heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Typically, I would have walked right past them, oblivious to their presence and ignorant of the importance of grabbing one right then and there. But this time, one caught my eye.

The red box in the shape of a heart had a military-like look to it, for it was tied with a chain and military dog tags. They weren't real. The silver chain and silver dog tags were only impressions imprinted on the deep-red design of the heart-shaped box. However, it looked so, umm, so military – yes, that's it – and I'm still so Marine, so I had to buy it for my valentine. That would be my lovely wife of, umm, so many years.

I also bought a box of heart-shaped cakes, and I put both boxes inside a fancy, Valentine's Day, gift bag. Yes, of course, the bag was covered with hearts. Then, at home, I hid the bag of goodies in my closet, which ensured that I would forget about them and fail to put them out for my lovely valentine come Valentine's Day.

The sun rose this morning to greet Valentine's Day lovers everywhere, but it did not dawn on me and my battered, war-torn, aging brain that it was that day and that I needed to head for the closet and retrieve that colorful gift bag of chocolate delights. 

Oh, no! I was about to once again forget Valentine's Day, even though I remembered it a month ago at the BX at Scott! Snap out of it! Wake up! Get the goods!

However, I wasn't snapping out of it. I wandered out to the kitchen and plugged in the coffee pot. Gotta have my joe before I can do anything at all. I cannot function until I swallow some coffee and the caffeine kicks in. Wake up! I was ruining Valentine's Day! Me lovely mate, Anne, would be arising soon, and she would have no beautiful Valentine's Day gift awaiting her on the countertop, on her way to the aroma of that fresh-brewed coffee. 

Get that java going, Griggs! It's Valentine's Day, and you're clueless! Wake up before it's too late!

As the coffeemaker began gurgling, pitching and spewing out hot joe, I turned on the television and tuned in "CBS This Morning." Suddenly, Norah O'Donnell or Gayle King or J.B. Brown – I guess Charlie Rose was off this morning – told me that today is Valentine's Day. Yow! I ran to the closet, rummaged through my messes and found the bag. Quickly, I ran to the counter that divides the kitchen and dining area, and I placed the bag perfectly in view, along the way to the coffee pot. 

I poured myself a cup of joe and smiled. But wait! I forgot to sign the tag that hangs on the handles of the darn bag! I ran to get my Sharpie pen without waking up my valentine. I grabbed it and ran back to the counter. Rats! I had grabbed the fat Sharpie instead of the thin one! I'm a dope! I ran back, snatched the correct one, ran back to the counter, and I signed the gift tag that dangles from the gift bag. Done.

Now I'm drinking my fresh-brewed café and gradually becoming functional. And I didn't forget my valentine, who will probably enjoy some of her Valentine's Day chocolate with her coffee this morning. Can't believe I remembered. Can't remember the last time I did.

Wake up and smell the coffee!

"It's 'Sunday Morning,' and once again, here's Charles Osgood."

Yes, indeed, pour me that first cup! Charles is on the air. It's time for a cup of joe and my favorite television program, "CBS Sunday Morning."

Coffee and Charles combine every Sunday for a long-established ritual in my house, a decades-old tradition that started with the late Charles Kuralt and continues with Mr. Osgood.

But my topic today is coffee, not Charles and Charles of CBS fame. It just so happens that the 90 minutes of "Sunday Morning" are my favorite moments for savoring that deep, dark drink made from coffee beans.

I never drank the brew until I was 20. My first coffee came in powdered form in little packets inside our combat rations. I was a young Marine in the middle of the Vietnam War, long ago, yet I still recall the taste of c-ration instant coffee. I won't say that a GI had to either love it or hate it, because I felt neither way about the unique taste. However, while many Marines called it varnish remover or battery acid or worse, I rather enjoyed it.

I started drinking c-ration coffee to help warm me up when I got a bit chilly during monsoon season in the Vietnam mountains. The monsoon rains would keep us soaked, and staying continually wet in those high elevations of the Annamite Mountains could get quite uncomfortable. Powdered cocoa mix came in only some of the c-ration meals, but every c-rat meal came with instant coffee. And if we weren't too close to the enemy, we could heat a tin cup of water with a small, burning chunk of C4 plastic explosive; adding a packet of powdered c-rat coffee to the hot water produced a stout cup of joe.

I used to make a coffee cup out of a used tin can that once contained such delicious combat-ration entrées as beanies and weenies or beef and rocks. I think those particular cans actually were labeled as beans with frankfurters in tomato sauce and beef slices and potatoes with gravy. Anyway, I would cut the lid with a little opener, but not all the way around, so I could bend it back and make a handle of sorts. I would keep it for a month or so until it got beat up, and then I'd fashion a new one. I'm sure millions of GIs since at least World War II did the same thing. Incidentally, if I wanted a café au lait, each c-rat meal also contained a packet of powdered creamer, labeled cream substitute. Take it with sugar? No sweat. A packet of sugar was included, too.

Introducing coffee into my system had one drawback. My yearn to urinate increased exponentially. First, being constantly soaking wet during monsoon season made me pee more than usual. Then, drinking coffee to warm me up only made me pee more. I'm sure I watered and fertilized every tree and bush in the montane rain forests of the Annamites.

The Vietnamese concoct a mean coffee brew made from beans that have been picked out of civit cat feces. I would drink 10,000 packets of c-rat coffee before I'd touch a cup of that cat-crap concoction. However, regular Vietnamese coffee – it's strong, too – is delicious. I think they got their penchant for java from the colonial French. Today, the coffee shops rival noodle shops in popularity in Vietnam, and that's saying something.

Regardless of such a saturation of coffee establishments, Starbucks entered the market just two days ago. The big chain jumped into the coffee-competition fray in Vietnam on Friday, when it opened its first store in Ho Chi Minh City, the southern municipality once known as Saigon. The reaction was not overwhelming, according to Agence France-Presse, the worldwide French news agency.

"I prefer Vietnamese coffee, which is stronger than Starbucks," Nguyen Tien Tam, 35, told AFP. "As a Vietnamese, I love local coffee."

Visiting Vietnam again now ranks high on my to-do list, and I look forward to drinking some good, strong joe in the second largest coffee-producing country in the world. Of course, getting pack to Paris, France, is on my list, too, and we all know the French make some très très bon café. The best cup of coffee in my life, though, was made for me in Beirut, Lebanon.

Deployed to Beirut in the summer of 1983, I often drove to the British Embassy annex to process film and print photographs. The U.S. Embassy had been bombed and destroyed by a terrorist in April, and the Brits opened their doors to share some of their offices with the Americans. Every time I was there, a Lebanese woman employed by the British would brew me a couple of cups of the strongest coffee on planet Earth. It was more than delicious. It was phenomenal. However, visiting Beirut is not currently on my to-do list. Don't get me wrong. I like the people and love the coffee. It's those occasional explosions and the perchance kidnapping.

After all this coffee talk, I must go and brew some joe. By the way, the term "joe" has its origins in the U.S. Navy, in the early 20th century, when Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels abolished wine in the officer mess aboard each and every Navy vessel. With the wine gone, coffee was the strongest stuff aboard ship, and the hot drink was nicknamed "joe" after Josephus. Or so the story goes.

Now, which coffee cup shall I use today? Marines? Los Angeles Times? Cal State San Bernardino? St. Louis Cardinals? The coffee-bean flavor will taste just as good in any one of them, as long as my wife hasn't secretly slipped some civit cat beans into the mix.