Aging Disgracefully

"Where's the F$&*% Beef?" or "I Pity the Cow"

2011-11-10T13:59:00.000-05:00

Somewhere along the line, I insanely agreed to swear off meat for 3 weeks. Easy right? We are approaching the 18th day and I wish someone would just poke a sharp stick in my eye. What was I thinking? I know it's supposed to be good for me but I could have eased into this insanity in small steps. A bean burrito here, a potato pierogi there. But NNNNNOOOOOOOOO. I had to cold turkey it (I would kill for a cold turkey right now). As an example of the culinary torture I have put up with, I give you tonight's mouth watering menu. For starters there was vegetable cabbage rolls. If you ever had my mother's unbelievable concoction of this Hungarian delight, then you know what a sacrilege this is. I mean, come on! VEGETABLE &*$%in' CABBAGE ROLLS! Am I completely nuts? Oh sure, you fill it with something called "TVP" which stands for "textured vegetable poop" and no matter how much you spice it, dice it or smother it in vodka, it still tastes essentially like soggy cardboard but with way less flavor.
To Sandy's credit she has been a trooper in this struggle against nature, which has given me the disposition of a badger placed in a box, shaken for about 3 days and then let out in a crowd of deranged bulldogs. Now, normally I am the picture of cheer and good tidings for all, as anyone in my family will tell you. But for the last three weeks I have beens sullen, pouty and short tempered. Much like a cranky John Boehner without his daily, lobbyist funded, 35 course lunch.
Let me give you an example. Sandy and I decided to go grocery shopping together to pick up a view things to get us through this torture. Probably not a good idea. Anyway, while in the soup aisle we had a "discussion" about the kind of soup to buy, and finally I blew up and said "look we're giving up meet, for God's sake let me have the salted soup!" And of course, everyone in our checkout line knew we were the ones arguing over mushroom soup with or without salt. We were asked to not return.
I mean tell me. What the hell is this all about. Spinach ravioli? Vegetarian chili? And let's not forget the greatest abomination on earth...the freakin' "VEGGIE BURGER!" Veggie burger? Crap, make mine a triple with everything! C'mon man, a burger must have some filling that actually had parents.
Please help me people. I know that red meat has a few drawbacks, but what in life doesn't? Cholesterol, high blood pressure and colitis? But give me a break. I know "bowling ball" is not exactly the "otimal" ody shape, but as I transition from one foot on 60 and the other on a banana peel, to full blown Golden Buckeye status, I need some allowances. I've given up smoking just because of a lousy little stroke (some doctors just have no sense of humor). I've cut back on sweets and alcohol. What more can I do?
Well people this is where I draw the line! No one can take away my burgers, steaks and Vienna Beef dogs. There is no telling where this will lead.I've become a new man! I'm standing up to those who say they are just trying to "help me." HELP ME? You wanna help me? Start by getting me a 5 pound beefburger with cheese and mayo, between a bun of 2 Tbones. I wish I hadn't said that. I'm dying here. Well, I don't care. No one is gonna push me around anymore. From now on I eat what I want to eat.
By the way, don't mention this to Sandy or my kids, ok?

Love
Dad

Ah, the Smell of Salmon Eggs, the Crack of Monofilament and Roar of Nearby Lightning, and a Hearty Hi Yo Crank Bait!

2011-05-16T17:03:00.014-04:00

Is it just me, or has the weather this year seemed particularly Hades induced. Particularly for us fishermen. I should have known, when spring finally arrived, well, as near as anything that passes for spring in Northeast Ohio, that it could be a bumpy ride this season. And as for the fishing, well, throwing your line into the any northeast Ohio river so far this year has been about as much fun as tying one end of a rope around your waste and the other around the bumper of a '70 Super Bee.

In light of the weather and by weather, I mean Noahesque, and the resulting white water rafting state of the rivers in the area, I decided to look for some calmer waters and tried a couple of parks and a marina in Mentor which have sheltered areas. The marina was a huge mistake. I chose that area because I read an article last year by the resident "sportsman" reporter in the local paper that said the smallmouth in the marina were absolute "crank bait sluts!" Well, in my experience the fish were more like nuns. The only way I could catch any fish there was with a long net and dynamite! In fact, had I not witnessed the millions of other fisherman hauling in several fish each, I would have doubted that fish actually lived in this marina.

I've noticed before, these discrepencies in the reported "facts" of our local paper and the actual real life situations that exist on the planet Earth. They pertain not only to the news in general, which sometime appear to have been written by journalists under the influence of various edible psychedelic fungi, but to the mundane, slice of life articles which are generally heralded by front page, banner headlines like "LOCAL SCOUT TROOP ON VERGE OF MERIT BADGE CHAMPIONSHIP" while you can usually find articles squirreled away behind the obits section with headline something like "President Gravely Ill, Veep To Take Oath, World Economies on Brink of Collapse." Yawn. OK, I know I've strayed a tad from the point here, but on the other hand..., hmmm, senior moment!

One incident of note did occur at this marina when, braving another in a long succession of cold windy days I resolutely cast my lures upon the waters until the inevitable backlash occured and I started the three week process of trying to unravel the mess all the while teaching a new, four letter language to any children within 2 miles. As I fought with my useless rod and reel, a young man of about 20 - 25 years old came to the shoreline and set up what looked like his 89 cent rod and reel combo for toddlers, complete with bobber and politely asked how I had been doing. With every ounce of civility I could muster, I spat the word "NADA" through clenched teeth as I resigned myself to the loss of another 50 yards or so of fishing line.

Cheerfully the young man said to me "Well you never know. I caught a Northern Pike in this spot yesterday!" Of course, believing this man to be the local purveyor of crapolla I merely grunted a disinterested "That so?"

"Yeah," he went on merrily, "I couldn't believe it myself! Right where you're standing actually. Here I'll show you."

Having grown up in the days of telephone booths and party lines I had forgotten about the dreaded "technology" of cell phones which can do everything but let you make a phone call easily. Anyway, this guy whips out his cell phone like Wyatt Earp and waves the screen of his phone under my nose.
There, as little as life, my myopic eyeballs made out the image of the man and his Northern, holding it like a proud papa at the hospital with his newborn son. Confronted with this evidence, I realized that I had to put this young man on my "Most Despised List" list which includes LeBron James, Art Modell and congressmen.

"Very nice," I told him, "but if you will excuse me I haven't had my quota of snags, bird's nests and lost lures!"

Now, I don't generally wish ill of any but the aforementioned thugs, but I must admit that I did take genuine satisfaction as an hour passed and the young man's bobber floated unnibbled upon by any aquatic life whatsoever. Why should I have all the fun, eh? After the hour elapsed, this young man did display what I consider the enviable and utmost fishing acumen. He brought in his line, unhooked the shunned shiner, tossed it in the water, gathered up his gear and quietly slinked to his car, rod between his legs and left.

On the other hand, I refused to take the hint and continued to vainly cast my lures into the murky water, saying several "Hail Marys" between the expletives. After another hour of frustration and finally admitting defeat, I too packed my gear and headed for my car a beaten shell of a man. I swore to the Almighty, as I trudged to my vehicle that I would never fish there again.

then as I sat in the car and reached for the ignition with my keys, I remember thinking, "next time I'll use shiners!"

Love
Dad

Cancer, Race for the Fridge!

2011-02-01T10:06:00.006-05:00

Got to admit, cancer is not funny, but some of the things that go on around it seem to be good for a laugh or two to me. This is in no way to poke fun at the many persons who have had to deal with cancer in their families or themselves. So forgive me in advance for offending anyone, but it is my way of dealing with the disease that has targeted my wife, and her incredible strength and dignity in accepting and fighting it, has made it possible for me to wax silly. It is really meant to be a husband's feeble attempt to try to understand why so many good people are effected by the disease and why the worst in our society, child molesters, politicians and lawyers never seem to come down with anything worse than herpes.

The first thing men need to know about what happens when their wives, lovers or significant others get that terrifying diagnosis is that they will immediately notice that we, as the macho moron of the species have deprived ourselves of the most significant weapon in the arsenal against any illness and that is friendship. I don't mean the kind where you sit around drinking beer, grousing about how bad the Browns are or discussing the relative merits of various makes and models of automobiles. All the while scratching various parts of their bodies, as satisfying as that is. I am afraid to say, we as males we are doomed to go through life without the type of bonding that women seem to be able to form like so many drops of rain.

For example, my wife decided to keep the illness fairly private. Ha ha, she is so funny. Within nanoseconds anyone who has ever crossed her path started coming out of the woodwork to offer support. People whose name she could not remember started calling, sending cards and smooching her on the lips. Now this was nothing compared to what happened AFTER her surgery, because everyone, and I mean everyone started sending cards, emails, all manner of roses, vegetables, candy, full meals, gift cards, books, magazines and various power tools. AND THE FRUIT!! MY GOD THE FRUIT!!
Then came the requests to visit. I think her appointment calendar is filled through March. Of 2018.

I only bring this up, not because I am insanely jealous of the attention, but to make my first point. Compare the response of Sandy's support group, to mine when I had a stroke. When I was hospitalized the door to my room started looking like the set of the Munsters. I got so few phone calls that the phone company actually owed me money after my stay. Now before you all whip out your air violins and hum "Hearts and Flounders", to be fair I blame myself, for being so trim, handsome, underarm pure and cool in general that most mere mortals find it difficult to approach me. YIKES! That lightning bolt just missed me!

But my point is that men do not build support systems as well as women. I mean, in my wife's circles of friends news of her illness circulated to millions in less time than it takes a congressman to take a bribe. Meanwhile, 5 years after my stroke I had what I consider my closest friends (both of them) asking "Stroke? What stroke?" To further illustrate, men seem to be the only ones that need "How To" books to teach us how to handle the terrible diagnosis when it comes so as to be a pillar of support for our mates. Believe it or not, and I know I should know better, having dealt with lawyers the better part of my adult life, some males are about as sensitive to a spouse's cancer as Hitler was to bar mitzvahs. My thoughtful brother in law Brian bought me one called "Breast Cancer Husband" thinking foolishly that it my keep me from winding up in Lake Erie wearing Portland Cement wingtips.

My one bone of contention with the book is that it is very comprehensive but fails to prepare the male for where he will be spending most of his waking life for several months when this happens. As a preface, you need to know that your life will be a constant parade of your wife's friends, relatives, neighbors, pre school teachers and anyone she has ever said "hello" to in the past thirty years. They will constitute a revolving door of bearers of food products sufficient to nourish the First Marine Division for 6 years. Most of these folks will of course be female and virtually all will state unwaiveringly, when they come through the front door, that they can "only stay a minute". Three weeks later, they will glance at their watches and say "My God, is that the time? I really have to get going!" And sure enough they will scurry out the front door roughly 6 days later.
This influx of meals and their containers means that the male WILL BE SPENDING 99% OF THEIR TIME WASHING DISHES. Not that I'm bitter.

Keep fighting the good fight, Sandy. I need it.

Love
Dad

"Samsung HD46N600 Where Are You?"

2010-12-31T11:04:00.009-05:00

It has been awhile since I felt the urge to vent, but this holiday season my struggles with massive retail technology conglomerates, have been enough to make me want to chew my own foot off. As usual this battle with anonymous, sanctimonious brain dead techno geeks was able to reduce me to a sobbing lump of carbon based life form, crying like a little girl and rueing my actual birth.

As usual, the situation began sedately enough, with the decision the day after Thanksgiving to venture (finally) into the wonderful world of high definition television. No more showing up at the homes of friends or strangers begging to be let in just in time to catch the Super Bowl (oops, copyright violation, sorry NFL, I meant "The Big Game"). Friends will usually (grudgingly) permit access, however it is a real gamble with strangers. They generally can seem a tad put out.

When I made the decision I had forgotten the cardinal rule of moving up in the technology world (for anything) which is, I would have been much better off just going out back and setting fire to $1000. My bouts with keeping up with advances are legend. Over the years, I have taught my children a whole new language(something between a cross of English and drunken marine corps ese), kicked enough inanimate objects (hard ones) to produce an arthritic lump on my big toe the size of a blimp and alienated more customer service techs than Dick Cheney at gun control convention.

I, after several years of computer and internet use, felt very comfortable in purchasing my product online and having it shipped within my lifetime to my home. So confidently I signed on to one of the larger electronics mega stores website, found a TV that would suit my modest needs (serving cold beers seemed a needless frill) and made my purchase with our credit card. Steeeeerrrrrriiiiiiikkkkkkke One!

Now this crud example of an electronics store which shall remain nameless (although its name is BEST BUY!) gave me a delvery date of either Monday or Tuesday of the following week. Ha ha what great kidders those people at Best Buy are. After waiting both days for my new TV and having heard squat from the store I decided to investigate. Long story short, by Thursday I was able to determine (from several "customer service" reps whose Xmas card lists I can safely say I am no longer on) that my new TV is at least, somewhere in the galaxy. I was able to cancel the order with little problem (I guess they've had some experience with cancelled orders) and embarked foolishly on another quest for the latest in sports viewing maginificance, such was my passion to be able to see all my favorite Cleveland teams get the living beejesus kicked out of them, in all of their 1080p glory.

After an online search we were able to find a store at a place called "Van's Electronics" which had the exact same TV for $100 less than Best Buy. They promised delivery in approximately 10 days. And sure enough UPS showed up 10 days later with a box that could have been used to ship aircraft carriers, containing our new TV.
Whilst waiting for the arrival of the television, I drove to the local purveyor of hi def cable television goodness and aggravation, a company well known for intelligent technological staff and customer service, who shall likewise be nameless but in reality is called Time Warner Cable. I was assured by the brain dead lump of carbon which passes for "customer service representative" at TWC, that the cable box (had to be replaced within a day) and HDMI cable she gave me was all that I would need for a "complete hi def TV experience." Strrrrriiiiiikkkkkkkkke TWO!

But I, the eternal and patient optimist (just ask my kids, they'll tell you) drove home and awaited the delivery of my TV with baited breath. Once the TV arrived and was unpacked and assembled, the real fun began. I can safely say my experience with Time Warner over the next several days was equivilent to the treatment reveived by Groucho Marx in this clip http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2ZpJkK-ZbM which you need to cut and paste to view. Suffice to say I spent roughly as much time asking, pleading, begging and ranting with customer service, techs and total strangers (again, off the xmas card lists) than I spent preparing for the bar exam. During that time I discovered that the TV I bought, which supposedly has the highest resolution out there, is worthless because no one actually broadcasts in 1080p, the HDMI cable I got from the kind rep at TWC, was not the kind of cable I actually needed, and my wife (who is a tad more tolerant than I) succeeded in being bilked out of $80 to buy the absolute best HDMI cable in the universe from a Best Buy "expert" in a laudable attempt to reduce my blood pressure to somewhere below 5,000/4,000.

The final straw came several days after Christmas (which was great with the family by the way) when, in attempt to modify my office phone set up (provided by guess who? TWC) and using the automated system when I pressed the "0" key as instructed by the mechanical voice, and found myself speaking with some bewildered lady from St. Louis who had been checking her voicemail on service provided by...I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count, and who suffered through the same service I had foolishly signed up for. STRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIKKKKKKKE THREE! GAME, SET AND FREAKIN' MATCH.

Well, as you can see some people (me) never learn, now if you'll excuse me, I hear that somewhere, someone is selling something called 3D TV and I can't wait to have Eric Mangini (evidently not for long) right there in my living room and within booting range!

Love
Dad

One Wedding and a Turkey

2010-07-27T13:13:00.005-04:00

Ah, Athens, Ohio in July for an outdoor wedding weekend romp filled with sweat, food, liquor, sweat, chocolate fountains, beautiful newlyweds, sweat and dancing to a great band at the reception. Oh yeah, did I mention %$#*&ing SWEAT???
If it's a wedding in Athens that means that some poor couple, er, I mean lucky couple is going to tie the knot somewhere within the friendly confines of the Ohio University campus. It seems this is the summer for testing hot air tolerances normally practiced by geothermal scientists and members of congress. Only hotter! I have been sauteed in Jonesville, Virginia, fried at Lake Templene in Michigan and reduced to carbon cinders in Athens. But it was all worth it. The chance to get together with former Bobcat alums, eat too much, drink too much and generally make idiots out of ourselves whilst not winding up on the front page of The Enquirer is too good to pass up.
The weekend started innocently enough on Friday with a few adult beverages and dinner at Casa Nueva, a Mexican restaurant owned and operated by its employees. Casa is popular with my vegetarian daughter, Melanie who is loathe to see harm come to anything further up the Darwinian scale than a potato. More on this later. The dinner was pleasant (it was air conditioned) and things were going smoothly until, toward the end of the meal, my son in law politely asked the waitress if he could purchase 8 tons of black bean sauce which evidently, they are a might fond of and which you cannot purchase legally in Chicago. I was just thankful they had their own room.
After we got back to the OU Inn, and had a few more refreshments, and someone (I blame Cathy B of death march fame) had the brilliant idea to take a "walk" to the Ridges, which is what the old insane asylum is called. Somehow lately, all my walks anywhere seem to be straight up. We bumped into some folks there for the wedding on our way out and they decided it would be "fun" to join us. A common but disastrous mistake. Popular legend has it that the Ridges is haunted by pissed off ghosts of the asylum inmates, except for those that had lobotomies and came back as
democrats. It was a clear, moonlit walk with only one tiny drawback. The humidity was about 250% so I was literally dripping sweat before we got out of the Inn parking lot.
We made it to the cemetary where the inmates were buried, and spent awhile dodging chiggers and snakes traipsing through the overgrown cemetary, periodically stubbing our toes on hidden headstones or slipping on the damp weeds.
We strolled around the rest of the grounds peaking through the lower level darkened windows hoping to see the restraints they used or maybe the ghost of Republican who never took a bribe, er, sorry, I mean "campaign contribution." A couple of times I actually went (by myself, mind you) onto the darkened staircases and porches of various spooky looking buildings (cue Twilight Zone theme), where I found old furniture, empty filing cabinets and, I swear I am not making this up, the front bumper and grill of an ancient car. Nothing scarier than the skeletal remains of a once living, breathing automobile. Needless to say, scared crapless, I led the charge back to the Inn, startling several curious but annoyed deer into the forest.
Then came "wedding day" and God decided to turn the thermostat up a "notch" into the mid 90s. I don't want to say it was unbearably hot, but it has been noted that several OU summer school students spent the day in their air conditioned rooms or the library, forsaking the various happy hours at the local taverns, and (I know this is hard to believe), actually STUDYING!
But the bride, groom and families were gorgeous, and the ceremony mercifully, fairly short. We had a couple of hours to kill before the reception so we did so in true OU style by drinking beer and eating wings at "The Pub". It was during this little interlude that I discovered a fascinating side of my daughter, you remember, the vegetarian animal lover. She had mysteriously separated from the rest of us and with her husband slipped off to make a "major purchase". So the rest of us sat around the bar guessing what that purchase might be, and I can safely say that for the life of us we would never have guessed that they were buying a stuffed turkey. Not a stuffed turkey as in Thanksgiving, but stuffed as in taxidermy. As I said my vegetarian daughter would no more eat or in any way have anything to do with the demise of any creature that didn't survive with gills, so it came as quite a shock that she and my vegetarian son in law would engage in activity facillitating a burgeoning market in stuffed turkeys. They explained that they paid $60 for it, and that it was trendy and could be sold for $200 minimum in Chicago, although I personally think it was so my son in law could torture his dogs with it. Not that he is childish or anything.
After "priming the pumps" at The Pub it was on to hors d'oerves and drinks at the by now, kiln that the Inn called their "patio". We managed to last about 35 seconds in the heat before heading inside to meet "Doug" (the major purchase has a name)and air conditioning. It would have been about 10 seconds but for the bacon wrapped scallops being served and we didn't want so gauche as to gulp and gallop.
The evening was capped by a wonderful reception in which there was much toasting of the bride and groom and their parents, their siblings, their grandparents, their nieces and nephews, their 3rd and 4th cousins, dining, dancing, reminiscing and much, much more toasting.
After the reception, Craig motto: "I would definitely choose actual breathing over fried chicken skins, but only after much consideration and gnashing of teeth", had the brilliant idea to "go uptown for a burrito" which always makes sense at 1:00 a.m. An Athens tradition that is as much an institution as kegs, porch sofas, riots and back alley projectile vomiting, this seemed like a fine idea. As no one could possibly drive in our condition, except maybe a Kennedy, we had to walk UPtown. I figure the weekend caught up to us at about the Convo. But we slogged onward, such was our mania for spicy rolled up beef in a flour tortilla purveyed from a wagon beanery with all the hygenic safeguards of a septic tank. After downing our burritos in about 3 seconds, we went in search of potables. We sat down in a place called Jackie O's, ordered beers (water for the namby pamby women) and came to the realization that if we didn't leave after our one beer, we might die of exhaustion in our chairs, which technically can hurt business. So we slogged back to the Inn and died there.
A word or two about the newlyweds and their families. First of all, Valerie's parents need to come out of their shells. As a matter of fact, so does Val. They are way too shy and reserved and need to be more outgoing and gregarious. Speaking of the Doudicans, Mike you really need to control your stress!! I know that being a PE teacher can be very demanding, leading to premature gray hair, surliness and an incredible desire to tell everyone to take a lap. And Susan, please, for God's sake no more baths in the chocolate fountain.
Lastly a word about the groomsmen.
I wouldn't even know where to begin!

My regards to Doug,

Love
Dad

He Ain't Heavy's (although he used to be), He's My Barbecue Chef.

2010-07-09T07:24:00.011-04:00

This is the summer of "No Moss for Sandy and Bob." I say that because we will be on the go traveling to the ends of the earth visiting relatives, attending weddings and generally annoying all of our acquaintences. We kicked off the summer with our annual California soiree' (see my last post) followed closely by our annual Jonesville/Ewing trip. There was not so much Jonesville this year as my Uncle Tom, now 88 years old, had some medical issues this past year and moved in with his sister in Ewing. Now Uncle Tom was never one with whom you could rap about the subtleties of nuclear physics or Euclidean geometry , but this medical episode essentially reduced his mental faclities to that of most congressman. No wait, that's not fair to Uncle Tom.

Most of the rest of our time was spent largely on sitting around the sweltering patio (they have air conditioning, but my relatives being over 65, are allergic to temperatures below 120 degrees, so they don't turn it on) rehashing family lore that has been heard several thousand times and listening to Uncle Tom remind us that "the tree across the way, was trimmed and is now beautiful. He reminded us roughly every 90 seconds during the course of Tuesday and Wednesday (we suspect mild dementia setting in).

The countryside is as picturesque as anywhere and the food so good that you tend to forget the poverty, oppressive summer heat and lack of anything remotely entertaining to do, short of sweating gum drops and making the occaisional trip into the booming metropolis that is Middlesboro, KY to spend the day shopping at the WalMart (buying nothing) cruising their "mall" and dining at the gourmet KFC it boasts. Also Ewing has finally entered the "cyber age". Yes, if you go down to the local "Pizza Plus" restaurant, motto "Sure we have WiFi. You just need to sit by that one window booth there and you can get the funeral parlors connection from up the hill!", you can surf the internet while enjoying pizza or the plus.

Also, we spent the better part of 2 years, er, um hours, in a place where what passes for "social networking" is something called the Tazewell Flea Market. You really haven't lived until you've spent the better part of a sweltering, fetid and odiferous day, scouring the effluvia of hillbilly life for what my relatives call "a good buy." Picture if you will, about 6 hundred wooden shacks and shanties more or less in rows, crammed into a half-acre of pure Tennessee dirt and made of rotting wood, filthy tar paper and maybe a roof made from the discarded metal of an 1948 Buick. Crank up the temperature to about 180 degrees with humidity to match, populate the area with several thousand clones of Junior Samples, Jethro Bodine and Minnie Pearl, toss in the odd goat, sheep or miscellaneous fowl and one porta potty for the lot, and voila, you have truly the most depressing congregation of God's creatures ever assembled. To complete the experience you pick your way through the rows of shanty stalls surveying everything from bootleg DVDs to used underwear, autographed by Willis Mumford, complete with skid marks, serenaded all the while by crying infants, braying goats and Merle Haggard. I never thought I'd say this but the experience is absolutely worse than "a sharp stick in the eye."

As bad as all that was, it was more than made up for by lunch at a place on the Powell River named "Heavy's" that serves some of the best barbecued ribs I have ever had. The place is named after the owner and chef, who is no longer heavy though he used to be according to the history lesson we were given by the waitress, Daisy Mae something or other. To get there you have to drive roughly 5 miles through the set of "Deliverance" until you come to what looks like something excommunicated from the Flea Market for being a little too uppity (it has actual indoor plumbing). It is essentially a wooden cabin, with a kitchen and patio overlooking the sluggish, brown Powell River. On the various walls of the place are stapled dollar bills in various stages of decay, which have been autographed by patrons and hung for posterity. Why? I'll never know. After tasting the ribs, I knew why so many people would hazard the 5mile journey for a taste (Have you noticed that all of our trips seem to center around food? I blame Sandy).

Speaking of Sandy, she and I, on a more adventurous day, decided to try and take a short walk on a trail in the mountains. It was early morning and my sister Cheryl having sensibly declined exploration of any kind, decided to give our little adventure a miss. It was on this trek, straight up for the most part until it went straight down, looking for a place called the Sand Cave, that I discovered a heretofore little known fact about my spouse of 35 years. Somewhere along the line, probably as a preschool teacher, she has become an officienado of poop. This obsession turned into a blessing as it cut our climb short, as Sandy keenly went into "unusual poop spotting" mode. Seeing an unusual dropping on the trail (smallish and containing what appeared to be berry seeds) she became convinced, based on her vast experience of rabbit, deer, coyote and various other wildlife waste products, that these were "bear droppings." She was very sure of this because in the course of her career, she hadn't encountered this kind of dropping before and ergo, it must be bear crap, proving once and for all and very scientifically, bears do indeed shit in the woods (bet you didn't see that coming from a mile away)!

It was at this point we decided, discretion being the better part of total lunacy and idiotic foolhardiness to cut our "walk in the woods" short and return to an area of relative safety. Sandy then shifted gears into "I'm scared out of my mind, so I'm going to pick up this twig to defend myself from any bears weighing less than 4 ounces that might attack while we scurry back to our car and singing in a loud clear voice so as not to surprise any of the furry carnivores, the theme song from 'Shaft'" mode. It was then that I knew any jury on the planet would have acquitted any bear (even one with priors) or myself for justifiable homicide.

Obviously we escaped with our hides and the rest of the visit was pretty uneventful. So if you want to see God's Country I highly recommend you give Southwestern Virginia a visit. Just remember your Merle Haggard CD's and a portable defibrilator.

Love
Dad

California 2010 or "Is that a puma? Or are you just glad to see me?"

2010-06-24T10:06:00.023-04:00

I'll say this for Los Angeles, the traffic may suck to high heaven...but it does have more smog than Congress has idiots. Just returned from the annual trek to visit the prodigal ("if you don't stop'"tidying' my apartment mom, I'll kill you") son. As usual the trip was full of fun, excitement, culinary adventures and just a little bloodshed. Just kidding, actually there was a lot of bloodshed.
.
This year we decided to spend a couple of days at Big Bear Lake, about 2 1/2 hours east of LA. We intelligently figured this would give us a good head start on arguing over how to get there, where to eat and the amount of trash accumulated in Dustin's Yaris since our visit last June. This plan didn't disappoint. The 2 1/2 hour drive seemed to last only a couple of decades. However, when we arrived at Big Bear Lake, we knew that we had made a good choice. It is gorgeous there.
We only had a couple of appetizers early and so naturally, still being on eastern time we decided to kick off the annual "vacation gastronomic debauchery" with a pepperoni pizza, as it was only 10:00 p.m. Pacific time. Of course, that meant my stomach was still set at 1:00 a.m. eastern. I am a long way, and many many years from it being a good idea to have pizza at 1:00 a.m. My stomach reminded me of that at about 6:00 a.m.

After recovering the next day, we all took a charter fishing trip on the lake. The goal, we were told by our charter guide Curt and his faithful companion Tonto, er, I mean Martin, was "rocky mountain rainbow trout". Martin is quite a colorful and knowledgeable guide. He did of course attempt to get us "rookies" to fall for the old "to get a lot of fish you have to dance around the boat naked, singing in a voice loud enough to be heard in Sacremento, 'HERE FISHY, FISHY, FISHIES'". For some inexplicable reason, Dustin and I were told we were required to stay dressed or be thrown overboard. Sandy on the other hand, not having just fallen off the turnip truck yesterday, but still fairly gullible, only removed her top.

Well, whatever it was we started bringing in fish, which were originally just going to release, until Curt told us there was a restaurant in town that would prepare the fish for us at a reduced cost if we wanted them for dinner. Little did Curt know that the State of California had gotten wind of this practice and so naturally it was banned by the Department of Health, motto "Keeping consumers safe by banning the preparation and eating of the freshest fish in our local waters". Sometimes I understand Republicans. Anyway, we wound up keeping about 8 - 10 lbs. of prime rainbow trout for an anticipated seafood feast. Dustin, would later prepare and cook up the fish at a local park on a barbecue grill and it was as they say, "to die for". And I don't even like fish.

We had a great time on the lake, were regaled with colorful fishing stories, and learned volumes about trout, Big Bear Lake and which movie stars danced naked around town. If you ever get to Big Bear Lake and like to fish, I highly recommend taking Curt's charter as he and Martin are great and will help with everything. Be sure to ask about the "$65,000 Flubbies" but you probably want to refrain from doing the "Here fishy, fishy" dance. The website is http://www.fishbigbear.net/.

After a couple of days fishing and taking in the gorgeous scenery at Big Bear we decided it would be fun to go to Las Vegas, a couple of hours away. I wanted to be able to say I drove through the Mojave Desert. Quick Science fact: Bottled products, packed in suitcases and stored in a car trunk for a three hour drive through the desert will explode leaving various gels, lotions and other assorted goop thoroughly dispersed into the clothes, books and expensive camera equipment throughout your baggage. If you need to ask, this is not a marital relationship enhancer. Remember I did say there was alot of bloodshed. Say no more!

In Vegas my son Dustin, motto: "I never met a craps table I didn't like (as long as the minimum is no more than $5)" introduced me to the dice tables. I knew he still hated me for making him enter the pinewood derby in cub scouts, but I digress. I kind of got the hang of betting, which is more complicated than the Manhatten Project, with various methods of betting including how many democrats will get smoked in the next election. Just kidding, that bet was in a whole other part of the casino. However, like a good boy I stuck to my (by "my" I of course mean Sandy's) betting limit of $50 and managed not to lose it all. While at the table I did manage to entertain all the other players who got a few laughs watching Dustin and table workers trying to get me to understand the various bets and side bets, odds and chip denominations.

But I did get even. When it became my turn "roll" the dice, I discovered that term was a euphemism. If you haven't played the game it is conducted on a felt covered table about 15 feet long, which is no big deal if your sleeve measurement is 14 feet. However, as I am well over 5 feet (length and diameter) and was at the very end of the table this became problematic. This was when I realized that "rolling" the dice actually meant "hurling" the dice. And dice, being in the shape of a cube, happen to bounce very erratically, especially when "hurled" 15 feet on a table with a 10 inch wall around it. After a few rolls in which the dice leapt the table and found their way into various drinks, vital occular organs and brasierres, players began diving for cover as soon as they made their bets. The next day I found the table workers in combat helmets. One of the pit bosses politely offered to take me for a ride in the desert, but I very respectfully declined.

Our Vegas leg of the journey at an end, we drove back to Los Angeles for a couple of days of taking it easy. In LA we pretty much ate our brains out and did a couple of touristy things around town. We went to the Getty museum and afterward I was introduced to a new culinary an art clogging treat called "Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles," the initial thought of which I will confess, made me want to... well, you know. But actually the combination was fabulous and you should do yourself a favor and try it sometime. I don't know where you can find a Roscoes outside of LA, but it is worth the effort.

On our last day of activity we went to a local park and wildlife reserve, which primarily offered gorgeous vistas of the Los Angeles skyline in all its smog shrouded glory. While I was taking some pictures, Sandy and Dustin took a walk on a wooded path and came back claiming that they had seen a panther or a puma sleeping in a tree. I had my doubts, but it was early and no wine bottles had been opened to my knowledge. Sure enough a park ranger explained that they had seen something called a "feral cat" which is a regular domestic cat which has essentially gotten its' groove back.

Anyway, I skipped a lot of other events (embarrassing myself playing Guitar Hero in Sandy's Sportsbar and the "Sandy and Bubba" incident at Harvelle's Blues Club come to mind), but life is short. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I see a puma trying to snack on some of our finches.

Love

Dad

That's Entertainment?

2010-05-25T07:18:00.005-04:00

We have a new game in town. Well, maybe not in town, but definitely on my street in the tiny little Cleveland suburb, Concord Township. By the way, township officials and developers describe Concord as "semi-rural". This is a euphemism for "semi-overcrowded, semi-overdeveloped and semi-where the f*&$%@* did all this *%&#$*ing traffic come from." But, as ususal, I digress.
The new "game" on my street, actually consists of a pool, the wagering on which consists of guessing the exact number of times Sandy and I will exit our house (usually in the morning) and then go back for whatever damn thing we have forgotten. You know, keys, purses, trousers and the like. The game evidently has gotten quite sophisticated and morphed into sides betting which of us will go back into the house more times, and having a tie breaker which consists of guessing how far up the street the car will actually get before turning around and coming back some forgotten item.
For those of you not from Cleveland, you can see how desperate Clevelanders are for some form of actual competition from its sporting teams (by the way, this game is not to be confused with Milton Bradley's popular "Where the Hell Is My Coffee Cup" game or Hasboro's "Who's Got the Most Cuts and/or Bruises From Unkown Sources" game). On weekends the atmosphere has gotten positively festive. In the summers, neighbors have taken up sitting on their lawn chairs, waving Bob or Sandy banners, signs saying "We Are Witnesses" and cheering each of us on. Several unruly "tailgaters" have had to be dispatched by threat of incarceration or being forcibly made to watch C-Span for an hour. Any more than an hour has been determined by the Supreme Court to be "cruel and unusual" punishment. Sandy's fan base is, as God has seen fit to bless me with the physical attractiveness of a gnu, much more than mine. Although, I have cornered the "short, fat, bald guy" demographic.
I can't speak for Sandy, but I find that the best way to increase my score is by not hanging around the front door, scratching the top of my head thinking "What am I forgetting..." No, that wastes crucial seconds. I boldly stride to my car get in, sit down and apply pine tar to the steering wheel. Sure enough, as soon as my ass hits the seat, I remember and dash back into the house for my sunglasses, regular glasses or my actual eyeballs. In my prime, Sandy clearly had me beat for sheer numbers of return trips, but as I get older I find my capacity for thinking of two things at once as well as my curveball, alas diminishing. This means that nowadays there is real competition between us.
I'm sure none of you other "boomers" play this game but, we have been struggling to come up with a name for this soon to be national pastime and would appreciate your input. In memory of my dear mother I was thinking something like "You'd Forget Your Head If..."well, you know the rest. For those one or two of you actual readers any post your ideas in the "Comments" section below. The winner will receive two free tickets to absolutely nowhere and the decision of the judges is moronic.
My original intent in all of this (but I forgot) was to let you know that I have finally figured out the meaning of life. It's entertainment. We are put here to enterntain others. First we entertain our parents, then our friends, neighbors and co-workers and in old age we entertain our children. Everyone, from the lowest to the greatest among us is put here to make people laugh. Except maybe congressmen.
So much for pathos, I gotta get going except I forgot where.

Love
Dad

Fish On! No wait, I just caught a trophy inner tube.

2010-04-02T11:03:00.010-04:00

Ah yes, spring in northeast Ohio. A beautiful warm sunny day after a long, miserable, gray, bone chilling winter. And that was just Christmas. Hey, I'm here all week folks, don't forget to take care of your wait staff. Anyway, on such a day as this, the sap starts to rise, the birds begin to sing and the local steelhead send the word to the entire ichthyological community to brace themselves for the annual spawning and Bob's comedy fishing act season. The fever generally starts around mid January when internet articles and magazines talk about how ridiculously easy it is to catch a dump truck full of spawning steelhead, in the Grand River and attached feeder creeks. These articles are of course written by sadistic outdoorsmen suffering from terminal Pinochioitis. Either that or they are congressmen.
A small fortune is invested in lures, baits and other nonsensical equipment designed purely for the amusement of aquatic life everywhere.
Fish #1 to Fish #2: "Holy crap, Joe, would you look at that very realistic and tantalizing fluorescent orange, rubberized worm pulling a windmilling steel blade with hooks coming out of it! Tell me that's not a meal!" Fish #1 is obviously brain dead, or most likely Fishes 1 and 2 soon float to the top of the water as they have both just died laughing. And that's just the beginning of the fun. I can tell you that the local fish have enjoyed watching me for the last few years, trying to land taunting schools of steelhead, most of them halfway above water to get a better look, as I toss lure after lure, line after line into tree branches, shrubbery and the occaisional passing cow. But am I deterred. Not at all. Every spring I spend more and more money to entertain more and more fish before ice sets in.
For example, a year or two ago I came up with the brilliant idea that a set of chest waders would be just the ticket for getting me closer to where the fish were lurking in anticipation of a free lunch. I used these waders once each of the last two springs. Total fish caught? Zip, nada, goose egg, none. I really should have just set fire to my money and been done with it. I have only been talking so far about my luck, if you can call it that, fishing the local creeks. We haven't even began to get into the various, nicks, cuts, bruises and hemorrhaging lacerations endured for this, uh, "relaxation." It is sometimes so bad that the local Red Cross chapter sends out volunteers to follow me around for "tourniquet practice."
This year however, I decided to up the humiliation ante. And don't think the fish didn't appreciate it. This year I decided on this glorious spring day, to put on those chest waders and get into some real fishing waters. And by "real fishing waters", I mean those places where all the fly fishermen, with the lures attached to their hats, and their deftly casting of fly lines into the holes where the fish will be when they are not otherwise preoccupied with the "Bob Show." I'm talking about the spot where Ellison Creek and the Grand River merge. This was a mistake.
To get to the spot you have to wade through the relatively calm waters of the creek to the spot where the river meets and where in most springs, the Grand River is about as calm as Niagara Falls. Picture if you will, the bowling ball in waders, clutching his rod with white knuckles, not so much "wading" as sloshing, sliding, lurching and stumbling through the water, much as a one year old might look on ice skates. Only less stable.
Incredibly I managed to find a spot in about thigh high water not occupied by the rest of steelhead anglers whose number equaled roughly that of the population of China. Oh and by the way, if you want to experience an incredible sensation of vertigo, and who doesn't, be sure to look down at the flowing water as you try to inch your way to your spot. When I finally got to my spot I started casting my lure, which was guaranteed on the package to be "snag proof" and promptly caught a submerged boulder. Come to find out that "snag proof" actually means "snag resistant." Damn lawyers. But I digress. Upon freeing my line I made several more casts toward the river bank, the water rushing and swirling around my legs so that I felt about as stable as Foster Brooks on a bender.
About this time, I come to find that the company that made my waders and that had guaranteed a lifetime "angling pleasure in our leakproof vulcanized waders," actually meant "leak resistant." You really haven't lived until you find yourself in the roiling spring waters of the Grand River, just after ice out, feeling the life ooze out of your right leg. I somehow lurched and slogged my way to the bank of the river alive, and staggered back to my car and died.
I really don't plan to go back out today, but I have heard that steelhead have been spotted holding their cigarette lighters out of the water asking for an encore.

Love
Dad

"My Near Death Experience" or "So That's What WTF Stands For!"

2010-01-09T10:55:00.006-05:00

Word to my kids. Be careful about what you think is a myth. State's Exhibit 1, "Black Ice". I've been hearing about this stuff for years and never believed it truly existed. It was folklore that ranked up there with UFOs, Yetis, Elvis sightings or the existence of a democratic congressman with an actual backbone.
For anyone fortunate enough not to have experienced (sunbelt denizens are exempt) the situation it goes something like this:
It is cold and dark (much like my sex life). There may be snow on the side of the road, however for all intents and purposes the road appears clean as a whistle or at most a little wet. You are on your way home from a meeting in Columbus, Ohio and the roads have been marvelous the whole way home. ODOT has had plows and salt trucks out on every square inch of roadway with the lone exception of Lake County. You are relaxed because you've hit the home stretch of your journey. WNCX has finally come out of their normal 2 hour commercial break and you are singing along to the mellow strains of "Simple Man" as you approach the Route 306 underpass. Traffic is moderate but not congested and thankfully you have entered that space between packs of cars and are traveling at more or less the speed limit.
"... and be simple kind of mmmmaaaaaaannnnnn..." when in the middle of "...aaaannnn..." you find yourself, for no apparent reason, on some deity's demented idea of an amusement park ride. This ride consists of, with absolutely no warning by the way, swerving, spinning and cursing, during which there is an adrenalin pounding jumble of steering wheel clenching, brake pumping, spinning in a crazed kaliedescope of tail lights and headlights all accompanied by terrorizing visions of car flipping, collisions with bridge abutments, vehicles or lawyers. Or all the above.
If you are lucky, your car will finally come to an abrupt halt, on the berm, facing the right way with no oncoming tractor trailers or freight trains. Also if you're lucky you will have had the forethought to leave your wife at home, knowing that had you not done so, your eardrums would now be useless lumps of cartilage or bone or whatever the hell they're made of, because the blood curdling screams would have shown up on a siesmograph in Bangkok. And if you're not so lucky?Well, I think we all know that one.
When my "thrill ride" concluded I was on the berm in a cloud of burning rubber, mist and/or dirt. The ODOT folks in the infinite wisdom of all bureaucratic governmental departments, in trying to save a few nanocents, had decided to wait until "the really bad stuff came down" before sending out the salt trucks. Ronnie Van Zant was still singing and the cars that had been behind me were all now heading for the Route 306 exit at roughly 3/4 of 1 mile per hour. Evidently the salt trucks are still being held in reserve as I heard that a semi hit a patch of black ice several hours later and closed off the west bound I90 exit ramp. Thanks loads.
After I crawled off at the next available exit I took Johnnycake Ridge the rest of the way home (no barrel of laughs either). When I had caught my breath and my heart rate had slowed to roughly normal I became angry. Did I blame myself? Did I blame ODOT? No, I blamed the lady that had called me to Columbus that day for what amounted to attempted homicide. As a matter of fact, when Sandy heard of my experience, she too became irate at the woman. She promptly called her and complained bitterly that she hadn't tried hard enough. In my pique, I called her myself and demanded that she be punished severely, and that the worst punishment I could think of would be to have connubial relations. Well, this lady is no fool. She immediately pointed out that the U.S. Supreme Court had struck down as cruel and unusual, in the oft cited case of Womankind vs. Bob L, such a punishment. It was an 8-1 decision with the lone dissent coming from Clarence "is that a pubic hair in my Coke" Thomas. Justice Thomas opined that such treatment should be allowed in cases of terrorists and then, only after any enhanced waterboarding had failed.
Well, I better be going. For some reason the CIA wants to talk to me.

Love
Dad

California Dreamin' 2009

2009-06-19T15:02:00.017-04:00

The Mrs. and I paid a visit to our son, (role model, Oscar Madison, alas mine as well.) in Los Angeles, CA for a week with several adventures and side trips planned. Prior to our trip, Sandy and I of course, planned meticulously for the trip from what we would be seeing and doing right down to the packing of clothing and articles for the trip. That means of course, that we spent most of the trip buying toiletries, clothing and sun screen, between those periods of time bickering over where to go, what to see, where to eat or whom to kill first. As you can tell we really know how to enjoy ourselves on vacation.

First full day, we arose at the butt crack of dawn, plotted the days' activities for roughly 7 hours, and finally decided in true LaForce fashion to go to the horse races at Hollywood Park. Nothing says vacation like spending your first day in town throwing money at various soon to be Elmer's Glue candidates. It would have been easier of course to just burn our money, or give it to congress. Same thing.

To illustrate the "I should have known better" factor, my son, calculated before the first race what horses to bet in the Trifecta. He did something called a "box bet plus 1" bet which let you pick 4 horses in order to win you had to get the first three finishers. To do this he invested $24 dollars. Much to our surprise three of his horses actually came in first, second and third. You would think that having picked the first three horses in a race, IN THE CORRECT ORDER, he stood to win a nice pot. But then you would be an idiot. His take for this wager came to $14.80 cents. Not as in "he won $14.80" but as in "he bet 24 dollars and his ticket paid out $14.80." That's right, he made a bet, picked the winners and wound up LOSING $9.20. Sandy of course, won twenty dollars picking a horse "because the name has a nice ring to it." We left the track shortly after that.

That night managed to secure tickets via Craigslist to a Dodger game. On the way over to the stadium through traffic that can only be described as, and I thought I would never say this, WORSE than being on the Dan Ryan Expressway in rush hour during construction lane closures, in a blizzard we decided to drive around Hollywood and the Chinatown area. We hadn't eaten dinner so we decided to try authentic chinese food in Chinatown. We found a good restaurant by asking a local shopkeeper who told us something that we have understood as "go down this street and Sum Woo's is on the left side, two doors past the shop with the dead and gutted chickens hanging in the window looking as appetizing as deep fried rat poop, and don't forget to try the creme brulee." Just kidding about the brulee of course, and Sum Woo's turned out despite its humble ambiance, to have great and inexpensive food. By inexpensive I mean that when I ordered a "side" of fried rice they brought it to the table in a wheelbarrow.

After stuffing ourselves senseless we left for the game and arrived at Dodger Stadium (motto: "Don't forget your sherpa") about an hour early. This was a good thing as this stadium is not on a mound, or a hill or even a steep incline. It's in the friggin' Himalayas. So you can imagine the revelry and good times we had climbing and descending various mountain passes fried rice and roast pork and dumplings sloshing around our guts, JUST TO FIND THE DAMN WILL CALL WINDOW! Not that I'm bitter.

On the positive side, our seats turned out to be pretty good, next to the left field foul pole in the second row, it was a good close game, and the bleacher fans turned out to be very entertaining. The Dodger bleacher bums make the Dawg Pound look like the Order of the Silent Monks. Loud, belligerent and armed to the teeth, you took your life in your hands wearing the opposing team's colors in the same area code. At one point I saw some burly guy in a black hooded mask, next to a tree stump, sharpening a huge axe over by the hot dog stand. I think it was Dick Cheney at his retirement job.

After the game, and despite our admonitions to "remember what section we parked in" we wandered aimlessly up and down the mountain passes they call "parking lots" vainly trying to remember landmarks indicating where we had come in and the conversation going something like this:

Dustin: "I think we parked by those dumpsters."

Me: "No, I'm sure it was the bigger dumpsters down by Gate 8."

Dustin: "Pops you're an idiot. I'm telling you we parked right by those dumpsters and the oxygen station."

Sandy: "Anyone seen my hat?"

We found the car around dawn and exhausted, retired to Dustin's penthouse bachelor pad and died.

The rest of the trip consisted of a couple of glorious days in Sequoia National Park along with a visit with Sandy's uh, let's say, "eccentric" cousin Bette Lou and a stroll on Venice Beach, which is the beach where all the druggies, hippies and congressman hang out. I'll tell you about it in my next post. If I feel like it.

For now, I've got some serious left over fried rice to take care of.

Love

Dad

A Horse is a Horse...or Are You Sure Roy Rogers Started This Way?

2009-05-25T08:57:00.010-04:00

Exhibit "A" it really happened. Me astride Trucker. You'll notice Trucker is thrilled beyond repair to have Paul Prudhomme Jr. aboard.

The bucket list grows ever shorter. Not sure that is a good thing. I was conned, er I mean, invited by Rose to enjoy a beautiful spring morning riding horseback through an expansive and quite beautiful estate in Chardon. The property is consists of some 3500 acres (used to be over 7,000 until the family needed some extra polo money) of rolling hills, ponds and leas (look it up, I had to). The property is owned by the McMillan family (motto: "F... the Rockefellers") and besides being picture postcard gorgeous has several little "shacks" dispersed strategically throughout the estate designed to enhance the family's enjoyment and relaxation in times of great stress. Usually when the price of caviar skyrockets 1%. But, surprise, surprise I digress.

My equine adventure started innocently enough when I got out of bed Saturday morning. The temperature cool but not cold, the sun shining brightly and the air dewey sweet. You know, the kind of morning that almost makes you glad to be alive. Visions of galloping alongside John Wayne and Gary Cooper taking on the fearsome Chardonesqua (literally meaning "Indians that have grown too fat swilling maple syrup") saving damsels in distress, Cossak invaders and all that crap. Anyway, I was disabused of those fantasies in short order. I arrived at my riding companion's home in eager anticipation. Rose possesses a lot of qualities but none could have been remotely confused with "damsel, Cossak or John Wayne. Gary Cooper maybe." Just kidding Rose, put down the pistol and step back. No, Rose looked quite fetching in her riding garb and bicycle hat. No riding crop however, I guess that costs extra.

As for my headgear, I had intended to go sans hat (my Stetson is in the shop) but no such luck. I had the choice of a goofy looking bicycle helmet (bicycle riding fans, no nasty grams please) or a goofier looking English style baseball helmet with a little fluffy ball on top. I chose the lesser of two evils. Then we proceeded to the barn which housed roughly 20 horses with catchy names like "Jeep" "Mystery" and "Trucker". The barn had a vaguely familiar aroma that took me awhile to place, but then it came to me. The U.S. Senate Cloakroom. After much bickering and gnashing of teeth it was decided that I would ride Trucker. Actually, I originally was going to ride Jeep, but after I struggled into the saddle, with the help of a kindly stable aide, who was off that day from Burger King, Jeep pitched, snorted and generally snarled "get this Abrahms tank off me right freakin' now!" Trucker on the other hand wasn't so lucky. He lost the coin toss and the use of his spine. Trucker, who I came to find was usually ridden by a little old concentration camp surviver weighing slightly less than a bag of feathers, sagged in the middle like a hammock and let out an audible grunt when I climbed on. Where Jeep had lurched and pitched in protest, Jeep just staggered and eventually got his bearings. Before we took off, the kindly stable aide doused the horses with a liquid that I would later learn was a horsefly "attractant."

Finally we were off and I began to experience all the wonders of equestrian living that let me know full well, why Rose was so enamored with the sport of riding. Her horse was in the lead and Trucker followed along like a condemned heading to the gallows. About 10 yards from the barn Jeep decided "this is as good a place as any" and laid down about 600 pounds of congressional work product on the spot. I was especially thankful that Trucker saw fit to stop about two nanoinches from Jeep's ass so as ensure my full visual appreciation of the business end of this magnificent animal. That is the thing with these wonderfully uninhibited creatures of nature. They would stop and let nature take its course anywhere. This they did with disturbing regularity. At one point Trucker took about a 3 day pee break and for a second I thought we were just around the bend from Niagara Falls.

However, in between the pit stops, Rose and I took in the beautiful scenery, all the while unbeknownst to me, my ass was slowly turning into the consistency of ground sausage. At several points I evened worked up the courage to have Trucker trot a bit and after awhile was able to enjoy the experience without thinking "DEAR GOD MAKE IT STOP, I WANT MY MOMMY!!" It probably wouldn't have been so bad, but the helpful little stable aides had inadvertently (so they said in the police report) had my saddle on crooked. I do remember thinking I should have made inquiries when they were talking about reins, girths and Johnson rods, but then I was hanging on for dear life at that point. Anyway, the result was that I essentially spent the two hour ride with one butt cheek on the horse and the other kind of flailing along the side. I believe this made the horse go down the trail looking a lot like a car with a bent frame, so that its ass was canted to one side or the other.

But all in all I would have to say it was an enjoyable experience and I figure with any a luck and competent medical attention I should be able to walk again by 2011. And, for all its drawbacks at least it isn't flying around a track on roller skates getting the bejeezus beaten out of me by some testosterone infused, neandrathal female intent on using her elbow on my nose like a jackhammer.

Well, gotta go and send Trucker a get well card as I am told he has two flat rear hooves for some reason.

Love

Dad

Bobcats in Chicago or Elevator, Elevator, We Got the Shaft!

2009-03-24T09:59:00.015-04:00

If it's March this must be Chicago, The City of Broad Shoulders, The Windy City, That Toddlin' Town, The Pothole Capital of Not Just This Country But the Universe. Ah yes, Chicago. Their new tourism slogan: "Come for the cuisine, stay for the angioplasty!" More on this later, but first who went, why we went and where the first bloodletting occurred. As many of you (1 or 2 anyway) no doubt recall from my post on the subject, http://aging-disgracefully.blogspot.com/2008/05/there-will-be-blues-part-two.html, this was not the first time the Bobcats have darkened the doorstep of this fabled city. It was however a first for all of the infamous Bobcat 6 (yes the same Bocat 6 that French Polynesians are under direct orders to shoot to kill) ventured to Chi Town as a unit. There were of course, several auxilliary Bobcat alums like Mel, Dave, Val and Brett on hand, but they were not nearly as much fun, or stupid. Really, Andy, Mike, Woody, Marilyn, Fran, Tim and Mary you should join us sometime. You don't know what your missing, although cardiac arrest, industrial strength hangovers and jail time may not be your cup of tea.

To start with Sandy and I picked up Craig (Bean) and Cathy (I Am Really Out of Stories This Time) Bennett at their home in Vermilion, Ohio. The trip there was pretty uneventful and we traversed Ohio, Indiana (motto: "WHERE DID ALL THESE DEER COME FROM, DAMMIT?") and and arrived uneventfully in Chicago.

We arrived in the city and got off the Dan Ryan Expressway at Ohio Street and began looking for our hotel. Our hotel, which we were staying at a discounted rate thanks to my son in law Dave, was called the Hotel Felix and had just opened that day. We were among the first guinea pigs, er, I mean customers, they had. If you've never stayed at a newly opened hotel, I highly recommend the experience, simply for the unpredictability of it all. One of the funnier things happened when the cab driver just gave us a kind of a glazed look when we asked him to take us to the Hotel Felix. I've seen this look before when telling people jokes. It usually means "And the punchline is...?" We took a lot of cabs this trip since we parked in the hotel parking lot (motto: Doesn't everyone charge $5,000 a night for parking with no in/out priveleges?) but that wasn't bad since everything was pretty close to our hotel.

Upon our arrival, and after waiting about 37 years for the new staff, to figure out the new computerized room key activating machine, we finally made it to our rooms where naturally, the keys did not work. But this was quickly and pleasantly rectified (the hotel manager in training was taken out back and shot) and soon we were on our way to get a Chicago style deep dish pizza that Cathy had her heart set on. Her mission was to try every unique food item in the city within 24 hours. The rest of us of course grudgingly complied.

After having a not so wonderful experience with a pizza chain that shall remain nameless, but will call hypothetically "Gino's East" Craig and I were somewhat apprehensive, but we need not have worried. We went to a place called Giordano's (and we managed to only have to stop total strangers and ask for directions once, the directions we got from the "new" hotel staff doesn't count, since Giordano's was literally a stone's throw from the hotel). A Giordano's deep dish pizza was a totally wonderful experience and a particularly good choice if you are well into your 50's, dead tired from travel and plan on going to sleep right after the pizza. Beer helps immensely. We met up with Mel and Dave and Mel's sorority sister Jill and her fiancee and got our tickets to the Derby bout and reimbursed her for our's and Rose, Dude, Brett and Val's tickets. The tickets seemed a tad pricey for an evening of watching your daughter get beaten to a pulp, but you only go around once right? After the usual pleasantries we went back to the hotel to sleep as we were essentially broke.

We had planned to sleep in a little Saturday morning, but a convention of jackhammer operators in the street outside our room got us up, to quote my little girl, "at the butt crack of dawn." I have no idea where that analogy comes from, but it expresses the proper sentiment. The plan for Saturday was to meet with Mike (Dude) and Rose (Have I shown you these 212 pictures of a: my son, b: my other son, c: my grandson or d: my big toe?) Doudican. The plan was for me to drive to Brett's house somewhere north of the city with, of course, the kind, helpful and totally unsolicited help of my companions. The drive went something like this:

Sandy "Turn right"
Cathy "Turn left"
Bean "Go straight"

All of course at the same time, except for when someone would say, "turn right at that intersection we just passed!" Consequently we arrived at Brett's about 16 hours later. Once the final couple of the Bobcat 6 had joined us, some confusion quickly erupted because of the time difference between our time: 10 a.m. Eastern, Chicago time: 9:00 a.m. Central and Rose time: 4:37 p.m. Mars. The morning plan was to have "to die for" chocolate croissants at Rose's insistence, then walk around Wicker Park to enjoy several quaint children's shops to browse for "grandchild" items. Since Sandy and I are sans grandchild, this was much fun for us. On a more positive note, I did discover that there is quite a market for lullaby CD's set to the melodies of the classics. You know, Brahms, Mozart and Pink Floyd. Yes todays toddlers can be lulled into dreamland to the smooth and mellow sounds of such timeless tunes as "Comfortably Numb", "Another Brick in the Wall" and my favorite "Shine on You Crazy Diamond". Cathy and Bean made a major toy find for little boys find when they uncovered a little harmless looking rubber ball, which when squeezed like a stress ball, brought an eruption of little pink, plastic and disgusting looking worms in a gelatinous substance from the top of the ball. Perfect for little Parker, although, Scott if you're reading this don't expect Parker to actually see this ball, as I think your father is going to conveniently "lose it".

Then it was off to lunch downtown at a place called "Portillo's" which serves every industrial strength artery clogging food known to man. Cathy, Bean, Sandy and Rose had to try a Chicago style hot dog. It is really a complete meal on a bun with everything from tomatoes, pickles and sport peppers to celery salt, and oh yes, a hot dog. It did however lack the neon green relish which I thought were required but it was a minor point. They were great, I know because I had one later that evening after the Roller Derby bout at about 2 a.m. our time, 1 a.m. Chicago time and June 23rd Rose time. But at lunch Dude and I ventured into what was for me new territory. An italian beef sandwich, and I think I may have found a new love. Spiced juicy beef with unknown veggies and peppers which render this sandwich taste bud singeing, lip tingling beauty and a cardiolist's nightmare. In other words, don't miss it.

After lunch we went to dinner, oh wait, I forgot. We did manage to spend several hours wandering the Lincoln Park area and the shore of Lake Michigan to burn off a few extra calories before dinner. We had to eat early so we could still make it to the Derby bout. Right? Anyway, we decided on a steak house that I had been to before, named Gene and Georgetti's and if you are a steak lover, I think this is the place for you. Nice big steaks fit for a real man. This of course excludes Bean, who I actually saw pale when they served him his order of prime rib which I swear had its own area code. The sides were ok, but the meat is unbelievable.

You would think that this would have been enough to eat for anyone, but then would be an idiot.

After the derby bout, Mr. Bennett, probably because he left about 2/3 of his prime rib to Brett, demanded a return trip to Portillo's so he could try one of them "eyetalian beef thangs". Well, how could we resist those big puppy dog eyes? We would just have to tough it out and have some Chicago dogs ourselves. Which we did, and then went to bed, and surprisingly did very well considering our stomachs must have either died or been on life support.

Oh yes, the Roller Derby bout. The reason we came to Chicago in the first place, right? Well, my little speed skating, elbow gouging, gestapo jammer of a PhD daughter, well over 4 feet, and weighing as much as 3 feathers, kicked the tar out of the other girls and scored more points than LeBron. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

By the way, one last post script about staying at a brand new hotel. I think I mentioned that they were still ironing out a few bugs. On our way to check out Sunday morning, we had the proud distinction of becoming the first guests to get trapped in the elevator. If you haven't experienced being shut in a walled cage about the size of a packing crate you haven't lived. And if you haven't had this experience with several claustrophobics, each panicking more by the second, well you just haven't seen it all. I would definitely recommend this as a new Cedar Point ride. First you start to feel your skin crawl, then the heat seems to have been turned to about 2000 degrees, then when you call on the emergency phone, and find out that the company responsible for this little death trap is speaking to you from Honolulu, things really start to get tense. After what seemed months, and after my mouth felt like the Gobi desert, Cathy had threatened to take her clothes off, Bean wondering if he'd eaten his last italian beef sandwich and 4 foot nothin' Sandy eerily at peace with the world, mercifully the elevator started moving. UP for some reason. Turns out that someone else on the top floor had pushed the button and somehow got it started again. We thought long and hard about taking the other elevator and were so grateful to be out, not to mention a topless Cathy, that I promised to name my next son after that lady that got us out. When we got to the lobby we found that we were not the only ones to be scared crapless by the ordeal. The hotel staff had gone into lock down mode when they heard the elevator alarm bell and they had called the fire department, police and the Marines. Not necessarily in that order.

I've left out some good stuff, but you get the idea don't you? Well I guess, "I'll see you on the dark side of the moon," or Chicago.

Love
Dad

Bobcats are Wii, or Nice Shot Clefty!

2009-01-25T16:19:00.000-05:00

For those one or two of you that actually saw my last post (and didn't delete it faster than an ad for an astounding way to make zillions working at home) I normally wouldn't be writing again so soon after a post, but an event occurred this week, the likes of which we may never see again in our lifetimes. Indeed, it was truly an historic spectacle of the first order. Am I speaking of the inauguration of the first black president in the history of our great nation? Hardly. By comparison, the events of Saturday, January 24th at the LaForce household dwarfs the inauguration in historical significance. It made the inauguration as significant as a mere bicycle ride was to the Wright brothers debut of the flying machine. The world will never be the same.
Amazingly, Saturday dawned much the same as countless other Saturday's in which the Bobcat Six (Yes the same six banished forever from the tropical paradise known as the Tahitian Islands) get together, over eat, liquored up, and then fall asleep (usually during one of Rose's er, uh, stories). It was scheduled to be "German" day, a reflection of the fact that my dear wife Sandy invited our soon to be ex-friends to the house for a day consuming cabbage rolls, pierogis, fruit of the vine, various barley malt mixtures, snacks and curdled milk products. Liederhosen optional. And this is the way the day progressed. At least initially. Somewhere along the line it was "mutually" decided we should play some games on the "Wii". To be fair, this part of the get together may have, in fact, been previously agreed to by the female Bobcats during their many telephone calls necessary to achieving the maximum efficiency in one of our little soiree's. So as usual, the men were totally clueless as to the plans for the day. So, it was decided to warm up the old Wii machine and engage in some friendly competitions to enhance our afternoon's conversational enjoyment.
Now at the outset, those of you that know me, will undoubtedly know that I, throughout the rest of the entire time of playing various games, kept absolutely quiet, without making snide remarks at any time (even though, believe you mii, there were vast mountains of justification). Nor did I once give deceptive tips or directions to the combatants, I mean players, in order to elevate my own chances of victory. There was no laughter or ridicule on my part whatsoever. In short, I remained throughout the evening, the picture of graciousness and decorum.
The first order of business was for Cathy and Craig to try out the Wii Fit program as they are already the proud possessors of a Wii system, and after having it for several years now, have played about 2 games. As I understand, Cathy was actually told by the game system itself to, and I quote "Give it up and go drink liquor!" I was further told that the Bennett's had recieved a letter from Nintendo's lawyers that if Cathy ever tried to play the Wii again, a warrant would be issued for her arrest. The reason for Nintendo's concern soon became evident. In trying out the Wii Fit game you must, upon pain of death, take what they euphemistically call at "body test".
Now, Cathy in her haste to get started, knowing she was at our house and thus effectively beyond any Nintendo long arm statutes, proceeded to pick as her "Mii" my daughter's character for the analysis. Without getting into the physics of height, age and weight ratio's the game essentially took Melanie's age, height and weight, and applied them to Cathy in order to do a "fitness" evaluation. And, Cathy being somewhat taller and just a tad, a tad, a wee bit heavier than Mel, was irate when the Wii Fit cooly and calmly calculated her "statistics" and pronounced in that tinny robotish voice "You're Obese." Well something hit the fan and I was extremely happy that it would be Craig going home with her that night and not myself. However, to her credit, Cath calmed to a slow boil when we explained that the Wii innocently used Mel's statistics to evaluate, and was not, in fact involved in a massive, video game plot to ridicule and demean her. They figured she was doing fine on her own.
For about an hour, we tread around Cathy as though she were a hungry lion, soothingly feeding her cheese, crackers and a few vats, I mean, sips of wine. Eventually, it was felt that it would be safe to suggest that we play some other games on the Wii, to which she agreed, but only if we would shoot the Wii Fit board with a machine gun.
With Cathy back in the fold we decided it would loads of fun to play some games, but we decided that we should create new characters for all Cathy, Bean, Rose and Dude that would accurately portray them in the most complimentary fashion. After Bean and Dude made up their characters, which looked like Brad Pitt and Robert Redford (in his younger days, of course) I naively allowed them to make the characters representing Rose and Cathy. This was only accomplished because the women had foolishly retired to the kitchen to cook a little and have some more liquid refreshments in order to be fully prepared to battle the menfolk. Of course, with total freedom, Dude made Rose's caricature a mirror image of her mother, Martha. Bean was not as kind. The most accurate description I can give of Cathy's character, was that it closely resembled Momma from the "Throw Momma From the Train", but with a cleft palate and fatter. You can imagine how well Cathy took this.
Somehow we persuaded the girls to play some bowling games, and these proceeded enjoyably and uneventfully and everyone was getting along famously. After several games someone, and I blame Craig, suggested we try a game of golf in which the couples would play as teams. This was an extremely bad idea. But we are young and foolish, so off we went. By the way, the reason I know that Dude did not suggest we play golf, apart from his infinite patience with Rose's game playing abilities, was because Dude judges the success of a game of golf by how it sounds. In other words, he could slice a shot into Pittsburg and if it sounded good that would be all that mattered.
For the uniformed, the way you play a game of video golf with a Wii, is to try and coordinate your shots with animated figures, on a golf course layout, using the Wii controller as a golf club, and the computer somehow analyzes things like the strength of a swing and the terrain and wind and produces a shot that, more or less, resembles actually playing golf, but without the beer carts, bugs and heat stroke. In order to gauge the strength of your swing, and thereby letting you know how hard to swing, a "power bar" with increasing levels of distance shows up on the screen and you try to keep your swing strength within the bar. It also compensates and penalizes players for things like landing in the rough or a sand trap by restricting the power of your swing's accuracy.
On the first hole, the men teed off and the shots were all magnificent, right in the center of the fairway. Then came the girls. It became immediately apparent there would be big and I mean big, trouble when neither Cathy or Rose could quite grasp the concept of holding a button down during a swing, and not holding the button down when practicing their swing. This led to much confusion and bloodletting. Sandy did not have as much problem with this concept of the game since she has played many other games on the Wii, and so knew the basics. This lack of ability to remember to hold down the button led to incidents of swinging and totally missing the ball, a very hard thing to do with a video game, and also to much consternation when their characters would hit the ball without them trying to hit the ball, and doing so only because they held the button down while talking and gesturing. The other problem the ladies seemed to have was one of developing a sense of touch in their shots and by that I mean learning how hard to hit the ball in situations where a full swing was not required. For instance, and again an omen of dark clouds on the horizon, on the first green after managing to get the ball about two inches from the hole requiring a simple tap in, Cathy, Rose and Sandy gently hit the putts with a bazooka.
And thus it went. The guys, with the notable exception of Dude (for reasons already mentioned) would get the ball in great position close to the green or the hole itself, and the women would blast it into kingdom come. On several holes the Wii pleaded with us to give up and go to the next hole because we were melting the its circuits setting off fire alarms all over the city. During the entire time the men (me excluded like I already said) would give the girls tips and directions at lining up shots, how hard to swing and how to compensate for the wind, all with the same result. The girls would launch the ball like a Titan missle. At one point, Rose became so terrified of hitting the ball too hard, she just curled up and whimpered piteously, "I'm scared!" It was pathetic. After what seemed months, we mercifully finished the game. Somehow the Wii, the men and the dogs survived.
That is enough for any masochist right? Wrong. For some reason, and I blame the alcohol we persuaded Cathy and Rose, MY GOD! CATHY AND ROSE! to try out the tennis game. Surpisingly after several hours of missteps and bitching in general, they seemed to get the hang of it and really get into the game. They moved back and forth and for some reason forward like they were actually on the court. Now you might think this a good thing. Then you might be an idiot. Getting into the activity did not make it better, it made it worse, and dangerous. The evening came to a crashing halt when Rose, doing her best Monica Seles impression, lunged at the TV set, about to deliver a crushing forehand smash to Cathy's backhand, whomped the TV with controller with enough force to be registered on several seismographs.
The reason I say this is because I don't believe we (or should I say Wii) as a group have laughed so hard and so much as we did during these games over the eons we have known each other. So, forget what I said last time, the Wii is actually a lot of fun. Of course, being well over 50, uncoordinated and stupid helps.
Now I have to get going I here the Nintendo police have orders to shoot to kill.

Love
Dad

Wii Bii Iidiots.

2009-01-22T15:08:00.000-05:00

Been awhile, I know, but industrial strength writer's block, mega apathy, supersized malaise and no life whatsoever will do that. The final ingredient to the mix however, my having one foot on Methusalah's age and the other on a banana peel, plays prominently into this piece. Approaching the "golden years" at the same speed as a runaway freight train, I find myself noticing more and more of God's wit and humor in the practical jokes he plays as we age. "This will be a good one, " it says, and presto, I'm bald! What a kidder that Great I Am is. I mean if he had to make me lose something, why couldn't it be weight?

There have been a couple of incidents in the last several months that have really caused my reflection on the passage of time and its effects on the mind and body. And these are not good reflections. More like fun house reflections. The first of these incidents was when my lovely wife, or as I like to call her, Hecate (look it up, everyone except Sandy that is), decided that We needed a Wii. Now I am way too sophisticated for any wee-wii jokes here, although I could come up with several. Anyway, the reasoning was it could be our Christmas gift to ourselves. We could have saved a lot of trouble pain and money if we just bought dueling pistols.

For the unenlightened, the Wii is an insanely popular video game "experience" made by the good sadists at Nintendo. Wii is not your run of the mill, humdrum, everyday kind of video game, but a system that creates virtual experiences that allow you to physically participate in a variety of activities that are designed to optimize both your gaming enjoyment and the depletion of your bank accounts. In future divorce cases, custody of the Wii will surpass custody of the children in terms of most coveted assets. I can see the lawyer ads now..."Call Dewey, Cheatam and Howe at 1-800-ASSHOLE because we're tough and we'll fight to get your Wii from the rotten son of a buzzard adulter, spouse abuser your married to, all at bargain basement prices."

Anyway, once your have shelled out the kids' college fund for a Wii system, you then can begin consigning your paychecks directly to Nintendo for the privilege of buying the next "big game" they put out, which everyone MUST HAVE, OR ELSE YOU'RE NOT FIT TO LIVE IN CIVILIZED SOCIETY AND ARE LOWER THAN WHALE POOP OR ELSE YOU WOULD NOT DEPRIVE YOUR FAMILY OF THIS UTMOST NECESSITY OF LIFE! Not that I'm bitter.

Now that is all well and good, but they don't make your aware of the Wii side effects which are way worse than any of those chintzy little effects you get from Ambien, like sleep walking, sexual promiscuity or waking up and finding yourself in the hoosgow for breaking into the local Food King and eating the entire frozen pizza section. Wii side effects are much more insidious and debilitating. To start, before you can even begin playing the games, you need to create a cartoon version of yourself (called surprise, a Mii) to represent you in all of your Wii activities. I created what I thought was the perfect Mii and was promptly laughed all the way to Pittsburg by my ruthless and thoughtless family members, most of whom are still hospitalized from the laughing spells they incurred whenever my character came on the screen. And they deserve it. Other than becoming the first laughing stock in your circle of friends, more nasty things will begin to happen. You will decide that you need the Wii Fit system which allows you to not only play fun exercise games, but experience the very real strains, pains and bruises that normally accompany being the running back for the New York Giants, but it has music to accompany all your exercises that will move into your brain and immediately take precedence over all the ridiculous commercial jingles that you once thought you would be hearing in your mind on your deathbed. These songs go straight for the aural jugular and lodge immovably and irrevocably in your spinal cord. I'll tell you this, the first time I catch myself humming out loud the ditty that plays during the aerobic stepping exercise, I am going to wrap my lips around the nearest gas pipe.

Getting back to how aging fits into all of this, it is my understanding that the Wii is now being used as an innovative source of rehab and conditioning for people in nursing homes and as a preventative against the onslaught of aging by those looking to keep young and fit. I am quite sure this is a conspiracy between the Nintendo people and the osteopathic professional associations to increase business.

The other incident could be classified really as several incidents and are due to the fact, as I've said many times, that I didn't learn my lesson in the Marines about not volunteering. The AARP, of which I am now a proud card carrying member, was looking for people to help the elderly, the really elderly, do their upcoming tax returns. Sounds nice doesn't it? Yeah, right!

I called the area coordinator for the Lake County program and he informed me I needed to attend training. Well, how much work could that be, so I said OK. Around Christmas time I get a letter from the guy telling me I had to go to two weeks of all day training and take a certification test to meet IRS (whom I love as much as my own children, maybe more so, hey you never know who might be reading this) regulations.

Anyway, when I showed up for the first class, I found that the average age of my classmates was a tad over 112. At the door they handed out a stack of IRS training material the size of a small skyscraper along with an extra strength truss. Several of the ladies had enlisted the help of a local front end loader. I wish I'd thought of that! The classroom that first week was in a community center I am convinced doubles as an extraordinary rendition site. It was a dungeon, er, I mean basement, with whitewashed brick walls, no windows with a porthole for passing the bread and water to the inmates. Since this was the basement of the building the boiler room of course, was about two feet from the room. Hence another fear of growing old. It had to be about 800 degrees in there and 90 percent of the class kept their winter coats on for the duration of class. I can't wait until I am 80 (God forbid) and I vacation at the beach in a Depends bathing suit and gortex parka. Some image eh? No barfing on my watch, please. I wear a very expensive Timex.

AARP was good enough to supply plenty of hot water for tea, decaf coffee (which is like making love in a canoe) and Dick Cheney autographed Nike defibrillators. I must say that this was the only class I ever participated in with an ambulance on site. Now the instructors were, unbelievable as it sounds, older than the entire class. Combined! This made for some humorous situations involving misunderstanding of what the instructors and the class were saying. For instance:
Student: "What is depreciation?"
Instructor: "Out the door, down the hall on your left. Don't forget to flush."

However, a good time was had by all, and we all agreed to get together next year for a wild party at the Sea of Tranquility Nursing Home, or the next funeral, whichever comes first.
So everyone enjoy your birthdays before they become "How much time have I got left" days. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm bald.

Love
Dad

SWOOP'S ON!

2008-08-27T13:19:00.000-04:00

For those of you who have had the pleasure of wasting, er, I mean, serving several years of your youth in the marine corps, the following may mean little to you. For those of us that have, and you know who you are, the phrase "swoop's on" has instantaneous recognition especially those that were in during the late 60's and early 70's. As I understand from a comment I posted at "military.com" the practice still exists, which speaks volumes, if you ask me, or even if you don't, for the enlisted man's mania to absent himself or herself from the vicinity of their duty station at any available opportunity.

For the unknowledgeable, swooping was a Friday afternoon ritual starting around 4:00 and sometimes earlier. Picture if you will, hundreds of 19 - 24 year old marines milling around the grounds of the main chapel at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, most in civilian clothes and likewise for most, this would be as close as they would come to actually being at chapel for the majority of their stints at the base. Although, as I understand it, attendance rose markedly whenever there was an imminent deployment of troops to Vietnam. As these Marines stood around, smoking, chatting and believe it or not, some were actually reading something. True, for the most part the reading material consisted of what passed for pornography in those days and thereby consisted of very little actual reading per se. At various times throughout the afternoon a car would pull into the chapel parking lot, the driver also a marine, would hang out the window of the car and shout out the name of a major city somewhere, anywhere east of the Mississippi. At that point several young men, the number depended on the popularity of the city and/or points between, would detach themselves from the masses and sprint toward the car and, every man for himself, try to sit, wedge and sometimes pile themselves into the vehicle.

Whether or not one made it into a particular vehicle depended on a variety of factors, first and foremost being the price the driver was charging each passenger for the privilege of being crammed into a car with several other in marines in various stages of gaminess, for what could be a lengthy drive to the city in question, usually at breakneck speed and with very few pit stops. With swooping, time was of the essence and everyone wanted to spend as much time with ma an pa, or Mary or perhaps a women of questionable morals, as possible. This meant that drivers generally obeyed traffic laws as much congressmen obey rules on graft.

For those, such as myself heading toward Cleveland the swoop was not so much a leisurely drive in the country, as it was riding "The Beast" or any one of today's behemoth roller costers. Assuming of course, that roller coaster was on industrial strength steroids. The reason for this characterization is that when driving to Cleveland from Lejeune, the driver had to make a choice between two travel routes. The first was to drive through the Norfolk, Virginia area and along the Pennsylvania turnpike to your destination. For those that haven't had the pleasure, driving along the PA pike in the small hours, consisted of navigating such obstacles as hills, "s" turns and various drivers traveling at the actual speed limit, all of which will put a damper on the high speed travel so necessary to getting to your destination as quickly as possible. In other words, a real pleasure.

The other choice was to travel through West Virginia north on their version, at that time, of a turnpike, Interstate 77, or as we liked to call it the "River Styx". In those days I 77 was not the streamlined, snaking and winding 4 lane highspeed super highway of today. No, it was a snaking and winding 2 lane highspeed back alley that ran the length of "West By God". A normal swoop via this route consisted of over one hundred miles of twists, turns and dives along a roadway littered with the corpses of the previous vehicles that had the misfortune of traversing this particular disaster. Cars, trucks, motorcycles and wagon trains dotted the roadside every couple of miles or so, and the West Virginia road department had, in a rare moment of governmental foresight, constructed ramps of dirt and sand near the bottoms of the many Alpine "hills" to catch and stop vehicles, usually 8 million ton coal trucks, whose brakes had been fried to a crisp trying to keep their vehicles from exceeding the sound barrier.

So it was always with some trepidation that I got into a car that had anyone going to Charlestown or any other town along the West Virginia pike. But I, like so many others had to get home to spend several minutes seeing my family, talking to my girlfriend (if I had one) and spending the remaining 12 hours or so before I had to catch the swoop back to base, enjoying liquid refreshments or experimenting with any of the other "ice breakers" rapidly becoming available in the midwest at this time. If you get my drift. Thank God I didn't inhale.

While most of the swoops were memorable in terms of sheer terror levels, one particular trip was a little more unusual than the others. On this particular trip, of course it was through West Virginia, and I and roughly 36 marines had crammed into the seats of a beat up early 1960's Pontiac designed to hold 4 people. The trip was uneventful enough, but, as usual several people had been dozing off and I somehow had managed to get the passenger door front front seat. Between myself and the driver was a huge marine about 8 feet tall' with about a size 42 neck and an IQ to match. While he was awake, which lasted about 90 seconds, we had engaged in some small talk and he had told me he was going home to Pikeville to see has fiancee. "Lucky girl" I thought but of course kept to myself. I was between girlfriends (way between) myself, so I told him I was just going to relax and party a bit. Anyway, somewhere between Raleigh and Blue Ash, as I was drowsing off myself, I had this unusual sensation coming from the direction of snoring Mensa candidate next to me which was starting to make me very uncomfortable. At first I thought Godzilla was having a seizure of some kind but quickly realized he was having what I think is called, in polite society, nocturnal emissions. Evidently the talk of his fiancee had gotten to him. Anyway, as it dawns on me what is going on, I realize that calling anyone else's attention to the spasmodic marine could cause serious repercussions, not to mention serious bodily harm to myself. So I devised a plan, which was not without considerable risk, but fortunately I thought I could get away with it. All the other marines had dozed off. Including the driver. So, I went into action. I made myself go into fake a coughing spell, while at the same time whomping the dreaming marine upside the head. As he and the others stirred awake, I mumbled something about being sorry, and proceeded to desperately plead with one of the guys in the back to change seats. I think that was my last swoop for some time.

Anyway, I'm sure my tale doesn't hold a candle to some others that are out there, and I know some ex-marines that might be reading this have swoop stories of their own. I encourage you to pass this on to any service members you know and to put any experiences they have had in the comments section. Come on Duggan and Doughty, don't let me down.

Love
Dad

"They're Gonna Put Me In The Movies...Part Deux"

2008-07-28T16:34:00.000-04:00

I believe I mentioned in one or two of my past posts that I never learn. Sure enough, when I saw a desperate plea for extras for a local movie by none other than Butch "Anyone can make a movie with actual money!" Maier, I felt that I owed him a favor after my last appearance in his film "The Head Of The Company" and volunteered. Now, if you didn't know it, my performance in "Head" had been the subject of some critical acclaim, "Two thumbs up for the follically challenged Bob L" Siskel and Ebert, even though Mr. Siskel is technically deceased it was the thought that counts. "Bob's performance makes you almost wish you were bald yourself" wrote Rex Reed for Variety. Mr Reed may also be technically dead, but I'm not sure, then there was this: "Bob's performance does for bald men what George W. Bush did for political integrity", Joe Fabeets for the Tipp City Picayune.

So I was feeling pretty good about myself when I finally found my way to the United Church of Christ in Bath, Ohio, thanks to (I swear this is true) the help of a guy, roughly 45 years old, in a Boy Scout uniform who was standing on a rural road in the middle of Noplace, Ohio directing traffic around some sort of bicycle race. I thought it was a dream, but he actually did give me pretty good directions.

Now the person in charge of getting extras, the mysterious "Krista S" whose organizing philosophy can be best summed up as "These people are so desperate for their 15 minutes of fame, or who have no actual lives, I can tell them anything and they will do it," had emailed us all several times with instructions that sounded very authoritative. "YOU MUST ARRIVE NO LATER THAN 9:00 A.M. OR YOU'RE OUT OF THE MOVIE, DON'T WEAR ANY REDS, WHITES OR BLACKS OR YOU'LL BE OUT OF THE MOVIE AND ALL EXTRAS MUST NOT GO TO THE BATHROOM FOR A MINIMUM OF 3 DAYS OR..." made us feel very secure this film was going to run like a taut ship indeed. What it actually turned out to be, and probably why we only knew her as "Krista S" (if that is her real initial), was that she was actually Butch's "Chief Assistant in Charge of Crapola." That was because none of the rules were followed with the exception of the one about the bathroom.

I arrived at 8:45 a.m. per Commandant Krista's instructions, and proceeded to become involved in the three things extras must do best. That is, wait! And wait some more and finally, er, um, wait. While the other extras and I waited in the church conference room, the good folks of the church held their worship services. And sure enough, Butch and the rest of the crew and cast arrived at the crack of 10:30. I think that Butch had become desperate for extras because he had coerced the pastor into soliciting the some of the braver of the church congregation to stay and be in the movie, upon pain of purgatory (either that or he won them in a card game). He said he could do it too, because he knew God personally.

After the services, the extras were finally told to go the sanctuary and fill up the pews. That was so Butch could film some shots of a wedding scene, which was probably appropriate as the tentative name of the movie is "The Bride and Grooms." It was at this point I learned another bit of cinematic trickery, which was cramming 100 people into two rows of pews designed to hold 10 people so that we appeared to be a well dressed mob of 500 attending a beautiful wedding.

However, I must admit that Butch has come up in the world and I became impressed that his film budget must have increased to maybe $20.00 because he had three (count 'em) actual camera's, a real boom microphone, a makeup lady and a few dozen gophers. It was just before the first "take" that the actors came in to line up at the altar that I was wondering whether they were actually going to act, or whether they were preparing to be linemen for the Cleveland Clowns, er, Browns. When the were coming in they were bobbing, weaving and jumping up and down like prizefighters coming into the ring, and at one point the hero, at least I think he was the hero, head butted another actor delaying filming for first aid.

At last we began shooting, which gave Butch the opportunity to practice his "one more time" slogan. It also gave the extras the chance to ruin their various leg muscles and joints by standing up and sitting down roughly 3,000 times (or one more time x 3,000) for the critical "The Bride Breaks Down and Sprints Back Up the Aisle" scene. During one of the three million breaks I had the opportunity to meet Butch's mother who (not surpising given Butch's huge budget) also volunteering as an extra. She is a kind lady (she must be as she complimented my first post on Butch's first movie see http://aging-disgracefully.blogspot.com/2007_02_01_archive.html ) and not at all the type that would rear a son who would make a knowing career choice in felonious aggravated movie making. In fact, her daughter, evidently the "bright one" has actually done something productive with her life and is actually helping people better their lives.

After the church scenes we meandered over to the fellowship hall for lunch and break, during which I did several crossword puzzles, chatted with some of the other extras and watched Pastor Bob clean out several extras in a seven card stud game. A couple of the extras I spoke with, Claudia and Cindy, were from Lakewood, or Rocky River, or some darn place. Anyway they would fit in well with the Bobcat crowd as from what I gather they are funny, sarcastic and a propensity to enjoy a beverage or two. In fact, the most productive part of the day for me was when Claudia, obviously the ringleader and most streetwise of the two, gave me several restaurant suggestions for the west side.

Just before doing the reception scene we were all told to change clothes and take a break before dinner. We had two hours to kill. So I tried to relax and take a nap in my car, however, God had essentially used the parking lot as a steel furnace that afternoon, so after about ten minutes of sitting in the shade and still sweating like a congressman in front of an ethics committee, I decided to forget and go inside and change. It was at this time I heard, over my right shoulder coming from a residence which had been shielded from my view by large hedges, the sound of at least two dogs barking and sprinting to find the source of the "car door slamming which means there may be some moron threatening our territory sound" and I turned just in time to see Fluffy and Snowball scramble around the corner of the hedges, tripping over each other and yapping like the pesty little anthills of fur they were and froze about 10 yards away. However, I could still hear barking. Real barking. And about 3 hours later, having been slowed considerably by his massive bulk, around the hedge came the third dog, Luca. Luca was some sort of cross between a rotweiller, saber toothed tiger and Dick Cheney, so you can imagine my sheer, stark terror. Luca stopped in front of his minute brethren and intermittently barked, growled and slobbered at me as I stood frozen like a statue. After what seemed a lifetime I finally heard a lady calling the names of the dogs and telling them, in vain of course, to COME HOME THIS INSTANT! And since these particular canines were operating 1 molecule of actual brain matter and a zillion gallons of adrenaline, I was not surprised that they just ignored her. After another lifetime the woman came around the hedge and started to drag the still clamoring mongrels back toward their home. I could hear her voice a thousand miles away, telling me the dogs wouldn't harm a fly. Also, I heard her say something about not knowing there was anybody there in the church parking lot. I could understand that since it was Sunday, and why in the world would ANYBODY BE IN A CHURCH PARKING LOT ON SUNDAY! At this point, I most definitely needed a change of clothes, change of scene or not.

While at the fellowship hall we were to portray attendees at the wedding reception and look stunned. This was the easy part, as I was stunned when I came out of the womb. Also at one point the extras were supposed to "dance" for reality purposes, I guess, but having the rhythm God gave gravel I politely demurred. No amount of encouraging waving from the mob of extras, Butch or unlimited Wild Turkey could persuade me to "act" like I was dancing. At least not in front of cameras where there would be a permanent record. Anyway the dancing scene was only done 200 "one more times."

Finally the shooting for the day was complete and Butch mercifully told us that we could now leave as the armed guards would let us leave. After scouring the parking lot for the terrible canine trio, I slinked (or should that be slunk) to my car, quietly opened the door and quietly started same, figuring Luca's teeth could easily shred mere steel, and eased onto the highway for the hour long drive home.
All in all it was a good experience, the congregation of the church were kind and generous in their volunteering, and Pastor Bob even allowed some of the card game participants leave with their pants. Me, I'm not sure how I'll explain to Sandy why I came home wearing a barrel.
Moral: Never play cards with someone who has God slipping him aces.

Love
Dad

The Maiden Voyage, Smooth Sailing Optional

2008-07-25T06:28:00.001-04:00

My humble apologies to the boating bureaucracy of Ohio. In my last post I rashly libeled the public servants, not realizing they, in their infinite wisdom, were actually only looking out for my mental and physical well being. What they were in fact, telling me was that if I was going to buy an 8 1/2 foot "inflatable" boat for use on public lakes, I might just as well just give the state some money too. Either that or just burn it. I'm not sure if they meant for me to just burn my money or the boat. Probably they meant both. If I had just burned the boat I would have saved a lot of time, heartache and money.

I blame myself however, because I should know by now that my attempting anything remotely requiring mechanical or technical skills is masochistic at best. To make such attempts without adequate instructions is equivalent to suicide by covering myself in molasses and staking myself to an anthill. But such is my fixation with my latest addiction. Now a certifiable fishing junkie thanks to Lake Templane and Larry Livingston, I have become a fishing snob (only bass will satisfy my angling desires, ok, maybe walleye as well, and the perch, my God, the perch!), I need a smallish boat for the inland lakes and resevoirs where the bass are generally found. Along comes Sevylor with their inexpensive (cheap) inflatable boats and the means of achieving my rush suddenly became doable. Not only do I have a delivery system (hypodermic) for my "drug" but I can even speed the rush with an "optional" 12 volt, electric motor. There is also the optional foot pump (for inflation), optional battery and optional oars (in case the motor accidently fails). That seems a lot of "options" for a quiet neighborhood! Too bad they don't carry optional common sense! Strike One!

As I mentioned previously, I purchased this craft "gently" used. When I was told by the seller that it was being sold because the little old lady (that only drove it to church on Sundays) had trouble getting in and out of the craft, I assumed that was because of her advanced years. Wrong octagenarian breath. I found this out on the maiden voyage at a place called the "East Branch Reservoir" located in Middlefield, Ohio. East Branch supplies the water for all of Akron so logically no gas motors are allowed. Only electric motors, oars and idiotic sailors are permitted.

Once I got my used boat home I decided, in a rare fit of planning, to try out the foot pump that, according to the good folks at Sevylor, would have the craft fully inflated within nanoseconds. Ha ha, those guys at Sevylor sure are funny. After approximately 3 days of painful toil with pump the raft was actually about 1/10 inflated. I perceptively grasped that I was going to need an "optional" electric pump to get the boat fully inflated within my actual lifetime. And of course, since few of the facilities have actual electricity within miles of the actual lakes and ponds, I was going to need an "optional" converter so I could power the electric pump within several miles of the actual lake. I did not however realize the need for a converter until after I tried it out at East Branch, where they had a picnic pavilion in the same area code as the lake. Sooooooooo, after getting the boat inflated, which, only took a couple of minutes I had to carry the thing the 1,200 miles to shore of the reservoir. Strike Two!

Now, comes the funny part. I don't believe you've actually lived until you've seen some 56 year old moron trekking through the woods, toward the lake with a fully inflated boat on top of his bald head, which is the only conceivable way it could be carried as it had all the portability of Yankee Stadium. Also, since the outer shell of the boat completely covered my head, I had fantastic view of my feet, and that was all I could see. So here I am staggering and weaving down a dirt drive, a fully inflated raft perched atop me so that I looked like someone at a football game who wears one of those oversized foamy cowboy hats that look so stupid. Multiply that by 10,000. On the bright side, I was able to determine that I have what appears to be a bunion cropping up on my right big toe. You wouldn't think I could have topped that sight, eh. You would be an idiot.

After finally getting to the lake, it only took a couple of hours to get the rest of my crap to the "launch" area, and get it loaded onto the boat. And, being such a large vessel, there was enough room for all my gear, plus a place for me to actually sit, roughly the size of a major postage stamp. But I squeezed in with the oars, and motor and tackle box and fishing pole and I set off from the shore. And I set off from the shore. And I set off from the shore. I spent several hours trying to push myself off the sandy bottom of the near shore with my hands, feet, oars and several tree branches. So before I had gotten 10 feet from shore, I had lost about 20 pounds of water weight.

Now without getting into theories of the physics of buoyancy and water displacement, the best way of visualizing the scene (now with me on top of the boat) is an illustration. Picture a paper plate wafting on the calm aqua water. Now drop a bowling ball on top. You get the idea.

Still, it gets better. While I struggle with figuring out how to use the oars, it's the damndest thing, when you pull the left oar the boat goes right and vice versa. By the way, I'm using the oars because I am trying to conserve some power in the motor's battery, which lasts, as I now know about 12 seconds. I finally get some semblance of control over the boat's manual propulsion system when I start to notice a suspiciously cold, wet feeling creeping up my legs until my khaki shorts, with my wallet, car keys with "optional" electric door opener and my cell phone feel like I am in New Orleans after Katrina. Only wetter. Low and behold, and surprise surprise, I have sprung a leak somewhere on my "gently" used craft. Imagine that! So, I spend the next hour rowing back to shore to try and find the problem, or to end it all by self immolation. Once ashore, I quickly located the problem, someone had neglected to close the cover seal of one of the valves on the boat's underside. Those damn SOBs at the yacht club, that's the last time I trust them with my "pleasure" craft.

I get the valve sealed and am now getting the hang of rowing (in a fairly straight line), I get out about 50 yards from shore and am able to concentrate some on why I came here. To get a vicious sunburn. No seriously I got my rod out of the "optional" rod holder and proceeded to try casting for the big ones. I had maybe 3 casts under my belt, when I realized that the shoreline was getting smaller, and smaller and the next thing I know, I am in the middle of the reservoir. Evidently smaller craft drift quickly in these parts. Not to worry, I have my handy dandy, trusty 12 volt "optional" battery and instead of killing myself with paddling, I will just cruise on into the shore for some more angling. It is now that I discover that the motor on the back of the boat functions essentially the same as oars do in terms of navigational direction. You steer in the opposite direction of where you want to go. Now that may sound simple enough, but between climbing over all the junk, squatting down in the rear (I think it's called the stern) and trying to watch where I'm driving, I am swerving across the water like Ted Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. Only drunker. At one point I was oversteering so badly I was literally just going in tiny circles. With all this extra territory I was covering I found my battery starting to flag about 60 miles from shore.

However, I finally did limp into the area with a small cove for getting boats, (REAL BOATS), onto and out of the water. I rowed the last several yards and finally reached solid ground. I spent the next several weeks uninflating the boat and getting it and my gear all loaded into the car and went home to nurse my wounds and put some industrial strenth Absorbine on my entire body. Boating is apparently damn hard work! Sssssssstttttttrrrrrriiiiiiiikkkkke three, yer out!

But, I do not learn from my mistakes (I could say something really funny about marriage here, but Sandy has a vicious left hook) and am already looking forward to my next seafaring adventure. "Over the seas, let's go men, we're shovin' right off again!"

Before I go however, I am going to have several "optional" martinis.

Love
Dad

Ohioans: Are We Having Fun Yet?

2008-07-18T18:54:00.000-04:00

OK, Buckeyes, we've done it again. The great state of Ohio, philosophy: "If it exists, we can license it and thus, charge ridiculous fees for it!" has sunk to new levels of governmental overreaching and profiteering.

Recently, and following my angling success in Michigan over the July 4th weekend (see last post), I decided that I would get myself a little boat or raft to get on the water to fish at some of the smaller lakes and resevoirs around northeast Ohio. I saw exactly what I needed in an ad on Craigslist. It was an 81/2 foot inflatable boat. It seemed perfect, it had only been used once (by a little old lady who only drove it to church) and the price was right, i.e., cheap. So I called the owner and after much haggling I bought the boat for exactly what she asked (haggling is not my strong suit). Now, I should know by now, that this might not be a good idea, given my past success with things aquatic (see my post about getting my diving certification). After I got the boat home I started checking online for lakes that would allow such a craft on their waters, when I noticed a link which said "Boat Registration" and knowing I would live to regret it, I hit the link and low and behold my massive nautical vessel did indeed require a registration, which would cost a mere $30 for three years. So I set out to navigate, no pun intended, the beauracratic swamp I knew awaited me.

But first a trip in the "Way Back Machine." I'm thinking it is around November, because that is my birth month, the setting is Painesville, Ohio, circa 1967. I know this because I have one foot on getting my temporary driver's license and the other on a banana peel, and thanks to the sharp eyed and gleeful clerk at the BMV I discover there is a slight error on my birth certificate. This will necessitate another trip from Willoughby, where my family lived at the time, back to Painesville, the county seat, this time with a parent to have the birth certificate corrected with an affidavit (whatever the hell that was) attached to the faulty document making the correction "official." The error that brought the wheels of beauracy to a grinding halt? The certificate said I was born on November 21, 1951, whereas the doctor supposedly signed the record on November 20, which the industrious clerk noted was impossible, and therefore fatally flawed. So I guess officially at least in Ohio, I don't really exist. No such luck.

The job of securing the required correction fell to my father because he worked third shift and my mother worked during the day. Last time I checked government offices generally do not operate overnight. That time is reserved for scandal and graft.

Now, my father was an Appalachian transplant which meant that he would rather have had a tooth yanked out with rusty pliers and no novacaine, than have to make an appearance in any government office. So, as you might imagine, my dad was not exactly the picture of magnanimity that morning. Since this trip into the jaws of governmental red tape was of course, my fault (I wasn't sure why he felt it was my fault, until I became a father), his demeanor toward me that day was not exactly one of gratitude and pride at my very existence and I know I heard him muttering several times how underrated birth control was.

After several hours of being shuffled from one cold official to the next, somehow we finally secured the necessary notarized affidavit, now officially attached to my officially notarized birth certificate, via an official and costly staple, and I could proceed to the BMV to get my temps.
I was so traumatized by this event, that I found myself possessed in later years, to become a lawyer so I could deal with this morass of rules, regulations and crapola on a daily basis.

So it was with some trepidation that I embarked upon the mission to make my raft "street" legal. Sure enough the system did not disappoint. Instead of being able to resolve the issues and get my necessary official "paperwork" in a few measly hours, as happened in 1967, the tedious process now takes several days. And if anything, the clerks have become even less pleasant and helpful. I'm not sure why that is since THEY ARE ALL BEING PAID WITH MY TAX DOLLARS, SUCKING ON THE PUBLIC TEAT, DRIVING AROUND IN BIG CARS AND GETTING GREAT PENSION BENEFITS TO JACK SCHMUCKS LIKE ME AROUND ON A DAILY BASIS. THEY SHOULD BE CHEERFUL AND GRATEFUL, DAMMIT! Not that I'm bitter or anything. All this for a lousy rubber raft. This is part of the very beauracratic plot that spawned the great CPAP fiasco I spoke about a few blogs ago. You know, the one with the picture of that handsome guy at the end.

I happen to know for a fact, the Ohio legislature has been kicking around, aside from the electorate, ideas to license cats, bicycles, tricycles and rubber duckies. Just kidding! About the tricycles anyway. I mean come on people, we're in a recession! How is the legislature going to find money to support their annual raises? Not that it was ever a problem for them before.
So, thanks again Ohio, for making this state even more difficult to live in than just the high unemployment, massive poverty and high crime makes it. Bend over fellow Buckeyes.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a ducky to hide.

Love
Dad

A Fish Called Crappie and the Great Purloined Purple, Possibly Pink, Paddleboat Caper

2008-07-08T05:38:00.000-04:00

Well, its official, there really are fish out there. I know for a fact because I spent this 4th of July actually catching some. Normally I would be reluctant to post the name of the lake where these miracles of angling occured, but then again, that would be assuming someone actually reads any of this tripe. But, for the one or two of you that actually do, it is called Lake Templane and is in Southern Michigan.

First of all there is something in the drinking water in this place, because everybody there was extremely nice. This would be an understatement. These folks are certifiably nice. I think they must have some sort of niceness competition. For example, our hosts, Judy and Larry, actually coerced God into giving us 3 straight days of glorious weather, and on a weekend, no less. Now that's what I call nice. And that was just the beginning. They opened their beautiful, lakefront home to Sandy and I, and to my daughter Mel and her husband Dave (ok, so Mel and Dave are technically family) and treated us like royalty the entire time. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced that had they known I occaisionally (which nowadays once every 2 minutes) have to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, they would have volunteered to go for me!
And their neighbors were incredibly friendly. On one side is Jerry and the on the other is Steve. Then for good measure, they have an auxilliary neighbor Pete who, in his off time, relaxes by hauling roughly 8 tons of sand on his back to the lake front to help create a beach and then spends hours spreading it with Larry, Jerry and Steve. Jerry, who kindly keeps the airline industry afloat by commuting to Houston every week for work, offered to let me use his area of lakefront to fish from, while Steve essentially threw open his doors to become the weekend branch of Michigan State. Steve even allowed our dog, Ginger to wander over to his house and up onto his deck during the evening meal and mooch handouts from the student body. Ginger can spot a soft touch at about three miles.

Speaking of dogs, not only did we bring ours, but Mel and Dave brought their two, Elsie and Beelzebub (who you met in a previous post) to stay. So with Larry and Judy's dog Molly, they essentially had a kennel operation going as well. For those of you who have not had the experience of 4 dogs in one house, I can tell you it is like having 4 toddlers in one house, all on industrial strength Red Bull. Unless, of course, it is July 4 weekend and some of the dogs (who shall remain nameless so the other dogs can't get together and talk about them, ok Molly and Elsie) are deathly afraid of fireworks, in which case they required a few tablets of modern veteranary medicine to calm them whenever a firework went off, which of course this weekend was about every 2 nanoseconds. As I understand it, in an unmedicated condition Elsie responds to the explosions by doing what I would do, if I were a dog, and that is slink, with tail twixt hind legs to the nearest bed and curl up in the fetal position underneath, suck her thumb, er, paw, and wimper piteously. Molly on the other hand, essentially turns into a one dog house demolishing crew, and Larry and Judy's window screen budget for replacements every 4th of July equalled the GNP of Bolivia. However, thanks to the miracle of modern chemistry Molly and Elsie zoned out everything and lazed around listening to Pink Floyd records all night. Emma, because she is deaf, and Ginger, because she is older than dirt, essentially did the same.

This is not the end of the dog story however. As there were four of them, and since just about everyone on the lake owned a dog, and therefor would take them for walks, sometimes right on the street in front of the house. When this happened one alert dog, usually Elsie, would alert the other three with usual barking a dog does when ever its territory is threatened, and you immediately had four mutts, a mass of delirious dogs barking crazily, scampering and slipping and sliding on the hardwood floors from window to window, like some deranged canine amoeba so as not to lose sight of the dog on the street.

The other thing the dog's did, perhaps in a fit of pique over being left alone in the house while we were out fishing, shopping, eating or whatever, spent their time devising an insidious game that is bad for young people like Mel and Dave, but particularly ruthless for middle aged folks like the rest of us. While away, these four "adorable" pups decided it would be great fun to hide things from the humans. As a consequence we spent most of our time that weekend saying things like, "Where the heck is my ___________ fill in the blank,

a: cell phone charger
b: glasses
c: wasabi mix
d: brain
e: all of the above and more."

The correct response is of course, "e". But the coup de grace, and we are still trying to figure out how they did it without outside assistance, was when one or more of them (my money is on Emma or Satan as I like to call her, as ringleader at least) decided to take Larry's paddleboat for a midnight joyride. Yes, while homo sapiens slept, this gang of four legged theives absconded with that little boat and then rolled on the floor while Larry and I spent a good part of the next day driving Larry's pontoon boat around the lake looking for Larry's purple (I think it is pink) paddleboat. Larry tried to steer the boat to avoid hazards and so he relied on my keen eyesight to try and locate the wayward craft. This was a mistake, as I have the ocular ability God gave Mr. Magoo. At long last we spotted the vessel being pulled by another pontoon boat headed in the direction of Larry's dock. It had been found on the other side of the island by, who else, Steve and Pete and friends, and were towing it back for Larry. Embarrassed much?

Amid all this excitement we found time to have some fun fishing, swimming in the inground pool and I even tried out the jet ski. For all my good buddies out there you missed a quite a spectacle unless of course you have already seen the Sea World performance of an intoxicated Shamu. We also ate absolutely fabulous meals and snacks prepared by Judy (favorite phrase: "Have a little more, that's only your 32nd helping.") and her offspring Dave who makes a wicked seared tuna steak. Sandy brought along her delicious cabbage rolls and peirogis. Mel, concocted a particulary tasty and insidious drink involving rum soaked watermelon balls. Larry and I did what all men do, which is eat, drink and belch. No, actually Larry among other things, built bonfires a couple of nights that I'm told were photographed by NASA satellites. Larry also took me out on his pontoon boat a few times for the absolute best fishing I have ever had. I caught blue gill, perch, several nice sized bass. But the highlight for me was reeling in something called a "Crappie" (no cheap shots Bennetts) which I had never caught before, and which was a pretty good size, so I'm told, of 12 inches long (ok, 11.9 inches you nitpickers). I caught so many fish I didn't even have to include the few I hooked and lost pulling them into the boat.

So Judy and Larry and the other folks around Lake Templane that made this such a glorious holiday weekend Sandy and I salute and thank you once again. You may live to regret it however, as we have been known to turn up repeatedly like a bad penny. I have no idea what that means. Cheers.

By the way, when Larry and I got back with the paddle boat, we took all the dog's out and shot them. Just kidding, but we damn sure cut back on their bacon allotments.

Now where the hell are my glasses? GINGERRRRR!

Love
Dad

Hardened Arteries USA

2008-06-17T14:52:00.000-04:00

Just got back from visiting relatives in Jonesville, Virginia (motto: If you can fry it, you can eat it!). Boy, are my guts tired! The little woman and myself decided kind of last minute to head south to see my relatives on my father's side this past weekend. The weekend was kind of a perfect storm for artiosclorosis. We had my Uncle Tom's 86th birthday, Sandy's and my anniversary, Father's Day and Friday the 13th, not necessarily in that order. Jonesville is a small town tucked away in the southwestern tip of the great Commonwealth of Virginia in country as beautiful as it gets. It's a damn good thing, because there is very little else to do there but eat, look at the scenery and buy land.

We set out for Jonesville early Thursday morning and stopped somewhere in West Virginia to have a couple of burgers and french fries at Wendy's. This was the healthiest meal we had until the following Tuesday. The weekend for us essentially boiled down to the cholesterolic equivalent of staying home and sucking lard from a 50 gallon drum. But then again we would have missed the opportunity of visiting with some slightly eccentric relatives and it wouldn't have tasted nearly as good.

We decided to take the scenic route rather than fight the traffic on I 71 and 75 so we moseyed through towns with names out of a Faulkner novel. Pikeville, Big Stone Gap, Stickleyville, Pound and Wise all came and went under the humming tires of our little Civic. Taking this route is essentially the same as riding "The Beast" at King's Island, only MORE frightening. You climb straight up the face of several Appalachian mountains and then you plummet like a stone down the other side, and to make things interesting, your friendly, lunatic highway engineers gleefully threw about 800 "S" curves on the downhill slope so that you feel as though you are being tested for space travel and being pushed and tugged by more G force than Buzz Aldrin ever dreamed of! Throw in the odd deer or varmint venturing onto the roadway and well let's just put it this way. The old saying "There are no atheists in foxholes" can also include any vehicle traveling at breakneck speed down the side of a Kentucky mountain, twisting and curving until suddenly..."Oh look dear, someone put in a stop light! How #$%# thoughtful of them!" I kid you not. You can be traveling 75 miles an hour on a supposed freeway and BANG! There it is, a traffic light specifically programmed to make sure the vehicle traveling the fastest catches the red. My compliments to the brake makers at Honda!

The scenery was incredible and despite my best efforts to keep my eyes on the road, I couldn't resist an occaisional glance at the vast, beautiful expanse that lay before us and wonder "How is it the government hasn't figured out a way to totally screw up this beautiful landscape yet?" I'm sure it is not for lack of effort, I have faith in our leaders. We snaked our way through the mountains and foothills until at last we were there. Jonesville. A moniker obviously thought up by one of her more creative founding fathers. My Uncle Tom, who lives on the land that had been owned by my grandparents, was doing what he always does, what with all the cultural activities available in southwest Virginia, sitting in an easy chair on his front porch (now enclosed, the 21st century hits Jonesville) and waving to passing locals. He is now 86 years old and after having spent roughly 85 of those years working on granddad's farm, I guess he's entitled to take it easy these days. His days of retirement now consist of walking to the newish golf course about a mile up the "golf course road" and tending a small garden in which he raises corn, tomatoes, lettuce and several other obnoxious veggies that I can't remember. I use the term "raises" loosely as the actual soil composition in this area is approximately 1% actual dirt, 20% weeds and 99% layered rock whose only use is that it makes a dandy headstone. I know that adds up to more than 100% but, you get the idea.

When we got out of the Civic to greet my uncle, the heat hit us like a slap in the face. One of the topographical "advantages of this part of Virginia is that it lies in the middle of what is called the Cumberland Gap, and as I said previously, the countryside is magnificent. However, being in the "gap" essentially means the sun's ability to bake every living thing in sight is at its peak. It seems that the area is kind of like a huge bowl in an even larger microvwave oven. And, because any cool summer breezes that might have been headed to the area is cut off by the mountains on either side of the gap by about 10 minutes after dawn you could be forgiven for thinking you were in Death Valley. And of course, this year summer made its annual onslaught a little early to coincide with our arrival. How nice!

So, during daylight hours very little outdoor activity so the only thing left for anyone to do (at least at our age) is engage in activities in air conditioned places which in Jonesville meant eating. The following is a list of our culinary exploits:

Day One - Dinner at KFC - Buffet - All the deep fried tofurkey you can eat!

Day Two - This was Friday the 13th and also Uncle Tom's 86th birthday. This meant something special! Lunch at a place in Pennington Gap named Ruby's - deep fried fish, deep fried chicken fingers and deep fried Caeser salad for the health conscious. Dinner? We ate in at my Aunt Betty's house and cooked hamburgers and Nathan's hot dogs (with chili, of course) on the grill (Hey Junior, put another angioplasty on the barbie, mate)!

Day Three - Our 33rd anniversary (I think) so of course we had to pig out. We decided to drive to a town called Tazewell, Tennessee for lunch at the "Dew Drop Inn" and so my Aunt Faye, our host for the weekend, could visit a store called Hammer's which is essentially a Dollar Store only tackier. My aunt loves these places and so we browsed and then went up to a Lake Norris (also in Tennessee) to walk off our lunch of burgers and fries (which were excellent and I would highly recommend to anyone visiting Tazewell or just looking for the fast track to major heart surgery).

For dinner we drove to Middlesboro, Kentucky a major attraction for the local folk and went to a Chinese, all the MSG you can eat, buffet. I don't know what the hell all I ate, but again it was excellent. Evening exercise consisted of strolling around the mall and looking at all the extras from the movie "Deliverance."

Day Four - Deciding it was pointless to worry about cholesterol and fat now, we greeted the day with my Aunt Betty's homemade breakfast of... sausage gravy, George Jones sausage, scrambled eggs and low fat, low carb country biscuits. Just kidding about the biscuits, the only thing we ate on this trip that was low fat or low carb was a stick of peppermint gum, and I had my doubts about that! For dinner we had barbecued chicken, some potato salad and water melon. And because my wife saw it on Oprah, a doctor, who has since had his license revoked said everyone should preface their meals with a slice of whole wheat bread dipped in olive oil. Yeah, sure, that'll be a big help.

Day Five - Departure, we decided to take Uncle Tom to breakfast at his favorite breakfast spot, Hardee's for their sumptuous steak (chicken fried) on a biscuit. Now that's good eatin'! After we finished we drove Tom home after a stop at the only place on the face of the earth that sells a flour coating mix in case Sandy and I survived to have more fried food at home. The mix is called Runyan's and it is produced nowhere else that I know of, except Jonesville. It is to die for. I'd bread my Snicker's bars with it! Part of Uncle Tom's land consists of the family cemetary and he uses it as a landmark for out of towners by telling them that we need to turn at "the place where the dead people live." If you knew Uncle Tom this would make perfect sense.

Lest you believe Sandy and I did nothing but eat in Virginia you would be wrong. Barely. We did of course sit around and talk about the family and the bigger issues involving the world, gas prices, the war and the relative merits of the various area garage sales. To be fair we did exercise some each day. We hiked a nature trail that is part of an Indian War settlement park as the first hikers of the day (I decided to try and get some infra red photographs of the countryside and wanted early morning light) and I can tell you that being first we of course were confronted with the after effects of what must have been a spider convention. Evidently, during the night a favorite arachnid pastime is making webs and stretching them across the paths of hiking trails to enjoy what must be the hysterical (for the spiders) of some moron stumbling along clawing mysteriously at the air in front of him for some unknown reason. But the spider's know the reason. The had spent the previous night engaged in a contest of "let's see how many billions of webs we can build by daylight!" Ha Ha, who would have known those creepy, ugly and disgusting creatures could have devised such a devilish prank. So, with the walk, the flailing wildly in a vain attempt to clear the path of webs and the constant wiping of webs from everywhere on my body, I had quite a workout. Sandy, who normally takes a walk like a maniac, had sensibly and much to her mirthful satisfaction enjoyed walking behind me for once. I would have asked her to walk ahead for awhile but of course, with her being well over four feet tall, I would have still ended up with several mouthfuls of webbing. I think I've seen my last Spiderman flick!

Another workout consisted of a trek up the side of small mountain across the road from my Aunt Betty's to get a different view of the landscape. I think the mountain is named Everest or something like that. When coupled with humidity of around 3,000% and temps in the 90's you can imagine what great fun the family had. The excuse for making this hike, was ostensibly to take a look at a piece of property that my Aunt Faye was thinking of buying, which is her favorite pastime next to buying anything that isn't nailed down at any available dollar store. She owns several acres of land in different places scattered throughout Lee County, Virginia, for no apparent reason. I must say, that the hike was worth it, not only in terms of the tonnage loss from the workout, but for the unbelievable view of the Cumberland Gap that we beaten over the head with, when we reached the top. OK, halfway to the top. OK, OK, maybe a quarter of the way to the top. Sheeesh. Pick, pick pick. I've posted a picture of the view at the top of this post but it absolutely does not do it justice.

If weren't for the fact that in summer you might as well live in a furnace, that in a matter of days your arterial system would look like an ad for the Portland Cement Company and that the nearest medical facility is in Minneapolis, I think I might like living there.

Well, I better get going, I want to beat Sandy to that unopened can of Crisco in kitchen.

Love

Dad

How to Destroy a Friendship in One Easy Lesson or Off With Their Steering Wheels

2008-06-04T18:43:00.000-04:00

This post is a direct order from another of the many people that totally control my life. My daughter threatened to boycott my blog if I didn't tell you the story of the magic disappearing car from my days in the service. It is the story of the American male. Of friendship, betrayal, love, lust (well, OK no love and definitely no lust), danger, intrigue and finally tragedy. It is a story, like so many otheres, with heroes and villains, saints and sinners, and very nearly, Smith and Wesson. Our story takes place in 1971 on the war torn shores of Pensacola, Florida, motto "If the navy ever leaves we're screwed." 1971 was a year of golden memories. I wish I could remember them. Well, I can remember just enough to do some real damage.

In an earlier post (the last one, I believe) I mentioned in the early 1970's I found myself in the U. S. Marine Corps, and true to the long line of patriotic military men in my family I volunteered for the service. When I signed up my recruiter promised excitement, travel, great career training and a uniform guaranteed to melt the bloomers off any mid-western lass of my choosing. I of course, recieved none of it, and, were it not for the fact that my number in the draft was 35, I might have complained to someone.

After nine fun-filled, leisurely weeks at the Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Resort and Spa, I learned that I had been chosen for "special" training. We learned all of this in one of our final meetings in the barracks with the DI's who told everyone what their Marine jobs would be. I was assigned to something called the Naval Security Group, with training to be held at the Naval Communications Training Center (NCTC, pronounced "nitsy titsy" by the Mensa candidates in our platoon). The other 75 privates got "surprise" the infantry, or grunt duty. I was also told I would need a security clearance which consisted of a thorough, detailed and expensive FBI investigation of my past to make sure I wasn't a commie or "gook sympathizer" according to my DI. I found out later that the investigation consisted of a couple of Lake County agents (imagine the agent's excitement at that duty) going around and asking several of my neighbors what kind of person I was. Thankfully they all lied and I got in. I don't shoot a rifle well.

My DI wasn't too sure, but he figured that I was going to become an investigator for the Navy and would come back and investigate him for abusing privates (in a nice way, I mean) and with that the DI laughed and then the rest of us realized we could laugh too. That DI, what a great kidder. Actually it turned out it was a job in communications and cryptology and fortunately for me, it meant not going to 'Nam.

Anyway, back to our real story. I arrived at the base in Pensacola at the same time as some other privates who had gotten the same designation and had gone through boot camp the same time as I did, but in different platoons. I'm not sure why, but I became pretty good friends with a guy from "Bah-ston" after awhile and we took to going into town and partying on occaision at the places that tolerated military personnel. His name is Bob Duggan and he had another buddy from his own platoon at Parris Island he had gotten to know from the New England area named James Malgano, I believe it was. They had become pretty good buddies at boot camp and I knew virtually no one, so was happy to hang out with some of those guys. Bob and James got to be so close that they actually decided to split the cost of a car together, so that they would be better able to get around, as there was very little (by very little I mean none)in the way of public transportation.

They bought a great car. It was a cool looking, I would say 1964 or 65 yellow Chevy Nova with black racing stripes, jacked up rear end, four speed stick on the floor and a customized wood grain steering wheel. It also had black intereior and a custom 8 track stereo system. In short it was "one sweet ride."

I would say that the amiability of negotiations for scheduling use of the car lasted about 3 nanoseconds. And within days the two virtually despised each other, threatened physical violence and whose greetings in passing consisted solely of four letter words.

Then things got rough. In order to try and control the car and keep the other from driving it, they took to hiding various small but necessary components to the engine. Things like the distributor cap or the pistons would mysteriously vanish only to magically reappear when the culprit wanted the car. This was pretty common as our training consisted of working swing shifts at the communications center and Bob and James were on different shifts (Another good reason for getting the car together right? No conflicts).

One day Bob and I decided to get away from the Pensacola area, where the women treated military guys like most people treat lepers, only from a greater distance. We lit upon the bright idea of driving to Panama City, a small resort area maybe 100 miles down the road on the Florida panhandle. We decided to go that very weekend as we were both scheduled to have our 72 hours off work come up on that Friday. Now, when Friday arrived, I had to work later than Duggan and so he spent the time waiting for me, doing something constructive, like getting liquored up at the local nosepaint emporium. So he was in peak driving condition around 11:00 p.m. when we finally got together to set out for paradise. I, being the sober one for a change might have volunteered to drive, but these were different times. Things were a little more lax about DUIs and I was young, immortal and stupid. So when Bob told me he was able to drive, I felt like I was back in my mother's arms.

Now relations between Duggan and Molgano had, by this time, reached a level akin to the Arab-Israeli conflict, only more civil and when Bob and I got into the car that night, we breathed a sigh of relief as the mighty Chevrolet 4 cylinder purred to life when Bob turned the key in the ignition. Bob got her into reverse in a reasonable amount of time, turned to look out the rear window so he could back out and slowly inched backward turning the steering wheel to maneuver out of his parking spot. He had gone about 3 nano inches when the beautiful, wood grained, cusomized steering wheel came off of the column and into his left hand. Turning back to face the front, Bob stared uncomprehendingly at this foreign object that had materialized, now in both of his hands. Time froze, somewhere CSN&Y sang "Teach your children well...", I think it was the 8 track but couldn't be certain, as we both gaped at the now useless steering wheel clutched in Bob's hands. After what seemed an eternity, Bob's face drained of color, his rage visibly building, now squeezed the wheel in a death grip, until finally as the tension inside the car reached its zenith, certain events followed,which must have happened in a heartbeat, but seemed to evolve in slow motion at the time

An enraged Duggan, raised his right fist, preaparing to pound it on the dash. He slowly raised that fist, taking deliberate aim and screaming, "That (insert very bad word indeed) Molgano. And as he screamed he launched that fist toward the dashboard. Now, I think I mentioned earlier that Bob had spent the better part of the prior 3 or 4 hours constructively consuming as much of the local hooch as possible, with the consequent result that his descending fist completely missed the dash board, but squarely found the tape in the 8 track player and we both gaped anew as bits of plastic and strands of magnetic tape flew in a thousand directions inside the little yellow nova likes something out of a Sam Peckinpah movie.

Now it gets funny. As we sat there in now stunned silence, the realization that the lack of a steering wheel might make driving anywhere a tad tricky, I uttered the words that would become a portent of the mechanical and technical disasters that would plague me the rest of my adult life, when I said, hopefully "No wait, I can fix it...". Now remember... I'M the sober one!

Such is my mania to get away from the brutal boredom that is a military base in the early 1970's I began scheming. My hillbilly problem solving brain ,with smoke literally coming out of my ears from the strain, hit upon a solution brilliant in its simplicity. "I'll tie it back onto the steering column," I proudly announced.

By now, Duggan, who had been utterly drained by his explosion of rage and his gargantuan effort to take in the carnage that had once been his pride and joy, could only nod weakly as though this solution was not only obvious but sound. Such are the ravages of alcohol. At this point the plot ran into a small snag. What do I tie the steering wheel onto the column WITH? No problems, mate, I'll just use my handy dandy t-shirt. Yeah, that's the ticket. And so, after several trial and error attempts, I finally had the wheel tied to the three chrome spokes attached to the column, somewhat securely. By this time, Bob had changed to the passenger side and was passing the time in a coma. It was roughly 4:00 a.m. and still dark by the time we finally hit the road and set out for pristine, x only chromosome laden, civilian shores of Panama City.

All things considered, I would have to say the drive went pretty smoothly. For about 30 miles or so. I was driving east down a stretch of some road at about 50 mph when, SURPRISE, the steering wheel comes off the column into my hands. With cat like dexterity I immediately dropped the wheel into my lap, a strand of t-shirt still tied to the wheel on one end and the spoke of the column at the other. Normally I don't think this would have been a problem except, that because of the configuration of the Nova's interior and its accessories, the wheel became pinned between my legs, and no amount of struggling, cursing or pleading to God above could budge it. I am thinking that Mr. Duggan was still napping, but I'm not sure as I struggled with the wheel, feverishly tried to direct the car with my knees (no easy task I want to tell ya!) while trying to gauge my immediate topographical options. Fortunately, that particular stretch of Florida highway was relatively straight and though the car drifted to the right slightly, I was able, by some miracle or the grace of God to coast to a stop to the side of that highway. Thankfully there had been no traffic, oncoming or following, it being very early in the morning.

That is the last I remember of our attempt to reach Panama City, as the ravages of time and maybe a couple of beverages have erased any memory of getting back to base at Pensacola. We must have tied the wheel back in place or rigged it up somehow to get the Nova back. I know this because several days later, I had borrowed the car (Duggan and Molgano were fast losing interest in the magic disappearing Nova and gladly loaned me the keys) to go into town to see the newest Woody Allen movie "Play It Again, Sam". Whilst I was making a left turn across oncoming traffic, guess what? The steering wheel again came of in my hand, but this time since I had the wheel fully turned the left when it happened, the car essentially circled continuously in and out of traffic through a gas station back onto the road and back into the gas station before I could reach the brake. Having finally learned my lesson (you can only fool a marine four or five times) I parked the Nova in an adjacent lot and went to the movie.

I never saw the Nova again, or what was left of it, and that suited me just fine. It may still be sitting on some corner lot in Downtown Pensacola for all I know, and now being called "Retro Art". Maybe Bob remembers, I did copy him on the blog. Last I heard of Molgano, he was trying to become a republican lobbyist for General Motors.

I hope you're happy Melanie. You certainly have become quite sadistic since you took up "Roller Derby". Be careful out there don't skate over any land mines or anything.

Love
Dad

That's not a stain on my dress blues, Sarge, that's ART!

2008-06-04T13:48:00.000-04:00

Hello again, friends and neighbors. Time once again for a venture into uncharted territory. The "war story". By war story, I mean noncombat war story, thank Christ!
"What did you do in the war, Daddy?"
"I don't want to talk about it! Well, OK, let me have another Stroh's and I'll tell you. You know son, I slogged it out, toe to toe with the commies of Cuba, in a little backwater hell hole called "GITMO."

Yes, I was on "The Rock" in the bleak, dark days when the only torture going down was the chow we Marines, in moments of desperation (the day before payday usually) were required to ingest lest we starve, which on second thought was probably a decent alternative. Being on what is technically known in geographic terms as an "island" and being restricted to about 2 square miles of that island, opportunities for entertainment in our off time were a tad limited. I mean, how many quarts of whiskey can one man ingest in 72 hours? Well, quite alot it turns out.

First, a history lesson on how America (motto "We never a met a third world country we couldn't kick the crap out of, at least not until 1953") obtained the base to begin with. In short, I wouldn't know, but I have heard it had something to do with Teddy Roosevelt rough riding a seniorita known San Juanita Hill after war had been declared following a suspicious explosion on the USS Maine which was attributed by American zealots to Cuban rebels, but which in fact had been caused by the accidental ignition of methane gas which accumulated in the sailors quarters following a night of Dos Equis and burrito supremes from the local Taco Bell. The resulting loss of life (apparently one dozen sea anemones gave up their ghosts) inspired the iconic American publicist, William Randolph Hearst, already in pique due to the kidnapping and conversion of his granddaughter to a notorious gang of Democrats, drummed up false charges against the Cubans as being the miscreants responsible for the Maine's destruction. Thank God we've never gone to war on trumped up charges since!

To make a long story a bit longer, the Americans whomped those little godless Cubans and at the surrender table the following exchange took place.

President McKinley "We want that port down there at Guantanamo Bay for a naval base. We'll sign a 99 year lease, with an option to renew, so nobody can say we took advantage."

Cuban Leader "Well, it has a lot of value for our country, it is the main trade route for our cigar and Cuban sandwich trade and losing it will cause massive poverty in the region, not to mention the humiliation of an occupying force on our mainland!"

President McKinley "OK, We'll give you a buck for it."

The rest, as they say, is history. The United States became the proud owners of a Cuban port which had all the military strategic value of tits on a boar. As it turned out, Gitmo ultimately became the U.S. version of being shipped "to the Russian front" for Germany, or "to Siberia" for the Soviet Union. As a matter of fact, quite ironically, this is how I came to find myself stationed there. I had managed in some way, which is of no interest to my wife and children, to get sentenced, I mean assigned to duty at Gitmo by my First Sergeant, a great guy by the name of Brewington, a man who loved me like his own child. Ah yes, "The Brew" as we all called him. Wonderful sense of humor and would do anything for you. Ask anyone, (except Bob Duggan or Keith Doughty) they'll tell you. He just had unusual ways of showing it.

So, in the summer of '72 I found myself living it up in that Caribbean paradise, having beverages, eating, having beverages, standing guard duty and having beverages. This was interrupted only by my exciting regular 8 hour shifts in the communications center on "John Paul Jones" hill typing airplane coordinates, which consisted of 12 digit numbers and transmitting them to various other bases around the world and to Washington for God knows why! I really wondered if there was any reason for us having this base especially when I started reading the messages we were sent from all the other bases which consisted of reams of pages with, surprise, 12 digit numbers that were the same airplane coordinates I had so painstakingly spent hour typing and sending out. I finally realized the whole point was just to piss off Castro. Not that we hold a grudge or anything.

Anyway, what made me think of all this was that I recently read somewhere (possibly the stall of a toilet on the Ohio turnpike) that the Cleveland Museum of Art was going to host an exhibit that consists of the armor of soldiers from the middle ages. And I thought to myself, holy crap, they're calling old army uniforms and gear, "ART." Does this mean that there is a chance that all of my Marine corps uniforms and gear might wind up in an art museum somewhere in 500 years? Does that turn your stomach like it does mine? Naw, couldn't happen. They would have to go with some soldiers that were a little more spit and polish than me. I mean, I had a hat (or "cover" in Marine parlance) that I wore every day for 2 solid years and that by the end of my time little parts of cardboard had started poking out of the brim from the rips. I think the helmet I had issued to me (Hey, you never know) had something like "F*&%$ Nixon" written on the inside liner. My boots hadn't seen actual shoe polish since boot camp, and the belt buckles, buttons, ribbons and other little trinkets we were supposed to put on our uniforms had essentially started to oxidize and were losing all the princples of what would qualify as actual metal.

No, I think the art museums of the future will probably go with stuff from the TV commercials, shiny and crisp and military. That would be my guess, but I wonder...I think I'm going to go see that exhibit after all. I heard they have a suit of armor that has "F*&%$ Henry VIII" and "Anne Boleyn is a slut" etched on the inside.

Love
Dad

"There Will Be Blues" Part Two

2008-05-12T16:03:00.000-04:00

I warned you. Here comes the Chicago sequel. In part one, we learned that, I, being the good father, agreed to dogsit for my daughter's canine lunatics in Chicago. After a few days in Mel's supposedly haunted house, I brought the dog's home with me and decided to go back the next weekend with two college friends Mike (Dude) and Craig (Bean). I'll leave their last names out for now to protect the spouses, and anyway, they know who they are. The plan was to pick the guys up after work Friday and haul ass to Chicago for a couple of nights of great food and a few beverages at local nite spots. We also planned to do this without bodily injury. Right! And to show you just how desperate Bean and Dude must be for entertainment, they agreed to let me be the guide.

On the night before the great adventure I foolishly talked to my son Dustin in Los Angeles, a former Chicagoan and well known local bon vivant, to get some suggestions for places to eat and area watering holes within walking distance of Mel's house, where we decided to set up home base. The reason being that we figured it was a good idea for us to "warm up" to Chicago at a place within walking distance the first night. Just in case we might accidentally ingest an unreasonable amount of nose paint. The fruit of my loins promptly suggested a place called "Hotti Biscotti", a fairly sedate little tavern on Fullerton Avenue about two blocks from the house, which on weekends, generally had a live musical act. Seemed perfect.

What Dustin failed to tell me, was that the bartender generally has the capacity for logical thought and overall demeanor of Tommy Chong. Only MORE stoned. I'll demonstrate. Mel and my son in law, Dave have also been to Hotti's and I thought mentioning them to the barkeep would be a way of letting the local folks know that we were not technically what you might call "NARCs".

Me: Ya know, my daughter, Mel and my son in law Dave come here now and again.
Chong: Your daughter Mel and who?
Me: Dave, you know Dave.
Chong: Dave?
Me: Right, Dave.
Chong: Dave?, Dave?............Dave's not here!

Later, I asked him for a recommendation on a place to get something to eat in the area. He told me we could get something right there, but when I mentioned we had a hankerin' for burritos, he kind of zoned out and told me he could make us some but we probably would be better off going to a restaurant across the street. Probably a wise decision. Dustin also failed to tell me that the women in that place tend to find novel and fun uses for various articles of tableware. By way of illustration, one attractive young lady was doing something with a bowl, which I know for a fact, that if it happened in the hills of Virginia, would require the two become engaged. Another reason why not eating there was probably a wise choice.

We walked across the street to a place called, I believe "El Pacifico". But I could be mistaken, which is a shame, because the food was fantastic. We had burritos the size of footballs and for the three of us with beers, and the tab came to something like 89 cents. Obviously a wise decision for three fifty something, slightly (at that point) inebriated men to be partaking of at about 1 a.m.

Anyway, Hotti Biscotti got pretty crowded by the time we got back from El Pacifica, for "one more" round of refreshments and watched the band's last set. We struck up a conversation with a couple of the regular youngsters about the area, and it was about this time that I was introduced to something called "Jagermeister" motto: "We're destroying your youth's brain cells with a potion that tastes like licorice flavored STP. " This was a very, very bad move on my part. In order to be sociable with the young people I agreed to "try" one. However, our hosts were quite insistent that I "try" another and another, etc. At this point, I would have to turn the narration for the rest of the evening to Bean or Dude, as I, for some strange reason am a bit foggy on it. However, I think with a good lawyer and heartfelt contrition, I might get off with probation.

Saturday was fairly uneventful, at least during the day. We hopped on the Blue Line, which is the subway into downtown. Unfortunately, I recommended we get off the train at the Grand Avenue stop, because I remembered that my son had worked at Optimus which was on that street, before he moved to LaLa Land. That was all well and good, except for the fact that the streets in Chicago are about the same length as the Great Wall of China. As a result we spent the first several hours of Saturday, force marching toward the only landmark I knew, the Sears Tower. We finally emerged onto Michigan Avenue near the Wrigley building to find that they were taping the "Ellen" show on a mall there. Now, I have it on good authority that Bean has a "thing" for Ellen so I suggested we get in line to see the show. However, we noticed that the line went from the Wrigley Building to approximately Green Bay. Sorry Bean. No Ellen for you.

We decided to walk around a bit and work up an appetite for lunch. This was no problem, as once again my navigational skills kicked in and we found the Gino's East pizza place in no time. By "no time" I mean 4 hours. Monsieur Bennett had a hankering for Chicago "deep dish" pizza. After the pizza we then walked up to Milleneum Park as there was to be a Polish festival there, with a parade and Polish food and general revelry. Unfortunately we got there just as the parade was finishing, but we did get a chance to see the participants scattering, and as best I could tell, the parade consisted of two golf carts, a little old lady in a babushka handing out pierogis and about nine thousand toddlers in liederhosen.

After the previous night and all that walking, the three of us needed to rest up for the evening's festivities so we boarded a train and somehow found our way back to the house, where we had a little catnap for about six hours. Then it was up and off to Byron's Dog House for an authentic Chicago hot dog. For the uneducated a "Chicago dog" consists of a Vienna Beef weiner, a bun and everything from hot peppers, celery salt and various vegetables to mustard. As a matter of fact, the only thing you can't get on a Chicago dog, for some reason, is ketchup. This did not sit well with Dude as he likes ketchup as much as George Bush likes screwing the country. We ate the dogs in my car as the dining ambience consists of a picnic table dating to Mrs. O'leary's cow. And it was raining to boot. So we not so much ate as shoveled the dogs down with fries that had more grease than Sha Na Na. With full bellies, next stop for the trio was Kinston Mines, a well known blues club on Halsted Avenue.

We took the bus there, and were one of the first to arrive, so we were able to get right in for seats up front for the first part of the show. Here is where it gets interesting. Kingston Mines has developed a fun, new way of separating intelligent, responsible, middle age people from their money and their minds. It is called "bucket o' beer" nite (does the "Mill Street Tavern" ring a bell with any of you old Bobcats?). And of course, being irresponsible, old and stupid, we dug right in. This night the buckets consisted of Coronas and we definitely sent the Corona stock soaring. Just helping the economy. Anyway, one of the other ways they have of setting you up, so to speak, is they have this fairly young, white girl, with an accoustic guitar playing as the warm up act. And don't get me wrong, she was pretty good, but I had prepped the guys with stories of wicked electric guitar licks and ass kickin' blues and this was surely not it. She played about an hour or so, and by this time we were well into the buckets, when she announced that now she was going to change and start playing electric guitar with a band. Yeah, sure, lady, I gotta tell you I don't see any great blues coming from you.

To make a long story longer, that night we found out Jimi Hendrix must have been a Hindu, because, all I know is that he has come back as a white woman, named Johanna Connor, who takes a back seat to no one, and I mean no one, in smokin', ass kickin', guitar wailin' blues music. And this was of course another part of the plan. "Keep the buckets coming. I feel like dancin' Woo Hoo! Somebody pass me a friggin' dooby!" I think you get my point. She kept wailin' and the skinny little white boys from Cleveland, Ohio kept buying buckets (ok, one almost skinny white boy, one very large white boy, and one "bowling ball" white boy). After one set, Dude stole some guy's lighter and was waving it around like he was at a "Deep Purple" concert in 1972, and screaming "Freebird, Freebird". As if that weren't bad enough, her "backup" band had guys that were incredible as well, including a second guitarist, some guy about 12 years old that played like Eric Clapton. Everytime one of them took a solo we were just awe struck (or maybe it was bucket struck). Any way, we watched several sets of both bands (the headliners were good, but Ms. Connor and Co. were just nuts) had several buckets of beer when an honest to God Wild Turkey raised its head, and the rest of our evening is something of a blur. The other thing the Mines can do to you is make creaky, old, no rhythm white guys believe they are Ben Vereen. That part was not so funny. About midnite the headliners played "Shout" and 12 million not all polluted, mostly white people flailed about trying to "Gator" when there wasn't room to scratch yourself. Not that I, Mr. Picture of Decorum would ever think of doing such a thing. Scratch myself, I mean.

We left at some point, and must have decided that it wasn't unreasonable at all, after a night of many, many Coronas and a little turkey, to cap the night at a barbecue joint on the corner of Halsted called, as best as I recollect, "The Smoke Shack". Inside we had some delicious (as far as I know) barbecue pork of various cuts from some unfortunate pig. But the capper was inside the restaurant having a snack between sets was none other than Ms. Johanna Connor and the 12 year old Eric Clapton. It's a good thing we weren't drunk or we might have inundated them with barely understandable, gushy compliments about their music. We found out that they would be playing until 4:30 a.m. and we gave them our condolences and somehow hailed a cab and made back to the house where the three of us managed to get upstairs to our various bedrooms and make it safely into bed for a good night's sleep. Well, two out of three ain't bad. You'll have to get the details from Bean, but all I can tell Cathy, is that it didn't invole any "pig moves". Or so he says. I believe Bean is blaming one of the "ghosts" for pushing him or something.

Speaking of Cathy, I need to mention that our good lady wives had a weekend of their own in Athens, Ohio for what may be the last OU mother's weekend for awhile. They must have been having a boring time, because when I called them from Kingston Mines to rub it in, er, I mean let them know we were ok, I could hear them talking about some vintage car show or something. At one point I heard Andi or Cathy yell something about getting a Cougar. Then they all cheered. I had no idea our wives were so automotively inclined. Just goes to show.

Next morning was pretty uneventful as I figure it must have been maybe 2 a.m. at least before we got back from the "mines". Melanie called my cell, and let me know that the plane was on time, and I should beat feet to Midway. I picked them up at the airport and learned a little of their trip to Argentina, and I confessed a little of what a great job I had done dogsitting. See Part One. It turns out that Melanie, at the urging of Dave, had nearly created an international incident when they wisely decided to play a joke on Sandy by sending her an email that said something about Mel having "monkey rabies". Thank God, I wasn't involved but evidently by the time it had gone from Sandy, to Dave's mom, Judy and then through various international go betweens and finally having the US ambassador threaten a nuclear strike on Buenos Aires, if someone didn't get to the bottome of this. Anyway, they had a good time as near as I could tell and when we got back to the house Elsie and Emma went into "the master's are home" doggie orgasm.

We drove home then, and I was able to go about 10 miles before I, for some strange reason, needed a nap. So Dude tookover, and I napped to Vermillon. Also, for some reason, Bean who was riding in the back seat, was strangely quiet. I found out later, like two weeks later, that there was a very good medical reason why Mr. Bennett was so quiet. Evidently breathing is essential to conversation. You know the Bennetts are an interesting couple. They definitely must get bonuses from their health insurance company, because they tend to need medical attention when they travel. As a matter of fact, if you want to make a killing on a stock, wait until the Bennetts go Greece in a couple of years, and just beforehand buy as much Blue Cross stock as you can and let CNBC know. You'll make a killing.

So that was the weekend pretty much and I want Bean and Dude to know I had a great time, and I'm expecting a very "generous" Christmas gift this year. They can put it in unmarked bills and leave it taped underneath the third sink from the left at the Vermillon Stadium men's room and mark it "Mr. Jones." You know, tax purposes.

As for Mr. Duggan of Boston, I got your message of condolence regarding the latest Cleveland heartbreak at the hands of a Beantown franchise. Don't think I don't a appreciate the sentiment, but I think you should go intercourse yourself. Not that I am bitter or anything.

Love
Dad

There Will Be Blues! Part One

2008-05-08T13:12:00.000-04:00

My charges in better times. Emma is the black one.

Why is it, everytime I go to Chicago I always learn something new? And usually the learning is not good. My lovely but slightly deranged daughter decided to take an 11 day vacation to, where else, Argentina, motto: "Nazis? What Nazis?" Naturally, they could spend roughly $11,000 to board their dogs, Elsie the angel and Emma, aka Damien aka Beelzebub aka Nancy Grace. But why bother with a kennel when Bob, who didn't learn the cardinal rule about volunteering in the service, is available. So, being the dutiful father I am, I drove up to Chicago the night before the kids left, drove them to the airport and took care of the dogs while they were gallavanting around South America, hiking the jungle, cavorting with monkeys (more on the simian connection in Part Two), riding horses in the mountains and generally having a good time.

Now the fun starts. Before leaving the kids gently pointed out that there was really only one thing I needed to do around their house while I was there. "MAKE SURE THE GODDAM DOORS ARE LOCKED EVEN WHEN YOU ARE HOME!!" Of course, having reached the age where my short term memory is equivalent to a gnat's, it took roughly 3 nanoseconds to forget the only rule. But that comes later. When I got back to the house from O'Hare, it was a beautiful day in Chicago, and there aren't all that many beautiful days (weatherwise) in Chicago, so I decided to treat the dog's to the chance to get some air on the front porch, while I enjoyed a beverage on the porch swing and watched the people go by. In order to keep the dog's on the porch, as they have a tendency to bolt, I put up a baby gate at the steps in order to keep the little rascals on the porch with me. That gate could restrain dog's from getting out about as much as the law can keep congressmen from taking bribes. A poor soul, who I found out later was a professional dog walker, came up the street with two cute bulldogs. Emma, the dog without a soul, hurdled the baby gate like it wasn't there and charged over to the dog's to generally sniff their butts, and then teach them a lesson about invading her turf. Elsie, when she heard me scream "NO!!!" at Emma, dutifully slunk into a corner of the porch and commenced her "I am cowering here, I don't know why, but ain't I the cutest thing you ever saw?" routine. Elsie's a great dog. Meanwhile the canine Idi Amin was snapping and snarling at the bulldogs while the dogwalker (I wonder what the training is) held Emma at bay with the heel of his shoe. I don't know what he gets paid but he deserves a bonus. Anyway, I collared that goddam, er I mean, that sweet little Emma and coaxed her back onto the porch. Fortunately it appeared no damage had been done, except for my ticker.

About an hour later, as I prepared my dinner in the kitchen, I thought I heard a female voice calling "Hello". Now before she left, Melanie informed me that they had heard ghosts in the house one evening, not long before. But, it was middle of the day, so I went on cooking, although the voice did sound like she was pretty close, if not actually inside the house. A few seconds later, "hello!". Of course because I was in the middle of grilling a couple of Vienna Beef dogs on a skillet, I hesitated to leave, but I cursed under my breath, shut off the stove and went to investigate. Sure enough, as I approached the front door where the porch is, I saw a young lady standing next to the wide open door, and petting the dogs, who, once they realized there was no grilled hot dog handout forthcoming fled the kitchen to check on the intruder. Strike Two!
It turned out the lady owned the two bulldogs that Emma had assaulted earlier. She said she just wanted to see how my dogs were and to tell me her dogs were fine. I was touched. I promptly proposed and she politely told me she was sorry, and further informed me she was already married. With that she bid me adieu and scurried off down the street, no doubt searching for an all night restraining order emporium.

Anyway, I knew that now, my life as far as Mel was concerned wasn't worth, as they say, a plug nickel (I have no idea what that means). If it weren't for the fact that Elsie and Emma had been spoiled by some unknown moron giving them handouts of human food, they would probably have been hitchiking to Argentina to find Mom and Dad by the time I realized I had broken the one and only rule.

I spent a couple more fun filled days in the city whiling away the hours primarily by being walked (dragged) for an hour each day by the dogs around the neighborhood and Lincoln Park. I had decided to stay a couple of days in order to take some photographs of Chicago with infrared film. Of course the weather cooperated by providing me with approximately four seconds of glorious sunshine the rest of the week.

So I drove home with my charges aboard on Saturday of that week and spent the following week getting a little work done in between my time watching the dogs poop (add my dog Ginger to the mix now) and yelling like an idiot to try and get a deaf dog's attention. I lie, the dogs were pretty good in Concord, at one point we let them off the leash in the wooded area behind the house and they had a great time running around like banshees and discovering Kellogg Creek. Of course the first thing Elsie and Emma did was dive into the creek, which is pretty clean as far as creeks go but, of course, required that we hose them down to get the creekwater off when we got back home. Why is it, that a dog (all dogs I think) will have absolute orgasms thrashing around in creeks, rivers, lakes or any other body of water, but positively piss themselves the second they see a garden hose or bathtub?

Anyway, I survived and lived to return to Chicago the following Friday with a couple of my college buddies for a weekend on the town. That will have to be in part two as my brain hurts.

Love,
Dad

The Pelican Brief,

2008-04-21T15:14:00.000-04:00

Believe it or not, this pelican picture will have some relevance by the end of this entry.

Thanks to a weekend I spent at a lake in Michigan last year, I came into this fishing season thinking I might be tapped to do my own fishing show. I can see it now... "That's not a buoy, that's Bob fishin'!" I say this because the friends we stayed with actually encouraged me to fish in their lake. Not only that, but the man of the house, Larry insisted I go fishing in his pontoon boat. After essentially drowning worms and freezing all morning, I actually hooked a very big fish. A very nice largemouth bass. (Larry will corroborate my entire story, he should I paid him enough). Now, I had never come close to seeing a largemouth bass let alone catch one my whole life. Anyway, with Larry's guidance and one of his lures, I was able to get the great beast into the boat. And by the way, the more I tell the story of it, the bigger the fish gets. This was all I needed. I was, as they say, "hooked." For Christmas I got my usual 37 bottles of Chaps after shave but this year there was more. Gift certificates for fishing gear. I couldn't wait to get my sweaty little hands on a pair of waders so I could get out there in the Grand River at the crack of March, when it is nice and warm in Ohio, and stride proudly and purposerfully to the middle of the stream and start casting my new lures. By the way, Larry had loaned me a Rappala something or other to catch my bass and I now had a few in my own tackle box. By a few, I mean enough to give the Rappala company a solid profit for the entire 4th quarter of 2007. Little did I know in December, I was going to need every one of them within a week of fishing season.

Spring approached, I got all my gear ready, I got my fishing license online, I bought all kinds of lures, bobbers, baits in jars, and other paraphanalia that would assure angling success or bankruptcy. My money is on bankruptcy. Lot of bad puns around here for a quiet neighborhood. Well, dammit, March finally arrived, and I started looking for a place to fish and I discovered that they spawn (from the latin "la fornicate es maximus") in the stream behind my house, which is technically a part of the Lake Metro Parks system.

So, I have been trying my fishing skills around here lately as it is spring and the steelhead are in heat. Several were spotted in the creek behind my house cavorting about, drinking champaign and eating caviar. The heavy alcohol consumption would explain how these critters mate as industrial strength beer goggles are required for the average male to work up any kind of amorous advance toward the typical female fish. Anyway, there is nothing more aggravating than fishing in a stream about 9 inches deep with several large fish less than 5 feet away, jumping and splashing around, while you try to coax them into taking a bite of your latest $10 Rappala lure. Add to that the fact that roughly 1 in every 6,000 casts actually gets your lure into the water, in the same area code as the fish, rather than in a tree, rock, various body parts or an elephant in India, and you have the makin's of a grand old time. Now I know how whiskey got invented. Throw in a 56 year old novice fisherman shaped like a large bowling ball, in chest waders slogging and sliding around on moss covered rocks in the rapids with all the stealth of an enraged rhinocerous dancing ballet in axle grease and you have a pretty good idea of what I must have looked like to the steelhead.

On this comedy of errors went for the entire morning. Cast, curse, slip and slog to the snagged lure, unravel the tangled mess of fishing line while staggering like a drunken Republican, put another maggot on the hook, and re-cast. Repeat the above. So I spent a joyous 5 hours fishing, and in which I made roughly three casts and caught six thousand tree limbs, various underwater rocks and three old boots. The steelhead enjoyed the show and I believe the alpha male has started selling tickets to the other fish.

Having enjoyed such massive success in a creek, I decided to kick it up a notch (There's a phrase you don't hear enough of, eh?) and take my act, er, I mean my gear to the ol' Grand River. The "Old Man", the "Mighty Grand". This, as they say in fishing parlance, was a mistake. Not only were the fish laughing at me, but several other fisherman, passing joggers, and local school field trips were wetting their pants in no time. For those who have not experienced it, donning waders and trying to make to the middle of a river in early spring after some rain and snow melt is a awesome sight to behold. That is it is awesome if I am the sight you're beholding. One of the things I had failed to take into account was something known as "current". I had envisioned a casual stroll out into the river to start casting in deeper water with the nimbleness of a ballet dancer. Wrong! The problem as I see it, is I have a tough enough time getting one foot in front of the other on terra firma. Throw in moss covered rocks, pretty heavy current, waders, and a net (hopeless optimism if I ever saw it) and you might as well have told me to get Congress to actually do something. Anyway, after several hours of this nonsense and once again snagging rocks, trees and innocent passers by I decided this might not be the best use of my time.
Now here's the funny part. I can't wait to do it again! How stupid can one individual be?

So, I do want to thank my Michigan hosts Larry and Judy for being such wonderful hosts in their beautiful home on the lake, and especially Larry for taking me out on his boat and getting me addicted to something that will get me killed as surely as nicotine or heroin. That one bass has got me as sure as a Camel Filter did in my youth. You should know that recently I have thought about taking up a less dangerous activity. Something like "skeet" which merely involves loaded shotguns and moving targets. For some reason Sandy seems a might skittish about the whole thing. Huh!

When I started this entry, the pelican had some meaning in my demented, senile mind, but I can't for the life of me, remember what the hell it was.

I hope the kids get me some ties for Christmas this year, dammit! But don't forget the Chaps.

Love
Dad

For God's Sake, Just Say "No" to CPAP!

2008-04-03T10:30:00.000-04:00

You had to know it was too good to last. I had to turn up again sometime. Well, here I am. I figured that after being force fed Obama, McCain and Hillary (wasn't there a song by that name? No wait, that was "Abraham, Martin and John), you might be desperate enough to tolerate my nonsensical ravings.

Several things have occurred recently, that have shaken me out of my normal state of malaise. For instance, I was recently forced to learn what the hell "haiku" (pronounced "Hi-coo") was. It is the Japanese equivalent of "God bless you" and uttered whenever someone sneezes or has to go hunting with Dick (pure evil) Cheney. I'm kidding. It's only used when someone has to read this blog. I kid again, it is actually a style of poetry, sans rhyme schemes. I was forced to learn this (I looked it up on Wikpedia) when my daughter Melanie, er, excuse me, my daughter "Riley Coyote" was "haikued" (in a nice way, I mean) in a derby fan's blog. The blog features various haiku styled tributes to derby girls, their fans and the whole derby military industrial complex. It also, unfortunately for Pa Coyote, features a photo taken of Riley in full derby regalia, but from the, uh how do I say this delicately, behind. I wouldn't normally mind it so much, but the hot pants are way too complimentary. I am afraid a congressman or congresswoman might see it and hire her as a page.

http://derbyhaiku.blogspot.com/2008/03/looney-tunes-gone-bad.html

As bad as having to actually learn something is, what really got my blood to boil was an episode I had involving a switch in health insurance companies and my CPAP, which is a device that treats sleep apnea by forcing air through a mask you strap on your face when you go to bed. CPAP is effective, but makes you look like Chuck Yeager in a death spiral. Anyway my point here is it is a machine, not a drug, or so I thought.

Because of a change in insurance (my wife has coverage through a school system run by people with the administrative skills God gave gravel) my supplier for things like filters, hoses and hash pipes was no longer "in network" which means that my cost went from a mere arm and a leg, to the gross national product of Chile. So, in order to get insurance coverage I had to get an in network pusher, I mean, provider. Easy enough, right? Just make a phone call, right? Wrong, red tape breath! Turns out, you need a prescription. Just like with all the other dangerous controlled substances out there like opium, heroine, and Republican propaganda. A PRESCRIPTION FOR A FREAKIN' MACHINE!

Well, of course, you need a prescription, idiot! We can't sell a filter or a mask to just anybody. This is dangerous stuff in the wrong hands. I mean haven't you heard of the CPAP parties on all the college campuses, ruining the minds and bodies of our young people! Imagine, your own son or daughter huddled in some corner, sucking air through a CPAP mask, laughing maniacally and engaging in connubial relations with aardvarks! Oh my God, the humanity!

Not to mention how the illicit purchases of these machines sends huge quantities of unmarked cash through the CPAP fields in Afghanistan, where the hapless third world farmers toil in the CPAP fields from sun up to sun down, harvesting the ripe filters and face masks and pass on their ill gotten gains to the dreaded CPAP warlords then, on to Al Qaeda! Yes, when you buy illegal CPAP hoses you fund terrorism!

So yes, ladies and germs, write your congressman, counsel your children to be wary. This CPAP menace must be stopped and stopped NOW! The future of mankind is at stake! Failure to act now may result in this (insert music from "Psycho" shower scene here)...

To protect the innocent!

Damn, I need a martini.

Love

Dad

California, here I come...

2007-07-14T11:24:00.000-04:00

We went to visit the prodigal son over the Fourth of July holiday for our vacation. Seven glorious, fun-filled days of sight seeing, fishing and generally pissing each other off. Just kidding there, Dustin, although I have been told (I won't say by whom, OK by Sandy) that my mood tends to lean toward the crabby side, especially when industrial strength jet lag kicks in. We started our first hour in LA by playing a unique new game that could only be created by the LaForces. It's called "Hide and Seek with Cars. Here's how you play, someone who is a stranger in town rents a car at the airport, and agrees, in advance, to have a close relative, wait outside the rental lot (A minimum number of rental cars in the lot is required, I would go with 4 million) to "assist" transit to your lodging, wait at an undisclosed exit outside the lot, and then spend the majority of your vacation trying to locate that relative. Each car has a cell phone for giving "clues" as to the location of the other. The object is to totally mislead the "it" car, the one in the lot with strangers to the city, until such time as the attendants at the lot wonder if the strangers are participating in some kind of deranged NASCAR race. Or are completely pickled. The relative provides clues to his location with hints like "I am by the exit on Maple Street." This is particularly helpful when the "it" car's driver has roughly 8 thousand streets to determine which is Maple. Points are determined by how long it takes the "it" car's driver to finally get out of the lot and located the relative. Bonus points are awarded when the "it" car's driver has a spouse taking the directions from the relative, and passing them on to the driver. Bonus, bonus points are awarded when the spouse has the navigational skills God gave gravel. "Go to the last row and turn right or left!" Gee, Sandy, thanks a pantload. The winner of the game is determined by which car's occupants survive the ensuing gun battle. I'm applying for a patent tomorrow.

After locating Dustin's car, he then led the way to his apartment on Culver Blvd. in West LA. To be fair to Dustin, he did warn us that his apartment might be a "tad" on the warm side as LA tends to be a little "hot" during the day and he has a second floor apartment that has the ventilation characteristics of an attic. Saying the apartment was a "tad warm" was like saying George Bush is a "tad stupid." I walked in and literally felt like the heat got up and kicked the crap out of me. Kind of how Sonny Corleone "persuaded" Carlo in "The Godfather." I swear there were dishes on the counter that had melted and become part of the fixtures. Our first souvenier purchase was obviously an air conditioner. Of course, not just any old AC would work, we had to get a special kind made for apartment windows that opened sideways. As you can imagine this greatly reduced the price at the local Home Depot. And if you believe that, I have some high and dry land in the Gulf of Mexico to sell you. I am kidding Dustin now, actually we were thrilled to buy that for Dustin. MY GOD, we were thrilled!

I didn't give much for the chances of having a great time after these initial incidents, but really, after that things were great. Dustin is a great host, I think mostly because he likes LA so much. We went to the beaches and met with some of his friends from Optimus, motto "If they ever do away with the tax break for client entertainment we're screwed!" We visited the West Coast division of Optimus and were literally amazed at the wonderful things coworkers and bosses said about our little Dusty.

We did many of the sight seeing "musts". We went to Hollywood and walked around there for awhile, did Venice beach and saw all the wackos that hang out or skate around there. We also took a walk around the Venice canals, which is a little known area but, actually has canals running between the houses much like the Italian city of the same name. The high point of this little side trip, other than the beauty of the area, was that it turned out that this are was hosting the annual duck convention. There were thousands of ducks of all different kinds, white, brown, but the most noticeable absent species was the fabled "lame" duck. George was nowhere to be found (My God, has it come to this? Incredibly bad puns? You betcha). Anyway, I have never seen so many ducks in one location. I don't know why, but several ducks seemed to be eyeing me for handouts. Could there be an agreement with the mammals?

We took a side trip down to San Diego, motto "Doesn't every city charge $20 for a taco?" Which is a beautiful city, but a "tad" expensive. We earned two free nights in a hotel in the "Olde Towne" district, which is an historical area of kept up missions, blacksmith shops and souvenier stands. In homage to our little Roller Derby queen, we went to a restaurant called the "Cafe Coyote". The food actually was excellent, with hand made tortillas and we even got a table on the patio across from Joe Morgan who must have been in town to broadcast a Padres game. For the other announcers' sakes, I hope he avoided the refried beans. We earned our hotel stay by agreeing to sit through a 2 hour timeshare pitch. This was not pretty. But I think we survived it and had a great time afterward when Dustin came down from LA and joined us.

On the way back to LA from San Diego, we stopped at Sandy's cousin's place in a pretty suburb of LA, whose name escapes me, like most things, but I do remember it had a Spanish ring to it. Sandy's cousin, Betty Lou, is a real character and well over 4 feet tall. She has two great boys, Jeremy and Joshua, they treated us to a wonderful homemade dinner of grilled steaks and luscious desserts. She has a couple of adorable long haired dachsunds that for some reason hung around me the whole time I was eating. Can't figure out why.

On our last night we had dinner in Malibu at a place called Gladstones, which I highly recommend as the seafood was great. Some of the best clam chowder I have ever had and a terrific view of the ocean.

Well, gotta get going. I'm meeting someone at the airport Hertz lot and I don't think my cell phone is fully charged.

Love,
Dad

Be careful what you ask for, parents!

2007-05-04T17:00:00.000-04:00

Recently, last week I believe, I wrote about a trip Sandy and I took to Chicago to enjoy the opening bout of the season for the Windy City Rollers. Our illustrious PhD of a daughter is employed part time for the Manic Attackers as a jammer, blocker and/or explosives expert. That part is beside the point, as I spoke in painful depth of that experience in my last entry. After I wrote it I was rechecking it. I had written toward the end how many of the girls seemed a little disappointed that their own parents didn't get out to see more of the bouts. After rereading this part I said to myself "Self, I wonder how folks in other walks of life feel about attending their child's work or extra curricular activities." For instance, did Luca Brasi regret not having his folks around to watch him "enforcing" for Don Corleone? And if the proud Brasi's had been able to watch their son in action I am pretty sure I know how it would have looked.

Mr. Brasi: "Luca, Luca, Luca! How many times do I have to tell you, the bullet goes BEHIND THE EAR!"

Mrs. Brasi: "SHUT UP! LEAVE HIM ALONE! CAN'T YOU JUST BE SUPPORTIVE FOR ONCE? There, there, Luca darling. If you want to put that bullet through that bad man's eye ball, you go ahead and put it through his eye ball, sweetheart. How about some nice fish for supper?"

etc., At least that's how it would go if it were my family. Or how about maybe Custer's folks?

Mrs. Custer: "When are we gonna just stop and ask for directions, Georgie? Why don't you ask those nice Indians over there?"

Or some others?

Vince Lombardi's Folks on a fall Sunday afternoon in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

Mr. Lombardi: "You want my opinion son, give Taylor the ball every time! That Hornung guy is just a pretty boy. Besides, I think he likes to gamble!"

Mrs. Lombardi: "My God, Vinnie, can't you get a decent color scheme? Green and yellow? You know you're going to catch your death if you go out and stand on those sidelines when it's below zero out there!"

Or Hillary Rodham's folks:

Mrs. Rodham: "Hillary, when are you going to stop all this lawyering and politics slop and find a nice boy, settle down and give us some grandkids? How about that nice Bill Clinton fella, he seems like such a nice young man. Very honest and trustworthy, don't you think?"

Mr. Rodham: "Clinton?! Are you out of your mind? Mark my words, that boy is trouble and besides, I think he smokes that wacky tobacky. You hook up with him, Hillary and your out of the will!"

And so on. Anyway, I think my kids have got the idea. We'll let the folks know about the important stuff. Well, eventually anyway. "Oh yeah, I quit my job!" or "By the way, I'm going to be on a roller derby team." Some things parents are just better off not being involved with.

Love
Dad

Springtime: First robin, daffodils blooming and roller derby mayhem!

2007-04-22T22:33:00.002-04:00

Another interesting weekend in Chicago (motto: "One toll booth is plenty to handle the driving population of China!). Our reason for returning to the scene of the great "Greektown Easter Bread Caper" (see my last blog) as it has come to be known in Greektown, was to witness another first for our daughter. The first roller derby bout for YOUR Windy City Rollers!! While normally her mother and I would not go out of our way to see our precious little girl get the snot kicked out of her, our other pride and joy, Dustin (I never met a Mimosa I didn't like) Coyote flew in for the inaugural bout from Mexico City. I guess we could hardly bow out. How often do you have the opportunity to be ridiculed by both your children at the same time? By the way, it is evidently the law in Illinois that if you are related to a roller derby girl, you lose birth surname and take on the name given your daughter. So now Sandy, Dustin, Dave and myself are known as the Coyote family. It could be an improvement. You never know. OK, sometimes you do.

Anyway, we decided to surprise our daughter by showing up for the bout even though she insisted for weeks that she didn't want anyone closer than a fifth cousin showing up as she didn't think she would be very good. She needn't have worried, becase at one point, my sweet, charming PhD of a little girl took out a skater on the other team with roughly the same physique as a municipal stadium. Now let me see. She didn't think she would be very good, even though she has the capability of knocking someone into Milwaukee. Makes sense to me. I wasn't surprised as I had seen her use similar techniques when confronting her mother and I for money (I think maybe Dave has seen this side as well. By the way Dave odds are good you'll heal by summer.).

We got to the derby bout via something called a "party bus" which was organized by one of the retired roller derby girls, I believe her name was "Sledge Hammer". You greet her by saying "hello, Ms. Hammer, how's Mr. Hammer and all the little Hammers?" She kindly took our $8 per person to put us on one of those "rides smooth as silk" yellow school buses. I think they use the term "party bus" a tad loosely as your ability to drink beer from a plastic cup while riding in a school bus through the town of Cicero, Illinois (motto: "Anyone could drive if there were no potholes!") is a feat that ranks up there with trying to win a Nobel prize for having invented a more efficient apertoire. Just ask Donald Rumsfeld, George Bush and the rest of good folks that brought you the Iraq war. We finally arrived at the half built, Aztec ruin called the "Cicero Stadium for an evening of entertainment watching fit, pretty girls skating in a circle, trying to kick the bejeesus out of some other poor defenseless skater. Ah, the fun of youth. Parents this is what you get for telling your kids "Stop playing those damn violent video games and get out there and get some physical exercise for God's sake!".

A word, if you will, about a crowd of roller derby fans. To the untrained eye, and mine is as untrained as they come, you might first get the impression that only massively pierced, tattooed, drunken wierdos attend roller derby games. Nothing could be further from the truth, as I left out the adjective "homicidal". I swear this is true, I saw two little girls roughly 5 or 6 years old, made up, by their proud parents I presume, to look like a cross between Marilyn Manson and Alice Cooper. The Cicero "stadium" was packed to the rafters with these folks and I felt extremely under dressed in my jeans, and "Manic Attacker" t-shirt. One saving grace, I was wearing a baseball cap which said "Fish the Smokies" so at least I had an image of a hook on me, if not in actual fact through my nipple or some other random appendage. At least Sandy had the good sense to wear earrings. They weren't straight pins or anything, but I suspect they gave her a pass.

Oddly enough, (or not) they start a roller derby bout with the national anthem. This probably could have been dispensed with as the crowd seemed to have the patriotic fervor that God gave gravel. One mental defective, who shall remain nameless, although his real name is Doug Manley, sang the anthem in roughly the same register as Phoebe Snow on helium. I told his wife Charity that she should dump his sorry ass in favor of a more distinguished, 50'ish man with an abundance of scalp, unburdened by height and the physique of a Greek god's bowling ball. (OK, maybe it was begged, rather than told). There was also a crowd of about 30 "goths" who ignored the anthem altogether and sat through it with their hats on. I think they were all cranky ex-Bush supporters.

After all the pregame hoopla, the bouts got underway. The main event, I think was between the "Hells Belles" and the "Double Crossers". During the bouts the arena announcers, a couple of guys in Liberace Reject wardrobes, whipped the spectators into a frenzy with colorful "play by play" and clever anecdotes. The main event was very exciting as the Belles stormed from behind to overtake and defeat the hated Crossers on the final jam. I was thrilled beyond repair.
Then there was Mel's er, sorry, I mean Riley's bout. It was a close one, but The Fury squeeked by Riley's Manic Attackers by a final score of about 83 to 12. As they say in other sports, it wasn't as close as the score would indicate. However, in a credit to the popularity of the sport, the arena stayed fairly packed to the bitter end of the bout. Riley played blocker and jammer to get her feet wet as she is technically a rookie. She played with a kind of reckless abandon that brought tears to Sandy's and my eyes. Primarily because we could see the wasted investment on her braces going right down the drain. Just kidding, Sandy and I were not the least bit concerned when she was blocked into a cement wall by a Fury player the size of a Buick, which was the case of all the Fury, or when she took one of several spills.

Following the merciful conclusion of the Manic Attackers bout we all boarded the party bus for the return trip to our point of departure for some post bout libation. Our host emporium was a little tavern called "The Cobra" (motto: One barmaid can serve approximately 3,000 customers. We're not only proud of that, we're smug about it). Many fans, and a little later the players showed up for post game festivities and stitches. Sandy and I proudly looked on as our precious little roller derby queen signed actual autographs for adoring fans. Several of these fans were clearly blowing about .40 BAC. We sat at a table near the bar which meant we were able to order and get our drinks in a little under 2 hours. I felt bad for those seated in more distant booths, several of whom had skeletonized by the time we left. During the course of the evening, several of the other Windy City Rollers girls stopped by to chat and tell us how much they loved our daughter. We frequently had to make sure we were all talking about the same person. Some girls seemed genuinely surprised that we would make the trip from Cleveland and I heard many express their admiration for parents foolish..., I mean dedicated enough to come all that way. Several players said they wished their parents showed so much spirit. This was coming from girls whose sole purpose in this activity was to split lips, break bones and cause mayhem in general. These same girls then had the nerve to act surprised when their parents had a little trouble showing up to witness the carnage. Anyway girls, don't be too hard on your parents for lacking the capacity to watch their offspring beating or being beaten to a pulp.

I guess that's enough of a rant for now, I'm still recovering, as usual, from the trip and tremendous change of sleep habits.

By the way Dustin, if the Manley's ask for my address or phone number, tell them I'm deceased.

Love Dad

Of religious candles, roller derby and Riley Coyote.

2007-04-09T22:39:00.000-04:00

Spent Easter weekend in Chicago (motto: "If you really want to experience the blues, drive the Dan Ryan Expressway!") visiting my daughter and son in law. After spending the equivalent of an ice age negotiating the last ten miles of Chicago freeway, we decided to unwind with my daughter and some of her Manic Attacker roller derby teammates at a local watering hole known as "Quenchers", a tavern I highly recommend if you are looking to collect disability or avoid the draft because of punctured ear drums.

Let me tell you that I had trepidations about my daughter, who is well over 4 feet tall, participating in a sport as physical as roller derby. However, after having a couple of hours to interact with her teammates, I now just want to commit suicide and be done with it.
Just kidding, Mel, I feel much better knowing that you are flying around on skates with characters with names like, "Malice With Chains" "Gigantor" and "Val Capone"! The captain of the team, "Ava Sectomy" a lovely young thing, won the post of captain, mainly for being able to boast having been in 57 bouts with no convictions. I know for a fact, several players have done hard time.

No, really, if you met the Manic Attackers in a dark alley, you would probably be best served to curl up in the fetal position, moan pathetically and just hope your death won't be a long drawn out affair. Seriously, I was amazed that these beautiful young ladies, many with normal, everyday, 9 - 5 careers, are the kind of girls that could turn a mundane activity like roller skating into bone crushing, blood spattering, facial deconstructing mayhem. Mel, I am really glad we spent all that money on braces when you were a teenager.

During the course of the weekend Sandy and I were able to learn many of the ins and outs of roller derby including the names of the positions (jammers and blockers), how points are scored and several of the strategic manuevers used to win the game, (or to efficiently fracture major bones). The primary move for getting a jammer in position to score points (by passing other team's skaters) is via a move called, a big surprise "the whip." This move consists of the bigger and more powerful skaters hurling the jammers ahead with a whip action so they can get around faster (We also learned that Mel's first bout is April 21. For details click the Windy City Rollers link on the sidebar).

I would have thought this would have been it for excitement and education for the weekend, but then again, I am an idiot. On the next day we drove Mel to, another surprise, her sports doctor for a sprained ankle she got walking Elsie and Emma. So she said. Anyway, the doctor's office was right around the corner from Greektown and Sandy and I decided to kill time touring the area. Our first stop was a small shop that sold various incense, magic candles, unusual lotions and other artifacts and it wasn't even called Victoria's Secret. Many of the curios had distinct religious overtones that I had previously been unaware of. For instance, I never knew that you good luck could be yours or that you could assured of great monetary fortune if you just burned a candle with a likeness of the holy redeemer on it. Who knew?

After browsing that shop awhile we went to a small bakery that, wouldn't you know, was very popular with the Greek transplants of Chicago, and happened to be selling Greek Easter breads. Many people were there getting all kinds of treats and Easter breads with a red hard boiled egg baked into the middle of the loaf. When we came in Sandy saw several of the loaves on a display table and started to browse when she was confronted by a Greek lady, about 31/2 feet tall (Sandy's height) and told not to look at those loaves as she was buying all of them for her family. Now Sandy and I thought we had met the roughest, toughest females in all of Chicago at Quenchers. Wrong! A word of advice, do not come between a little old Greek lady on a mission and her pastry purchases for a major Christian holiday. You could wind up being on the wrong end of a well placed Grecian forearm. For a minute I thought we were going to have the Schnitzer's Marble Rye incident from Seinfeld. Fortunately, the misunderstanding was cleared up and they parted the best of friends. The little old lady gave Sandy a friendly kiss on the cheek, as she left the bakery with her fully laden pack mule. She disappeared into a sporting goods store. My guess is to buy a good pair of roller skates.

Well, that's all I have for now, I've gotta get going. I've got a Jesus candle to start burning.

Love
Dad

Unsung Heroes

2007-03-02T10:52:00.000-05:00

I want to sing a particular group of professional's praises. Well, not literally, as I don't so much sing as mimic a rusty hinge. But these folks labor day in and day out in a thankless and, for the most part, low paying profession. I am talking about those women (men are extremely rare in this profession for reasons that will become apparent), that are charged with the task of educating our preschoolers. That's right, educating. I say this because if you are foolish enough to call childcare "babysitting" the ladies that do it for a living will immediately set their phasers on "kill". For those that work with children with special needs, that goes double.

Although I am reluctant to admit it, I recently discovered, despite all evidence to the contrary, my wife is a saint. Actually my wife and her colleagues everywhere are saints. OK, maybe not Sue K, but the rest are spot on! My discovery stemmed from my "volunteering" to help out at one of her classes. This is an activity that I highly recommend for any adult, especially those that no longer have any use for their shins, kneecaps or various other joints and muscles that you don't even know exist. My wife teaches preschoolers that focuses on integrating children with special educational needs. What used to be known as "mainstreaming" which has evidently become politically incorrect so I don't know what the current jargon allows. The children in the class I visited have various learning disabilities which make education a particular challenge. ADD, ADHD, Autism and Asperger's (which, it turns out, is not the name for a new sandwich at Burger King) are involved with some of the children in the class.

Anyway, while mothers are common volunteers for these classes, fathers rarely venture in. That's because most men truly fear working with little children. It's no fun being outwitted by your average 3 year old. Male teachers in this line of education are even more rare. Why, you ask? Because male teachers are genetically incapable of teaching anyone that can't be ordered to run laps or do pushups (swats used to be included until those damned lawyers got involved).

Being a rarity in a classroom can have its advantages. For about 3 milliseconds the children hold you in a kind of reverent awe. After that, you become fair game for endless streams of questions and observations ranging from "Do you really live with Mrs. LaForce" to "My dog gets eye boogers!" And that's the easy part. Most of your time is spent bending, squating, sitting cross legged on the floor on a carpet made up of various shapes in a circle. I got to be on the triangle, and heaven help me if I would sit on the circle, for God's sake. Then there is the matter of hitting. Every once in awhile, one of the children gets frustrated beyond his or her means to cope and wallops someone, usually the nearest adult, with a force that get's you to thinking "DOWN GOES FRAZIER, DOWN GOES FRAZIER!"

Thankfully, the teachers have learned to recognize the warning signs and can usually nip such contacts in the bud. The untrained, inexperienced observer is usually not so lucky. As a consequence, I find the occaisions where some parents, either through blissful ignorance or outright denial of their child's condition, berate, belittle and criticize these professionals and their recommendations or activities. I know of these parents because once in awhile, when Sandy comes home and tries to tell me about her day, a few molecules of actual information make it into my brain and sinks in. Just a general tip to Sandy's colleagues and women in general. Husbands say they are listening, and in actual fact they are listening, as best they can. But men are hard wired by nature and thousands of years of evolutionary programming to allow about 2 syllables of the spouse or girlfriends comments enter into his pea brain, before that brain, acting wholly on its on, refocuses on things like "Who are the Browns going to lose to this week" or "I wonder if Anna Nicole Smith donated her hooters to science. If not, she should have!"

Anyway, I tip my hat to you ladies that are in the trenches, doing the dirty work of educating our toddlers because we men are damn sure not going to do it! And, if you want to make sure that your man is really listening, you might want to open the conversation with something like, oh, I don't know, maybe...

"That Jayne Mansfield had some big breasts!"

Love
Dad

They're Gonna Put Me In The Movies, and All I Gotta Do...

2007-02-27T07:24:00.000-05:00

Who among us hasn't secretly believed that we could have been the next (insert movie star's name here), if only we had not gotten married, got a job, overslept or any of a thousand other rationalizations that keeps us from the real reason, which is that we have all the acting talent God gave gravel. I know whereof I speak.

As a result of my recent addiction to Craig's List, which I still contend is the most dangerous site on the Web, I found myself upping my humiliation quotient to new highs by voluteering as an "extra" in a locally produced independent film. The ad requested bald people for a quirky comedic film to be entered in film festivals around the world. Bald, eh? Since that is one thing I am pretty good at, I volunteered. "What can it hurt? Who's gonna know?" I thought. This midlife crisis is getting out of hand. The name of the flick? "The Head of the Company."

My "role" consisted of showing up for several hours on Saturday and Monday at the offices of the Cleveland Plain Dealer (motto, "On a clear day, you can hear our toilets flush in Afghanistan.") and participating in the main pastime of actors everywhere, waiting. I am guessing that real actors movies are a lot like being a soldier at war. 99% of the time is consumed by sheer boredom, followed by short periods of intense fear, insecurity and other generally pleasant emotions.

I did however learn several cinematic "secrets" which I will reveal unless the film's producer/director/cameraman/writer/hall monitor..., who shall remain anonymous, (although his real name is Butch Maier) sends me much cash in small unmarked bills. Since I know that Butch was working on a budget that consisted of nearly $0, I will continue.
The first and most obvious thing I noticed about movie makers is that they have created one of the world's greatest lies. It ranks right up there with "I did not have sex with that woman", "Saddam has WMD" and "We here at Congress are committed to lobbying reform". That lie is uttered by the director after each segment of filming in which they say "Let's do that ONE MORE TIME!" "One more time" in movie parlance, evidently means "ad nauseum." The consequence of this phrase became painfully ingrained when we filmed the "office" scene on Monday evening. More on that later. Butch would shoot a half nanosecond of film followed by "One more time!" so often that some scenes seemed to take as long as extended space travel.

On this first day of shooting in the Plain Dealer's meeting room, I actually got a "line" to speak in the movie. This caused a bit of consternation on my part as I thought I was just going to be sitting or walking around in the background. I can do that. However, I can no more memorize a line and act it out on a second's notice than I could convince Nancy Grace that she is creepier than a bucketful of Dennis Rodmans. Anyway, the line was about 10 words, but it seemed that it was the Gettysburg Address. So I stumbled on the line a tad.

On Monday evening, the main scene of the movie was to be filmed and Butch, who operates on the premise that "Anyone can make a movie if they have actual money," needed to create the illusion that about 15 bald guys were actually about 150 bald guys. This clever bit of Hollywood magic is acheived by having those 15 guys sprint around the camera, while changing jackets, sweaters or shirts running maniacally around the moving camera to get into the next part of the camera shot in about as much time as it takes a congressman to accept a bribe. So, Butch was pushed along a corridor of cubicles with his camera taking a "tracking" shot while 15 crazed bald guys essentially perform what used to be called a "Chinese Firedrill" behind the camera. Jackets flying, people bouncing off walls and stumbling over discarded garments, huffing and puffing to get into the next cubicle these bald guys, several of them a tad past their prime, anxious for the 15 minutes of fame, executed the shot flawlessly. If you ask me, Butch should have filmed us as we flailed around the cubicles trying to get to our places and act casual for the shot, because that was really funny. We executed the scene flawlessly about 20 times. As Butch had the phrase "One more time" recorded and played over the loudspeaker system. By the time we had finished the scene, the combined weight loss of this group of actors could be measured in gross tonnage.

So that's it. My foray into the wonderful and magical world of movies. I guess I'm really excited, despite it all, as I am sure that my line in the film is destined for the same cinematic immortality as "Frankly Scarlet...", "E.T. phone home," and "I'll have what she's having." OK, maybe not. What was my line you ask? If you are asking that question, you have way too much time on your hands but I'll tell you...

"THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY!"

Love
Dad

I AM DANNIELYNN'S FATHER!

2007-02-11T10:10:00.000-05:00

OK, it's fess up time. I know Sandy will be hurt, but I have to come clean (in a nice way, I mean) because this has been eating away at me for several seconds now. I know you may find this hard to believe, even shocking, but I swear every word is true. I'll even take a polygraph. I'm not sure what I'd do with it, but I would take one. It happened, well, about nine months before little Dannie pooh shuffled on to this mortal coil.
I wouldn't have brought it up, but seeing as how everyone else on the planet is making the claim, even some women, I figured "hey, why not, we live in the same hemisphere." That gives me as much a shot as being the father as any of the other morons lining up for DNA testing.
Anyway, as I said, it happened, as is the usual case within the gestation period of the normal human being. As I recall, we were at Hef's mansion, I often am invited there for parties and I hate to say it, the ladies just can't keep their hands off me. Anyway, she approached me and we chatted, as I recall, about the latest nuclear physics theory making the scientific rounds. We gabbed for hours over the bubbly and the next thing I know, Anna was having her way with me. I tried to tell her I wasn't that kind of guy, but her ardor knew no bounds. Thus, we made love madly and passionately for seconds.
I know for a fact that my incredible virility had worked its magic, as the onset of her morning sickness occurred in record time. She was hugging the porcelein idol before I got my zipper up. So there you have it. Me and Anna. Who'da thunk it? So now, I have to raise little Dannielynn on my own. Not to mention her inheritance. Oh, the trevails of the single parent, but I will get through it, and Sandy and I will be a better, stronger couple because of it. At least once I get her foot out of a place that was not anatomically designed, at least technically, as a receptacle.
OK, OK you all know I've been fibbing. As Sandy reminds me, several centuries ago, I had an operation that put me in, what my friend Mike calls "the X'd out club." So I guess it would be a little far fetched to actually be little Dannie's actual father. But, I only said it out of concern for the poor little child now faced with a life of uncertainty and what to do with millions of dollars.
I also never expected for a minute the national news media, (motto: what does journalistic integrity, decorum and respect have to do with selling ads?) might pick up the story and spend as much time on a lurid tragic story as they would on something as mundane as 9/11.
So I guess I won't have the opportunity to become a media star this time. Wait a minute, I forgot, I am announcing my candidacy for president in the year 2016. Yeah, that's the ticket. Better to announce early and often as Dennis Kucinich would say. So, ok all you news wires, here is your scoop. AP, UPI, Reuters? Hello? Is there anybody out there? Hello?
OK, how about this? I have decided to pass a resolution saying that I disagree with the escalation (AKA "surge") of the journalistic blathering and slaveishness to tripe that is currently the standard for all television "news" casts. It will, of course, be non binding. That'll show em.

Love
Dad

The most dangerous site on the Web!

2007-02-06T17:33:00.000-05:00

I blame this one on the kids. They turned me on to this website a couple of years ago, and recently, over the holidays, I rediscovered it and now it takes up all my time. Is it gambling? Nah. Porno? Nope. Donations to the Republican Party? Wrong again. The dastardly site of which I speak is Craig's List. For those of you that don't know it, Craig's List is a site of free classified ads that are local to any city you choose. I have always liked to peruse classifieds for some reason. Jobs, cars, discussion groups of all kinds, music, just about everything. There's the problem I can see who is selling a car for what price in say, Hong Kong! Why would I want to waste my time doing that? Because I am an idiot.
But why is it so dangerous? Well, for starters, it seems, based on my perusal of the classifieds, that I truly wasted my life with a law degree and education in financial management. Because, I found out that I could have been making billions of dollars an hour just by doing marketing surveys online! Is that depressing or what? What a sap I've been all these years. What's more, I could have done just as well stuffing envelopes, returning phone calls or processing payments for some Nigerian prince who, poor fella, seems to have fallen on political troubles. All he needed for me to make a ton of money was my banking info.
In the last two months I have purchased a used drum set to continue my quest at age 55 of learning how to become the next Ginger Baker. Without lessons. Sandy is thrilled as hell! Especially these past few days with the outside temperature hovering around "absolute zero". What else you gonna do? Seems like there was something else Sandy and I did when we were locked up alone in the house... anyway "Inna Godda Da Vida, baby...." I picked up the drumset on the way home from picking Dustin up at the airport when he was home for Christmas. Dustin grudgingly helped me as we had engaged in the typical parent child blow up within nano seconds of his arrival. You parents of children over the age of 5 know what I'm talking about.
Dustin comes through the airport and greets us with a hug and the conversation goes something like this:
Me: "Hi son, good to see you, how was your flight?"
Dustin: "WHADDYA MEAN I NEED A HAIRCUT!!"
Maybe it's not what you say but how you say it. Oh well. I digress.
After the drums I found an ad looking for a writer for a start up newspaper in New York. Someone who can write sarcasm. So I applied knowing I rate pretty low on the Jon Stewart Sarcasm Scale (those of you who now me can back me up on that), but I sent in some samples from this blog, and the next thing I know, Oscar, the owner calls me and says he wants me to do more. It sounded like he was calling from a heroin addict convention, but hey, its a gig, right?
And finally the coup de grace. It looks like I'm going to be a movie star. Well, not a star, but an extra in an independent film entitled "The Bald Truth". The ad said the director wanted several "bald men" to be in a scene in an office where every one is bald. So I said to myself "Self, you might be able to do this". Sure enough, I got a reply from the director after I sent him my "head shot" (this is evidently movie jargon for a picture of, well, your head) he contacted me and said I'm in. Brando, Gable, Redford ... LaForce? (for you youngsters I guess I should have said Pitt, Di Caprio, Depp) So, I've now got that going for me. Don't be jealous Dustin, I know you'll want me for your next production, so have your people give my people a call and we'll do lunch.
So you can see that I know what I'm talking about when I say Craig's List is the most dangerous site on the Web. Do yourself and your friends and relatives a favor and advise them to keep away from that site at all costs! You can probably humiliate yourself a lot quicker with a quart of Jack Daniels and a good lamp shade.
Well, I've taken enough of your time, those of you that are still awake and reading, but I have to get going it seems I can make obscene amounts of money selling travel packages. All I have to do is send them $1,000 and I can't miss. OH BOY, am I gonna get in on this or what? Also, my caller ID says some guy named Spielberg is calling.

Love,
Dad

My daughter be jammin'

2007-01-30T16:04:00.000-05:00

I blame myself. I was the one that took up SCUBA at the ripe old age of 54 and encouraged my offspring to take up the fun and adventurous activities while they were young and their bodies had not yet put one foot on rigor mortis and the other on a banana peel. First of all, most parents recognize that their children generally take their advice about as often as the U.S. Congress gets anything worthwhile accomplished. Which is never.
Even so, I thought, well, the kids are smart, both college graduates and Melanie, has spent more time and money on education than God. Surely, my thinking was, they will take up something more strenuous than text messaging and get out there and get into physical activity. I knew that my intelligent, fun loving children would have the sense not to get into something like being money couriers in Baghdad, or go duck hunting with Dick Cheney. No they would never do anything dangerous. I am of course, a total moron!
Melanie, aka Dr. LaForce, called us to proudly announce, not that she is expecting our grandchild, no nothing so mundane as that, but that she is, and I hope everyone is sitting down, going to play on a Roller Derby Team. Get it? That's ROLLER FREAKIN' DERBY! For those of you too young to remember or those old enough but whose brains have been fried by recreational drug use, roller derby is a "sport" where teams of roller skaters fly (and that is somtimes literally the case) around an oval track. The object of the "game" as I understand it is to skate as fast as possible, while rearranging the various anatomical features of the opponents all the while. The first team to make most of their opponents look like a painting by Dali wins.
Is it me, or does someone else out there think this is a tad, uh, risky? First of all, anyone who knows anything about skating knows that the whole premise was dreamed up by someone with two basic characteristics. They were:

1. A guy.
2. Blowing somewhere between three times the maximum legal alcohol limit and dead.

A possible third characteristic may have been he was either a frat president or a phys ed major. I mean think about it. Who else would be sitting around one day, after consuming large quantities, and come up with the major brainstorm of "I know, let's put wheels on shoes and see what happens. That should be fun"!
To give you an idea of how much "fun" this roller derby stuff can be is, Mel sent me an email seeking advice. Was it "How do I get in shape for this"? Or "How do I keep my balance while some 300 pound gorilla is treating my face like her own personal game of whackamole"? No, she asks "Hey dad, do you know where I can get some disability insurance"? DISABILITY FREAKIN' INSURANCE! Are you kidding me? She's not even 30 for God's sake!
But, that is the price you pay for being a parent. You love, nurture and teach your kids not to go out and do anything stupid and the next thing you know, they're getting married. Just kidding Dave. However, this is confusing, I don't know what to say to my kids anymore. I was thinking of recommending more education to my son, but he is liable to run off and go to law school or something.
I just need some time I guess to get used to this. I got used to the kids leaving home, moving to Chicago, and to some extent, body piercing and tatoos. I want to be supportive of my children even when they decide to do things that make my own skin crawl. Like eating sushi. Anyway, be careful out there and know that your mom and I are behind you. We damn well aren't going to be participating, but we're behind you.

For anybody interested her team is the Windy City Rollers www.windycityrollers.com/league/

Love
Dad

Slow news day?

2006-12-22T11:08:00.000-05:00

Within the last couple of days I saw and heard no fewer than 17 bazillion, gazillion television news clips, newspaper articles and radio commentaries about the incident where a grandmother placed her baby grandchild on the xray conveyor belt at an airport. The articles all spoke of this incident as the child care giving skills were being eroded to such an extent that the next thing you know western civilization will have relapsed to the days when female babies were placed on ice bergs and sent to sea. I believe these sort of child care mishaps occur with much more frequency than congressman take bribes. Maybe even more often than George Bush f#$&*^s something up. By which I mean "a lot." I think this is especially true with grandparents although the parents are pretty goofy too, at times. But that doesn't warrant headlines.
I know of numerous episodes which, had they happened today, what with mass media, reality shows and Nancy Grace's big mouth, might have caused a global stir. For example, a friend of mine who I'll call Mrs. Stone, although her real name is Rose, knows firsthand the kind of errors and lapses when the senile are left to care for children. Martha, Rose's mother, who is the sweetest, kindest most caring lady you would ever want to meet was, and I'm sure Dude will back me up on this, dumb as a hoe handle when it came to childcare in her later years. On one occaision, Martha, God bless her, was sitting for Brad and Brett when the little rascals, toddlers at the time, complained of being thirsty. Kind hearted Martha proceeded to the fridge and found a couple of two litre bottles of fruit drink, which she gave to the grateful children who downed them in a flash. The rest, as they say, is history. The fruit drink, was of course, NOT fruit drink at all, but those wine coolers they used to put in big bottles. Can't you just hear Nancy Grace and Geraldo now?
CHARDON, OHIO: DASTARDLY, CHILD ABUSING GRANDMOTHER, FEEDS TODDLERS WINE COOLERS SO SHE CAN PURSUE HER OWN WILD, CAREFREE NIGHT ON THE TOWN! BLAMES AL QAEDA. Film at 11:00.
I guess in this day and age, the media must come up with anything just to fill our 24/7 need for news. But it seems they are scraping the bottom of the barrel when this kind of story is making headlines. I happen to know for a fact that when George Washington cut down the cherry tree, his own grandfather had inadvertantly supplied the axe thinking it was a baseball bat.

Love,
Dad

WWF Finds 52 new species in Borneo!

2006-12-21T15:29:00.000-05:00

Did anyone else see this headline. Was anyone else dumb enough to wonder "what in the hell is World Wrestling Federation doing in Borneo?" Let alone why is Hulk Hogan digging around in the bat crap looking for new kinds of animals. I'll bet a lot of my uh, mountain reared kinfolk were on the same wavelength.
I guess this is going to be another gripe session. I am fed up with all these initials being used to express things. It is very confusing for morons such as myself, and can cause quite a scare sometimes. I'm envisioning all these steroid abused specimans out in the wilds of Borneo. Picture Hulk Hogan holding some poor delicate little critter between his fingers in the jungle and Hogan says, "Hey look I got another that makes 53 new species." Then a squishing sound and he says, "Uh, make that 52 new species."
I'll bet I spend several waking hours every day trying to decipher initialized communications.
LOL, LMAO or WMD. The first time I saw WMD it had Bush's name throughout and I started thinking it stood for something like "Dubya flogs the dolphin every 24 hours." If you get my drift. Come to think of it, I wish it did mean that, so he couldn't cause so much damage.
Of course, I should know by now that with news papers, particularly rags like our "Newsless Herald" eventually print the whole name. Sometimes they don't, especially when the figure anyone with an IQ over 30 could figure it out. In which case about 50% of the readership is left in the dark. I did eventually discover, buried somewhere in the article that WWF stood for the World Wildlife Fund. Whew, what a relief, I was worried that a new world order was on the horizon.
Well, gotta run.
SYITFP
You figure it out.

Love
Dad

When Sandy reads this "Bob's days are numbered!"

2006-12-16T09:01:00.000-05:00

Holy crap, (homage to the late Mr. Boyle) has it been two months since my last entry? Bet everyone was hoping they'd heard the last from me. No such luck, folks. Every once in a while something happens to stir my juices. And I get "happy fingers". In a nice way, I mean. I just gotta type!
Just such an incident happened this morning when I read an opinion peace decrying and analyzing the cliche "at the end of one's rope." The person writing the article blanched at its use in describing attitudes toward Iraq. Anyway, I then read where the president of Iran, "unpronounceablename somethingorother... ajad" was quoted as saying "Israel's days are numbered."
Reading this "end of one's rope" opinion made me think about how many people throw around the phrase "so and so's days are numbered". It seems to me that whenever the phrase is used no one seems to know how many days there actually are in the "numbered".
I for one, am tired of this rampant mathmatical vagueness, as I require order and definity in my life. Stop telling me someone or something's days are numbered when you don't know how many days there are. Everyone and everythings days are numbered in some way or another. Except maybe God's. Or so I am told.
I might even tolerate a reasonable estimate in some cases. Like, "the democrat's days of ruling Congress are numbered at 730 give or take." But don't use the phrase to predict the unknowable or undoable. We all know that whenever someone uses the phrase that the speaker has virtually no idea of how many days are actually in the numbering. Or that whatever or whomever's numbered days are almost infinite. As in "the days of an Israeli-Arab conflict are numbered," or "the days of incompetence, partisanship and corruption in government are numbered."
While the tempation to use such hackneyed cliches is great, I know I for one, often would like to say "Rose's days of going nano seconds without making a cell phone call are numbered" or Cathy's days of mistaking me for a floating buoy are numbered." Then there's my favorite "the days of Bob and Sandy NOT having connubial relations are numbered." I could go on forever but I think you get the picture. Merciful, eh?
Anyway, I say "let's all get together and push for an end to the casual use of such phrases and urge the return to literalness that made this country great." There I've said it, I'm glad I said it, and if they let me go, I'll say it again.
By the way, the days of any Cleveland sports team NOT winning a major championship are numbered." So are the days of me NOT boring you with this blog.

Love
Dad

Go west, young man!

2006-10-14T10:21:00.000-04:00

It's been awhile. Guess I didn't have much too say. Sandy, who is reading this over my shoulder just collapsed to the floor laughing and gasping for air. My son, Dustin, whom I love like a son, recently migrated to southern California, where, I believe, he may be the only legal citizen there. He is following his dream of getting into the film industry by going to where the action is.
The actual move to California took place a couple of weeks ago, and we received almost daily updates via cell phone. The calls, obviously, were not placed by the children, but by their mother, whom, I think, is suffering from an industrial case of empty nest syndrome, no that one of her offspring is technically in what has to qualify as another country, if not actual planet. We as parents, got lots of valuable information should we ever decide to drive to California, in a car that is definitely bigger than abreadbox. Prior to the move, Dustin, in a rare fit of maturity (just kidding here, Dustin, don't crucify me in one of your film projects, heh, heh) purchased an environmentally friendly vehicle called I believe, a "Yaris"? The name comes from the ancient Latin phrase "Yar" which means "extremely" and "is" meaning "molecule sized vehicle." The slogan of the car which is produced by Toyota, is "the vehicle toddlers love to drive!"
My boy loaded up the Yaris with all the belongings that would fit into the car for the trip west. Those belongings consisted of essentially, a pair of sneakers, an Ipod and his cell phone. He probably could have squeezed a couple of more kleenex into the vehicle, but he had to make concessions due to the fact that he was being accompanied on his trek by his big sister and brother in law.
They traveled through Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada. Evidently this route was educationally, culturally and scenically intensive. For example, Dustin had the experience of encountering his first rattlesnake. This was, as you might imagine, a highly frightening experience for a young lad from Ohio, even thought the snake was, technically deceased. The kids finally determined this using their highly developed and college education enhanced sense of logic. They observed several key facts: First, if it was indeed a rattlesnake, why had there been no sound of rattling like they had seen on so many episodes of "Bonanza?" Second, and this is closely tied to the first, why was the reptile not actually moving? Third, and possibly the deciding observation in determining that the snake was definitely "post mortem" was the fact that it was essentially, and I am using the scientific term here, "flat as a pancake!"
Other things they learned in their travels? Well, they know where the absolute worst buffet on the planet exists, which is some casino in New Mexico. They also were able to determine, again relying upon their keen powers of observation that the Grand Canyon was a "really big hole" in the ground and that Death Valley is technically "hot".
I am sure they had many other exciting and educational experiences, however, I am afraid Sandy and I will never know, as there are still some things, no matter how old your are, you just don't tell your parents. All that aside, I must say, that I was extremely jealous of the kids adventures as I remember the 70's when everyone was going to buy a van (gas was a tad cheaper then) and drive to California and see the country. Of course, that never happened as I got out of the service, and got married, almost immediately (I knew that I had to grab Sandy quickly as I would never find another women so nearsighted or intoxicated enough to agree to marry me. Also, the sobbing helped.) and started a family. So my congratulations go out to the kids and Dave (Dave is the son in law who decided not to participate in the purchase of my Christmas present last year, but I forgive him) for having the guts to get out of their comfort zone and see something of this great country. As usual, the kids have made their folks proud.

Love,
Dad

Senior moments

2006-09-01T21:38:00.000-04:00

The other day, I had an idea to tell my brother in law that had earth shattering importance. However when I opened my mouth to speak, nothing came out. I am told these are senior moments but I never had one when I was a senior in high school, college or law school. Hard to imagine a valedictorian completely forgetting his/her train of thought from the time a thought enters the mind until the time it is expelled orally via the vocal chords. Not that I would have the foggiest idea what a valedictorian feels, or even what they are, but that's for another time.
The reason I started to write this particular entry is because I...
This is really important, and I must pass it on to my offspring...
Um, I was just thinking...ummmmmmmmmmmm...
Dammit, where the hell is my coffee cup?

Love,
Dad

Tiger in the tank?

2006-08-27T19:09:00.000-04:00

I attended my first PGA tour event this past Friday with my brother in law. It was the Bridgestone Invitational at Firestone Country Club in Akron. Brian (the brother in law) and I occaisionally play golf together. Like most Americans, my golf game, like most games I play, is best described as comic relief for any unfortunate spectators and or passers by. First of all, when I buy any kind of golf equipment, I tend to keep it in service for way longer than the manufacturer's recommendations. An example comes to mind. Surprise. Once, while on vacation in North Carolina with the OU group, we played in a little father-son outing at a local course. In the group were the same guys that went to Tahiti with me, and our sons. Before packing, I had been informed that we would be playing golf at least once so I loaded up my Bobby Jones era clubs and my Foot Joy knockoff golf shoes and brought them along on vacation. Now, I had purchased these shoes about the same time as the Kennedy administration and kept them in the gargage, dragging them out to the course a maximum of three times a summer for several decades. The rest of the time they spent their days and nights in a garage surrounded by the forests of northeast Ohio. This means that they were frequently as damp as a republican's palms.
The golf outing at Myrtle Beach started out as usual, with me spending most of my time in the various hazards and trouble spots of the course. My slogan as a golfer is "I've never met a golf ball I couldn't lose." I was the kind of golfer that played three times a year, whether I needed to or not, and then had the nerve to get frustrated and angry because I had scores in quintuple figures. I used to overheat calculators trying to keep my scores. Typically, whichever golf club I chose to use for a shot, wound up going way farther than the ball I had just hit with it. This day was no different and I entertained the other guys and the kids, especially the kids, with periodic outburst of very colorful adjectives and by demonstrating my considerable prowess in hurling golf clubs into different area codes. As if my play wasn't humorous enough, around about the 5th hole, I took a swing at a ball and noticed a strange sensation at my feet, while I actually hit the shot very well. I watched my ball soar into the air on a line directly at the pin looking almost like a shot by Jack Nicklaus. Then I looked down at my golf shoes. Remember the golf shoes. Having been imprisoned in my garage soaking up the humidity for a minimum of 15 years, these shoes decided to revolt. They revolted by actually dissolving in the middle of my swing. The stitching evaporated like a congressional budget bill, and there I was, in the middle of the 5th fairway, in my stocking feet. For my companions in the group, this was the last straw. They collapsed in varying degrees of hysterical laughter at the sight of me blowing out my golf shoes like a couple of retread tires on the highway. Craig's son Scott literally fell out of his golf cart and rolled around on the grass like he had just seen Larry, Moe and Curley for the very first time. Have you ever tried to hit a golf ball in your stocking feet?
What does this have to do with going to the Bridgestone Invitational golf tournament? I'm coming to that. My brother in law has a crush on Tiger Woods like a little schoolgirl. He is not alone. Millions of fans, many of them golf fans, swarmed around Woods like he was a Beatles concert. Brian insisted we follow him around the course, never mind that all of the other great golfers on tour were there, they might as well have been invisible. "Why don't go over there and watch Michelson or Cink or Singh? They're pretty good players."
"Are you kidding," Brian replied, incredulous at such a suggestion, "Tiger is the greatest golfer of all time." So we trudged along to various greens, fairways and tee boxes to catch Tiger scratching his nose, sipping his bottle of whatever or polishing his Buick keys. For over 5 hours we chased Tiger along with the population of several Asian countries.
Finally, I stopped begging Brian to go see some other players, especially since he wore me down by getting me free hot dogs and beer at some hospitality tent. We finally went to the last green that Tiger was going to be playing that day, primarily to see if we could see him make a birdie, because he had birdied every hole in history, except the 7 or 8 holes we saw him on that day. Anyway, we managed to fight our way to the restraining rope by the last green, primarily by saying very loudly, "Hey, Tiger's going into that portajohn over there." It was like Moses parting the Red Sea and we snuck to the front of several gazillion other fans acting like, "Who said that?"
Evidently Tiger's first shot on that hole was a little bit in the rough on our side of the hole as we had absolutely no way of seeing him hit his second shot for the humanity surrounding him. "Greatest golfer of all time," Brian fawned every few seconds. Anyway, something happened because even though we couldn't see him, there were ooohs and aaahs from thousands of spectators and everyone's head turned toward the green like a wave coming ashore. Everyone peered intently at the green and flagstick waiting for Tiger's ball to alight and give the throngs a reason to erupt in cheers. Not that they needed a reason. I think he could have drawn cheers with a well placed fart with this bunch. Anyway, we watched and waited. And waited. And waited and much to the crowd's disbelief the ball never came down. "My God, we thought, he pulverized the ball into oblivion."
Wrong! It seems the "greatest golfer of all time" had done what countless millions of duffers before him had done. He hit the ball about 100 yards over the green, beyond the rough, the gallery, grandstands and onto the roof of the clubhouse. Nobody knew what to do. Stunned whispers at this amazing development sprinkled throughout the multitudes. The officials, clearly at a loss, debated a ruling for about three days, before they decided Tiger would have to drop his ball about 6 times zones away and hit his shot. I am not making this part up, but it took so long to find his ball and decide what to do, that they had to let a group play through. This has never happened before to my knowledge.
Anyway, Tiger dropped his ball and had the ignominious distinction of hitting a ball while standing next to a portajohn. I felt vindicated and less inadequate at this development. How the mighty had fallen. Tiger promptly put the shot on the green and saved a bogey. I'm not sure how he could have done that, with all the distractions and other crap around, (pun intended) but evidently, Tiger is the "greatest golfer of all time."
I am writing this having just watched the final round of the tournament on TV and guess who won? Bob Hope. Just kidding, Tiger won about a four hole playoff when he could have collapsed several times. But you know what I think? I'll bet Tiger couldn't play a round with no shoes on!

Love
Dad

Bats in my belfry

2006-08-22T08:53:00.000-04:00

"Let's move to the woods," she said.
"It will look like a postcard in the winter," she said.
That was the logic behind my wife's desire to move to Concord Twp., Ohio, an up and coming Cleveland suburb who's motto is "Leave no acre of land unsubdivided." I mention this because as our township's housing expands exponentially, living space for most of God's other creatures decreases likewise. When that happens, they look for other places to dwell and/or snack. Evidently, our house has become known in the animal kingdom as "Bob's Diner."
Especially for bats. Not the Louisville Slugger type, but the rodents with wings type. Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against rodents that a little nuclear bomb couldn't take care of, but as of late, these creatures have taken a perverse liking to our home. Over the last year we have had several of these things get into the house and fly around making Sandy and I and occaisionally my daughter, well, idiots. I know for Sandy and myself it's not a long trip.
Most of the time it is usually just one bat at a time, but we did have a rodental honeymoon couple visit us for a couple of days, as evidently, Niagara Falls was closed.
Since moving here, we have always had the occaisional visit from squirrels, chipmunks, field mice and the odd snake here and there. That's to be expected, we live in the woods for crying out loud. But bats give me the creeps more than watching Nancy Grace on TV.
Here is the typical scenario. I will be sitting in the living room watching a ballgame or enjoying a periodical and I will become aware, not by noise, but by peripheral vision, that I am not alone. Sandy is almost always in bed when this happens, so I figure either she has sprouted wings or there is a bird in the house. Birds in the house would be a treat. At least they make noise when they are around so you know what in the hell they are. Bats, on the other hand, are silent, stealthy creatures that you don't know are there until they cause serious cardiac arrest. Sandy, having heard me say a very bad word, indeed, will venture out of the bedroom to see "What is it this time?" I will tell her about the bat, or she will see it fluttering around like a giant moth, and she will scream like George Bush being told Bill Clinton is his daddy, turn around and flee back to the bedroom, close the door and tell me to get it out of the house.
I don't know when I became the official critter remover in our home, but sometimes it is best not to ask these questions but to act. And act I do. I proceed to do my best Groucho Marx walk, scurrying around trying to open doors and windows thinking this little creature, with a brain the size of a congressman, will get the idea he's not welcome and go voluntarily out of the house. You look like Groucho walking because bats do not fly so much as dive bomb. It can be quite a vision, a fat little bald guy, crouched over scurrying around trying to find a net, sheet, towel or any damn thing that I can catch Dracula in, and get him the hell out of here! Sandy, ever helpful, can be heard upstairs behind closed doors yelling, every two seconds, "Is he gone yet?" Meanwhile my dog, Ginger, has by now gone into full "there is something going on here" mode, and reacts the way she always reacts, by barking her brains out. I like to think Ginger is a smarter dog than most. She isn't. When she finally sees the bat, kamakazeing around the living room, she somehow thinks the helpful thing to do will be to try and jump up and catch it.
Invariably, the pandemonium dies out, the bat gets tired of laughing its fool head off at us, usually lands on the window blinds and takes a nap, making it a little easier to put a towel or something on it and shooing it outside. Crisis over for the time being.
So kiddies, if you're ever thinking of moving to the country, remember, God gave every silver lining a dark cloud. Gotta run, I heard there's a Bela Lugosi film tribute on TV.

Love
Dad

You call this poker?

2006-07-15T10:31:00.000-04:00

Recently I decided to try my “hand” at online poker. Get it? “Hand”, “Poker”? What a riot, eh? Yeah I know, keep my day job. Anyway, I decided to see what all the hubbub was about playing poker on the internet. It has evidently become quite the rage to play something called “Texas Hold’em” in cyberspace. Now, I don’t want to sound like I’m just another old fogy decrying the loss of the good old days, but online poker just plain sucks. Really. Playing online poker is only slightly less boring and annoying than watching poker on TV. The reason I say this is that all the key elements of a really good poker game are lacking in online poker. Poker is a great American institution. I’m not talking about the industrialized version of poker played in Vegas, but the game played at the kitchen table with friends and/or family. Or in the back rooms of clubs, bars, military bases or, in my case, the high school library. No lie.
The poker games I remember, were as a child watching my parents, aunts, uncles and sundry other shady characters with funny names like “Mistersippi” or “Snake” to name a couple play. My family was evidently quite liberated as they didn't care whether you were male or female, they took anyone's money. I also remember playing with friends in the basement using matchsticks or toothpicks, or if we really wanted to be adventurous, pennies. All of the social nuances of those intimate games are missing in the cold, sterile world of cyberspace. You don't even hold your cards. I can't trust a game where I can't hold my cards.
As I child, I remember getting a thrill whenever I heard that we were “having some people over” which frequently meant a game of cards sometime during the visit. Cards meant poker and I was fascinated by the game and social setting. I learned the rules and strategies of five card stud, seven card stud and draw poker in my formative years, either standing at the white, Formica kitchen table or, if I was lucky, and this would thrill me beyond belief, I was told by somebody at the game to “watch my hand” while that player went to the bathroom. This occurred quite a bit as the beverage of choice at most of these games was a concoction called “Rolling Rock” which was ostensibly beer. When I became old enough, my refined pallet required a more sophisticated brew, “Stroh’s”. Anyway, if I was lucky during these episodes I might even get to “call” someone’s bet. This was invariably followed by the player returning to his cards and exclaiming “Why the hell are you calling with this crap?” Since the bets were usually nickels and dimes, or on the rare occasions where someone had four of a kind or better, a quarter, these complaints were just good natured kidding, usually followed by the tousling of my hair. The only exception to those bet limits occured at the end of the game when there would be a few games of "buck showdown". Everyone threw in a dollar and there was no other betting, the winner determined by the best hand in five cards all turned up. Ah, the simplicity.
As my education progressed I learned the more exotic games of “Red Dog” and “Acey Duecy” a particularly insidious game in which a person’s entire stake could be wiped out on the turn of a single card. I know this from painful personal experience. I also learned the poker style of “baseball” a more complicated and intellectual game which had a day and night versions determined by whether the cards were dealt face up or down during the deal and various wild cards determined by such things as the position of the stars.
Anyway, I learned all the intricacies of the game at these sessions, but more than that I saw an interaction of my family that rarely occurred outside of these gatherings. It seemed more like the family gatherings I saw on television. During these games I was always fascinated by my “Uncle Coy” who is one of my more colorful relatives. He always called me “perfessor” because I was evidently the first child in the family to wear glasses, and he spoke the lingo that let one know that here was a real expert in the mysterious world of poker. Whenever he was dealing and playing a game where he was turning cards face up during the deal, he used words like, “cowboy”, “trey”, “bullet” and my personal favorite when somebody got a “jackson” or a “lady”. I thought I would bust a gut whenever Coy said “Ante up and you won’t have so much” to some recalcitrant relative intent on idle chitchat rather than focusing on the matter at hand.
Of course, this is missing in the internet version of poker. In the online world of poker any banter that occurs is usually something like “are there any girls here?” or “do you have any pics of yourself?” As my father used to say, “ssshhhheeeeeeiiiiiiiitttttt”.
During these games I learned more family gossip than I could ever hear anywhere else and sometimes, more than I really wanted to know. This early exposure to poker fostered my continued interest as I got older. And of course it became a very important part of my adolescence. Not as important as girls, but right up there.
My friends and I would literally play anytime and anyplace. At someone’s house when the parents were gone, or sometimes when the parents were there. Some of the more disreputable parents were more than happy to sit in and fleece us neophytes. We played in clearings behind our favorite hangout, the Willo Plaza, which, like my hairline, no longer exists.
One particularly close knit clique I was associated with even had a running game in the library of Willoughby South High School. This was a dicey proposition, as discovery of such shenanigans would almost certainly lead to a trip to Mr. Weiss’ the assistant principal’s office. By the way they had a disciplinary procedure in those days that called swats and Mr. Weiss had a paddle the size of Massachusetts. Our appeals process was limited to “Oh my God, that hurts!” It was really a better way, because it would be over quickly, and we could get on with our game.
This game drove the librarian, Mrs. Keesecker up a wall. We developed ways of secreting our games by holding poker hands inside of books while pretending to be reading and devising an intricate set of hand signals so we wouldn’t give ourselves away by orally stating our bets. She was of course, on to us from day one, but she could never catch us in the act. She even employed various assistants and moles to try and uncover our little operation, but she almost always failed. One day, despite our best efforts, Mrs. Keesecker was on to us, and captured the object of our vice our well worn deck of cards. But she was a kindly lady, behind that stern librarian exterior because she had pity on our wayward souls and didn’t send us off to Mr. Weiss’ chamber of horrors. We gave up the game at that point. We may have been stupid but we were pretty good with odds.
My advice is that if you really want to experience poker, get some friends or family together, open a few brewskis and get down to a good old fashioned social and friendly game of poker. Just keep an eye out for the cops and Mrs. Keesecker.

Love
Dad

SCUBA certification/Are we having fun yet?

2006-07-10T08:49:00.001-04:00

I know that my faithful family and friends had absolutely no doubt that I would pass my open water dive requirement for SCUBA certification. To eliminate any suspense, I can tell you that I made it with "submerged" colors (pun intended). The dives took place at the lovely diving resort called "White Star Quarry" located in beautiful and convenient Gibsonburg, Ohio (Town Motto: Even we don't know where the hell we are!). The drive to the quarry is roughly equivalent to driving through the Bonneville Salt Flats, but with less scenery and about as many hills. To be fair, my friend Mike warned me about the intercontinental trek I was in store for, but you have to experience to believe it. I swear it is so flat that you could roll a quarter around Vermilion and it would meet up with you in Gibsonburg.
After the very long drive you arrive at the quarry ready and raring to go diving. Here is where another of Mike's warnings came into play. He told me to be prepared to wait alot for your dives. I thought he was merely exaggerating when he told me this. Turns out it was an understatement. I got up on Saturday morning "before sparrows fart" (I guess that's old English countryside for "real frickin' early", made the 6 day 13 hour drive to the quarry for a 9:30 a.m. "dive", and finally entered the water well after lunchtime. Pacific time zone.
Anyway, I put the word "dive" in quotes for the simple reason that I would have to characterize the first adventure not so much a "dive" as a "plummet". This was due to the fact that the weight belt I was given to make sure I stayed buoyant, was measured in tonnage. Needless to say it took me awhile to adjust my buoyancy. The weight belt was incredible because I swear, that after the day of diving I had "phantom" sensations on my hips for several hours after, much the same as an amputee has phantom sensation in lost limbs. I remember thinking that I had the belt on, as I was driving home!
As usual, I was struggling with my equipment from the git-go. Since I bought fins designed for tropical diving, i.e., without boots, I walked across the park to the diver's entry in the quarry, wearing a furnace called a wet suit, weight belt and a gazillion pound air tank (they were out of the regular size tank, surprise, surprise), barefoot. A northern Ohio quarry's waterfront could not exactly be described as "sand". Jagged, razor sharp, gravel is a better description. It must have been a sight to behold for the other divers watching this bowling ball with SCUBA gear making his way to the water, as what must surely have looked like a Hindu firewalker trying to walk on flaming coals while on his back he is carrying an elephant.
Anyway the first three dives were primarily gear intensive tasks like replacing the mouthpiece should it fall out, and emergency ascents should you ever run out of air underwater. You know, unimportant stuff like that. I don't want to say I had some difficulty but the instructor was yelling my name so much that by the second day's dives I would get in the water and total strangers training there would see me getting in and say "You must be Bob".
I managed to get all the required skills down, finally, and I was just beginning to wonder why I ever came up with this particular deathwish, when the instructor took us on a ten minute swim near the bottom of the quarry. I must say that with nothing more to worry about the experience was quite fascinating. I know that northern bluegill is not exactly the clownfish you see in the ocean but it was a thrill to be able to reach out and practically touch them. I guess you can touch them if you have bits of hotdog to feed them, but I didn't do that.
All things considered, you get a sense of accomplishment at being able do the skills required, and the older I get, that means more and more.
One last thing, I bought a pair of dive gloves because it was "strongly recommended" on the predive checklist, from Tom the local SCUBA pusher in Willoughby. Tom's the kind of guy who thinks an "economical" diving equipment package costs about as much as Peru's gross national product. Of course, once I got to the quarry the instructor said I didn't need them. Likewise, of course, I proceeded to get my only injury of the weekend when I cut my finger on a zebra muscle attached to the bottom of the instruction platform. It's a curious sensation to watch blood coming out of a cut underwater. It looks kind of smoky as it drifts and mixes in with the water. So kiddies, if you take up diving make sure you wear those gloves. I say this because, while bluegills food of choice may be hotdogs, they seemed to be a little more attracted to me after I cut my finger. Good thing it wasn't sharks.

Love
Dad

Day of whine and Rose's new beau

2006-07-03T16:29:00.000-04:00

Today's post is mainly a public service announcement stressing the dangers of imbibing and the resulting tragedy of beer goggle induced lust. Yes kiddies, as we age several of my generation make the mistake of thinking they can find love at the end of a beer bottle, or in this case, what must have been many, many beer bottles. I speak of none other than our beloved Rose. She was not the one that donned the beer goggles this past weekend, but fell victim to their treacherous ability to make otherwise normal rational and ugly people think they have managed to acquire the sexual attractiveness of Tom Cruise. To be fair, Rose did kind of ask for it, in that she was wearing a slinky outfit with all the provocative allure of a burqa. That together with dancing suggestively to the strains of 70's rock and roll (performed by the latest rock and roll sensations "Past 40") shaking her girlish booty with Sandy, Cindy and numerous other babes would be enough to make any man's testosterone boil. That is if they have any testosterone.
So it was inevitable when some poor soul, waiting until Mike had departed the area, hiked up his belt, drank the last drop of his 47th Bud Light, wiped his mouth on his baby blue wife beater and swagger-staggered over to Rose to pounce. Rose of course, politely declined the man's offer to clean her underwear with his tongue, and the jilted suitor made his way back to the bar, defeated but undaunted. When last seen he was proposing a menage a trois with one of the waitresses and a sea gull. When Mike returned, he took the news of his rivals advances surprisingly well. He just shrugged and told Rose "I get half of any "fee" you get."
Another high point this past weekend when we, being gluttons for punishment, went over to Rose and Mikes to have a cookout with them and the Bernardos the following day. As usual we covered a wide range of important topics in our discussions and found solutions to all the world's problems, well at least Rose did. Anyway, my wife has a pecular little malady that I had not been aware of these past 30 odd years. For some reason she blurts the names of random condiments at inexplicable times. Its true, I think it is some form or variation of Tourettes which I think she may have acquired at her job while spending way too much time with toddlers. I still love her disconcerting as this may be.
MUSTARD!

Love
Dad

Just call me Lloyd Bridges...or not!

2006-06-19T22:12:00.002-04:00

I hate to blow my own horn, but I managed to pass the basic scuba course this past weekend. It was pretty touch and go with the 200 yard swim, me not being in exactly boot camp shape. I did it with an olympian qualifying time of about 24 hours and 20 minutes. My instructor was a little sarcastic, saying it was the first time the swim had to be timed in light years. But I did make it. The underwater stuff started on Saturday, and consisted of several skills designed to keep the foolhardy from trying anything as stupid as breathing underwater. Strangely enough, the main skill, breathing, I was very good with. For some reason, breath is important to me. Call me old fashioned.
One of my other "issues" was buoyancy. Evidently, divers are not supposed to crawl along the bottom or float around at the top. The way it was explained to me, the idea is to float along above the bottom but not go to the top. This is harder than you would think. At least it was for me. I guess buoyancy is God's way of saying, "you moron, I made FISH to breathe underwater. If I wanted you to do it, I would have given you gills!" Because of the natural tendency for human beings to float, my wife Sandy being the only exception, a diver needs to add weight to himself or herself to stay underwater with an air tank and a vest that has a bladder that gets filled with air from the tank so as to offset the weight a little bit. Seems kind of stupid doesn't it? That's what I thought.
Anyway you need to tinker with the weights worn on a belt, your natural buoyancy, and that provided by the air tank by using the bladder, inside a vest, that you add to and remove air until you have it just right. That is you hang kind of suspended above the floor but below the surface. This is where I had trouble. Those of you that know my technical skills can understand why I either sank to the bottom like a major boulder or, did my own impersonation of a champagne cork on New Year's Eve.
Most of the various other skill tasks I managed to handle pretty well. However, one word of warning for anyone thinking of taking up scuba. The equipment weighs a ton, maybe two. You really notice it when you come out of the water the first time after having spent about an hour underwater, where it feels like nothing, and trying to not topple over like you've been shot.
I guess the advice is that you youngsters better do the physical stuff now. When you wait until your later years, whenever you do something slightly strenuous you have serious aches and pains for several days. Anyway, gotta run, and see if we have any 5 pound tylenol laying around the house.

Love,
Dad

News on the rabbit front

2006-06-10T11:23:00.000-04:00

I guess I'll never make it as a vet. After about 2 hours on a heating pad, the bunny was up and running around like lobbyist at a congressional convention. Rescue person said to let it loose in area with cover so after considering alternatives decided to release it in ivy behind our house. That deceision came after I saw what must have been a litter mate playing in the back yard. Anyway, Sandy, who gave it a few drops of cream just to be on the safe side, released it in the ivy and it could be seen checking out the back yard on the fringe of the ivy, along with his mate scurrying around checking things out. Just for icing on the cake, I saw the mother rabbit, I assume anyway, also in the back yard around sundown checking things out. So looks like all's well in bunny land. Could be a kiddie book in there somewhere.

Is it semi or bi?

2006-06-09T16:03:00.000-04:00

I had my semi annual or bi annual trip to the doctor Monday. I can never get that straight. I go every six months or there abouts. This past trip was particularly important as it was the last chance for Dr. Mike to get me out of SCUBA classes. No such luck. I am not exactly fit as a fiddle, but maybe as fit as a fiddle that weighs as much as Nebraska.
Anyway, my cholesterol is great, which shows you what better living through chemistry can do these days. I take a Vytorin the size of a basketball so I should be pretty good in the cholesterol department. Blood pressure is under control as well. Everyday my breakfast is cholesterol and blood pressure meds over easy. I guess I'm paying the piper for my past life as a pork chop tester for Hormel.
The one thing that I didn't have done this trip, thank God, is the old prostate exam. We all know the horror stories so I won't go into that. However, my sphincter just tightened up like it had a lemon inside, just thinking about it. Since I have that done in December, I guess it is Dr. Mike's xmas present for me. I'd prefer a tie.
I'm not sure why the medical profession is so concerned about that one area of my body all of a sudden, but I also found out I'm overdue for my 5,000 mile colonoscopy. Oh joy.
Let's get that subject, er, behind us (Ugh).
I think in my last post I mentioned what a sucker for animals I am. Well, I think it has become all out psychosis. My dog, that I used to like, evidently found a rabbit nest somewhere in our backyard and decided to bring a baby rabbit home as her own little pet. Mind you, I'm not sure whether she thought she should eat it or play with it, but fortunately (I guess it depends on your point of view) she just kind of played with it. I thought sure it was dead when I went out to pick it up with my trusty shovel and hoe, but to my surprise it was still alive. It isn't at all well, but it was alive. I figured it would be a goner by morning and I could pitch it.
No such luck, it was curled up in a ball about the size of a golf ball in the lawn, and still kicking. So I called a rescue person I found on the internet and she gave me the grim news about its chances for survival, and said many times blue jays and crows pick up baby rabbits and carry them from the nests. Sons a bitches!
So now I am trying to nurse a rabbit about a week or two old back to health so I can set it loose in the woods where it will probably get eaten by a damn coyote, bear or alligator. Why me, oh Lord. Those of you that know me know that I handle disappointment about as well as George Bush handles the government. So I will keep you informed on the status of Bugs Bunny and my mental health in general. If this keeps up I will have to add Valium to my breakfast cereal. By the way, I think I get this condition of being a sucker for animals from my kids. It is, I believe, genetic?
Love
Dad

It's a dog's life...

2006-05-30T17:50:00.000-04:00

No doubt about it, I am a sucker for dogs. Cats too. Horses, cows, come to think of it, I am pretty much at the mercy of the entire animal kingdom. This is why I am not allowed to go to the dog pound, humane society, or republican fundraisers. Animals must have some kind of communications system which far surpasses anything AT&T could put together. Come to think of it, a couple of tin cans and string surpasses anything AT&T could put together, but that may be a topic for another day. We babysat my sister's dog this past holiday weekend while she visited the rest of our relatives from the hills of Virginia. Talk about a topic for another day...
We have our own dog and we take turns caring for each others dogs whenever we go on any overnight trip, which is easy on the pocketbook, and great for our dogs. They like staying in kennels as much as I like watching Nancy Grace (just curious, but does she give anyone else an industrial strength case of the creeps, or is it just me?).
Ginger, that's our dog, and Elvis, my sister's dog, get along great. But Ginger tells Elvis and any other dog she comes into contact with, either with telepathy of very expressive dog pee, that I am the one in this house that is the soft touch. Same thing with my daughter's dogs. She has two rescue dogs, and whenever I visit, you'd think I was the bacon man. I'm sure that this vicious rumor about my being easy comes from Ginger. She has just been using me for people food for years.
My sister and my daughter both swear that "WE NEVER FEED OUR DOG(S) TABLE SCRAPS". However, let me even think about going to the fridge for anything and those dogs beat me there, promptly plant themselves at my feet with big doe eyes and a look that says "Oh please, please, please give me a bite of whatever you have. I know it could be aardvark droppings, but if you're eating it, I must have some or I will surely die! Oh please, please, please, please, PRETTY PLEASE!"
Of course, I always give in and then hear the following from the owners. "How come my dog always begs when he (she) comes home from your place?" And I always swear that Sandy was the one feeding them junk food. Somehow, they always know I'm lying.
Actually the dogs have foolishly tried to beg snacks from Sandy but she ruthlessly wolfs down every bite and then gleefully shows the dogs her empty plate or hand, and cackles "All gone." This is exactly what she used to do to me when I would beg for conubibal relations, if you get my drift. The dogs learned much quicker than I that big eyes, a sorrowful look and pitiful whimpering gets you no where with Sandy.
I am not sure that I have any real advice for the kids on this topic, unless it is don't let your pets get the upper hand, and don't, whatever you do, let my dog chat with any spiders.
Awww, look at those cute 8 eyes. Isn't it sweet?

Love
Dad

Send in the clowns

2006-05-23T14:57:00.000-04:00

This past weekend my wife and I made another in a series of jaunts to Chicago to attend my daughter's graduation (did I mention she became a PhD?), visit with both our children and to add severe poundage to my already sizeable, and I do mean sizeable, girth. These trips invariably consist of too much food, drink and Sandy and I being ridiculed by our kids. I am not quite sure why that is, but my guess is that it is due to a lack of discipline and respect. I doubt the Soprano and Gotti kids mock their parents with the reckless abandon of our children. Not to their faces anyway. I blame myself, as I was much too lenient in their upbringing.
It can tend to get annoying, especially when you are engaged in such side splitting activities as eating, sleeping, driving or breathing. The only possible exception to this ability to send our children into gales of laughter happens, as every parent knows, when the offspring need money and/or a vehicle. Sandy and I are constantly puzzled by our incredible ability to evoke our children's laughter, at such things as ordering a meal in a restaurant.
"I'll have the cheeseburger"
Roars of laughter, followed by a nearly fatal choking on their glass of water.
I guess it's not so much what you say as how you say it.
I fully expect this reaction at my funeral. The kids will come to the funeral home, Dustin will say "Get a load of that urn!" and he and Melanie will have to be taken to the emergency room.
It has gotten to the point where they now influence non blood relatives to do the same. My son in law David, the young man who so impressed me by coming to my home to ask for my daughter's hand in marriage (As I understand it, this is as rare as finding a congressman that is not taking bribes), now literally begs for mercy within 10 minutes of our arrival.
I am just wondering at what point the laughter will cease. My guess is about the second time they have to change one of OUR diapers. What goes around does come around.

Love
Dad

Houston we have a Doctor

2006-05-16T21:40:00.000-04:00

This past week my daughter became a PhD. That's right, a Ph friggin' D. Alright, this is too much. Last month she was tricycling like a banshee around Jordan Drive. A couple of weeks ago, she was playing a munchkin in the Willoughby Fine Arts production of the Wizard of Oz. Last week she was posting "No Trespassing" signs on her bedroom door, harassing the hell out of her little brother, and scaring the hell out of her mother and me, learning to drive. I swear to God it was just a few days ago she was a pirate from Penzance and graduating from Riverside High School. She just got married yesterday, for cryin' out loud. Where did it go. Time is supposed to be sands in an hour glass, not water over Niagara Falls!
Today she is Dr. LaForce. DOCTOR! This is just nuts. Our Melanie. "The Goose", is a doctor. I find little comfort in the fact that every parent, with the possible exception of Mrs. Hitler and Barbara Bush, has felt this swelling of pride and then the poignancy of that pride being gnawed at by the concrete realization that a crapload of time has gone by in the blink of an eye. And our kids don't stop. Every time we turn it around it's "someone graduated" here, someone "got married" there, someone "got an award" for this, someone "won the Nobel Prize" for that. OK, let's not get hysterical here.
My point is that these kids were supposed to stop costing us so much money, but we're always celebrating something or other. If they don't knock it off, we are going to go broke just in "congratulations" cards. And of course, it's not just our kids, it's all of our friends kids. I guess I shouldn't gripe. At least none of them have gone into social work.
I just hope they're takin' care of those gums.
From all us parents to all you kids, Thanks.

Love
Mom and Dad

Is it trust, stupidity or Memorex? Only her hairdresser knows for sure!

2006-05-11T11:20:00.000-04:00

Some people say that we get wiser as we get older. These people also said, the Titanic was unsinkable, a team from Cleveland will someday win a championship and that George W. Bush would make a great president. They chronically get it wrong. I know, I am their leader. My point here is, people actually do NOT get smarter as they get older, they don't learn from their mistakes nor do they mellow with age. In fact, a person's crankiness ratio is directly proportionate to their proximity to the grim reaper. Can you blame them?
As to the first point on wisdom increasing hit me like a ton of bricks the other day when Sandy, she's my wife, was eating something or other that had been in the fridge since the Kennedy administration. I'm not sure whether this is a gender based thing or not, I doubt it. Anyway, Sandy took a sniff of the mysterious substance, crinkled her nose and tasted about three molecules of the stuff.
"This stuff tastes like dog caca!" (She didn't really say caca, but this may be a family blog, don't laugh, it could happen.) Anyway after she said "This stuff tastes like dog caca!" She pushed it toward me and followed up with "You taste it and tell me what you think." Now, I can tell you that at an earlier age I might have responded as my kids would respond. Gales of laughter followed by gasps for breath and an immediate phone call to all their friends to say "Guess what my moron parent just said..." If we were in fact, intelligent older adults we would in fact respond the same way.
But as we get older common sense goes out the window. I didn't stop to ask myself "How can my wife be an expert on the taste of dog caca?" No, I responded the way anyone else that his been married since the Ice Age would. "Sure, I'll try it," I said.
Now how stupid is that, but I know that anyone over 50 faced with a similar situation has done the same thing. Melanie and Dustin may be convinced it can't happen to them, but as I mentioned in a previous post "the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree." We are genetically doomed to become blithering idiots. By the way, the cliche' is supposed to be "the APPLE doesn't fall far from the tree" but as with all things these days, those things get a tad fuzzy.
Gotta run now, I'm feeling a bit peckish.

Love
Dad

SCUBA, God and redundancy.

2006-05-03T10:41:00.001-04:00

This week I signed up for a SCUBA diving class. My wife, some college friends and I are going to Tahiti this summer and I thought it would be a good idea to learn so that we could do something adventurous on the trip. In my normal line of thinking being adventurous on a beach vacation would be trying the free range chicken as opposed to the regular kind at a dinner out. Adventure is not exactly my middle name, so I dodged and procrastinated for about as long as I possibly could before signing up for the class. Anyway, this past week I decided to go for it, damn the torpedoes, go for the gusto and all that rot.
No sooner had I made this decision, did I read in the local paper about a 60 year old guy (obviously light years older than me) that evidently decided to try something adventurous. This fellow chose to try hang gliding. On his maiden attempt he came back, uh, how should I say, er, in a word, DEAD. This got me to thinking that maybe God was trying to tell me something. My normal reaction to God's messages is "What? I can't hear you!" Anyway, I got to thinking of all the prior messages I had been sent and ignored and I had a real crisis of faith. OK, so it has been building for awhile.
I know God exists (his existence was confirmed in a wrestling match on Monty Python). But lately, I have been having doubts about the goodness and loving nature of God. I mean if God really loves us why did he create death, disease, pestilence, and lawyers? Wait, that's redundant. But you get my drift, right? I mean it seems to me, that the God Pat Robertson, Joel Osteen and Jerry Falwel preach about would not have made our existence a "hell on earth" just because SOMEBODY A LONG TIME AGO, SNACKED ON A DAMN APPLE (not that I'm bitter).
I mean wasn't God's reaction a tad harsh? Oh sure, I know God also gave us love, music (with the exception of anything by Neil Diamond), beautiful natural scenery, Catherine Zeta Jones (there I go getting redundant again) and lots of other neato stuff, but why all the bad. Pain, suffering and republicans just to name the obvious. (For all you Neil Diamond fans I know it's alright for me to slam God but that hitting Neil is just too much. So please don't send me any angry missives, I am just stating my opinion. It's a free country despite what the Bush administration says.)
We Christians believe that God has a plan and that everything happens for a reason. Of course we only say that in the face of grief, disaster or a really lousy Tom Cruise flick. I know, redundant.
My point here is why shouldn't I be able to just enjoy signing up for a simple class without constant reminders that I might get very sick or possibly even die. These risks are clearly spelled out in the application to sign up for the class. The application requires a doctor's consent if you have ever had virtually any malady known to man, with the possible exception of being an insurance salesman. Somebody please tell me why God created "the bends". My guess is he is still ticked off about what we have done to everything else he created and doesn't want to see McDonald's billboards next to the wreck of the Titanic.
I guess there are no real answers to these profound issues, and I'm not really sure why I brought them up, but advice to the kids... if you are going to do something adventurous don't wait until you have one foot on a banana peel and the other in a bingo tournament.

Love,
Dad

Acorns and toilet paper don't fall far from the tree!

2006-04-26T17:06:00.000-04:00

Following my first post, I received and email from an old (make that childhood) friend suggesting that I should post something about how we grow up to become our parents. This phenomenon is, as she put it, scary. I couldn't agree more. To save my friend from any embarassment for having communicated an idea to a known psychopath such as myself, I will call her simply, C.B. (Although, her real name is Cindy Bernardo).
Anyway, I couldn't agree with her more. Let's start with food. I remember watching my father relish a breakfast concoction that looked to me to have originally been intended for patching holes in drywall. It was something called "sausage gravy" and I remember watching him eat it like someone might watch a person downing bugs, worms or some other equally disgusting substance. Both parents enjoyed my obvious discomfort by suggesting repeatedly that I "try some". In today's world this is probably tantamount to child abuse, and I swore that I would never, in a million years, even if subjected to oriental bamboo shoot fingernail torture, taste that disgusting mass of flour, water, sausage grease and Lord knows what else. Yeecchhh.
Well now, I can't get enough of the stuff. I tinker with the spices and when I eat it, you would think I was partaking of the nectar of the gods. I remember a similar reaction from my kids as the one I had as a child. Dustin can appreciate this because he has since started to take to it as well. Melanie is safe, as she is a vegetarian. Anyway, this is another warning particularly to Dustin. If you want to be like me, and have your cholesterol measured in the thousands, keep it up.
Another measure of this tendency to become our parents is demonstrated by our relationship with inanimate objects. I remember my dad spending hours of futile toil trying to make various mechanical devices in our house perform the function for which they were manufactured. Invariably, any labor saving appliance we purchased, if it were new, would do what it was supposed to for approximately one week. At which point it functioned at about 1/4 of its intended capacity (about the same as a congressman) or ceased to operate altogether (about the same as Bush). If it were second hand, as was the case with most of our purchases, it did what it was supposed to, until it hit our residence. Then it just died.
My dad, either out of an abundance of thriftiness, or gluttony for punishment would procede to do what he liked to call "tinker". Trying this and that to get this contraption to work as it was supposed to. Frankly, it never happened, and the device which held such high hopes at the time of purchase operated at half capacity, worked once in awhile (no one knew when or why this would happen, but it did) or it just became another useless pile of debris that eventually found its way to the curb for the Monday morning trash pickups. I think my siblings will back me up on this, but we had many appliances around our house that came in with a power cord and by the time my dad was done "tinkering" it had more things attached to it than an octopus.
This knack for being at war with all things mechanical, has of course been inherited by me. One of my biggest regrets in life, is the fact that I never learned to just call a repairman when something went on the fritz, rather than attempt to fix it, teach my children a whole new language (which, of course can't be repeated in mixed company) and make things infinitely worse. My current biggest nemesis is, of course, my computer. I know rationally that it is just a pile of parts that should consistently perform mechanical computing functions without ill will or malice toward it's owner. Don't make me laugh, this thing has a malevolent soul that makes satan seem like Mr. Rogers.
All of this gets me, finally, to where I was going with this. After my father died we cleaned out his house. It seems that in later years he became obsessed with toilet paper. We found packages of it everywhere. He had either become convinced that it would become the next "gold" or that in a nuclear holocaust we would all have to revert to what the used in the hills when he was growing up. It was then that I knew the real reason my dad left Appalachia. It wasn't for economic gain, or big city life. He moved north on a quest for Charmin. This is perhaps the scariest part of this whole phenomenon. Not only do I now fear that I will someday become a TP hoarder, but that it will somehow have been irrevocably passed genetically to my offspring. Kids, I'm sorry, but I didn't mean to do it.
If anyone has any comments on this topic, you should be able to post them using the link at the bottom of the page.
I think I'll end now, all of a sudden I have to go to the bathroom.

Love,
Dad

Secretarian violence in Iraq

2006-04-25T10:06:00.000-04:00

I don't know how long this thing will last, but I decided that I have to warn my kids, at the very least, of the dangers of getting older. I tried to warn them to stay away from drugs, alcohol and republicans, all of the usual things that keep parents awake at night. The most insidious danger out there however, is getting older (saying "getting older" rather than "old" implies that you haven't reached that state yet, in other words, rationalization).
I reached this conclusion as a result of ever increasing occurrences of hearing things incorrectly. I used to laugh at these situations when they happened to other people. Someone on TV says something like "there has been a sharp increase in the instances of sectarian violence in Iraq."
I immediately envision an office in Baghdad with burqaed secretaries in a steno pool with uzi's and lots of bloodshed. I remark about this to my wife and she just sighs and shakes her head "He said 'SECTARIAN' not 'SECRETARIAN' violence, you deaf moron." I find my wife's tolerance for me dipping about as much and as quickly as her tolerance for lactose. (That's "LACTOSE" not LA CROSSE).
Anyway, this is the first in what I hope will be many insightful, irreverent and humorous posts with an eye toward educating my kids (heaven knows they have educate me!) and anyone else that cares to listen. To give the benefit of my vast experience , and to occaisionally provide guideposts on the road of life. Wait, here comes one now...

"TAKE CARE OF YOUR %&$#@*& GUMS!"

Love
Dad