Stud Terrapin's Ruminations

Texas Survival Rules

2011-02-21T17:42:00.000-08:00

A full blown Norwegian Minnesotan friend of mine was making his first visit to Texas a while back (George W. was still in office). Since I had lived in that glorious state twice in my lifetime, and had lived to tell about it, I decided to give my friend some advice on what to prepare for and how to behave. Below are the contents of my "Texas Survival Rules" for him.

John,

Since you are about to embark on your first visit to Texas, there are a few things you should know.

1. Repellent. You will need it.

• Not only mosquita repellent (yes they do have them down there),

• Rattle snake repellent (also Copperhead and Cotton Mouth),

• Poisonous Spider repellent (Black Widow and Brown Recluse, they use gopher traps for the tarantulas),

• Scorpion repellent,

• Big Huge Ass wasp repellent (they have a hornet down there which is at least 2" in length and they affectionately call them "bird killers"),

• Red Ant repellent,

• Fire Ant repellent,

• Killer Bee repellent (they have made it that far north),

• Roach repellent (they call them sewer roaches and the AKC is considering naming them a new breed.),

• Bull repellent, lots of 'em and mean.

• RedNeck Repellent, lots of em and mean.

• And I know there's more, but it's been a while since I've been down there.

2. Oh, yes. Armodillos are known to carry leprosy so don't pick up any road kill no matter how well intact it may seem. I learned that one from a guy we called no nose lefty.

3. Leave any and all of your accordians at home. If it ain't a fiddle, guitar or piano, you can't make music on it!

4. Learn to say ya'll and intersperse it into every sentence. And it is only one syllable.

5. Chewing any tobacco product will get you in good with just about any Texan, especially if you don't spit. Real men only spit goobers. Learn to swallow. You should be able to control the vomitting in about a week.

6. Start now and learn to eat really spicey food without gagging, screaming, or whimpering. You should be able to control the vomitting and/or diarrhea in about a week. Also, after eating real Texan spicey food, try to control the screaming or whimpering while in the bathroom the next day.

6. Don't try to fake the cowboy dress thing. They can smell a drugstore cowboy a mile away. Pointy toed boots are only worn north of the red river or maybe in East Texas which isn't considered a real part of Texas anyway.

7. Remember our President is from Texas and Texas invented the concept of "home boy". Keep your opinions of him to yourself unless you want to be lumped in with the Dixie Chicks.

8. Liquor. It is not easy to find around there. Parts of towns, and counties are still dry down there. You will be looked down upon for having a drink. However, snake repellent is another matter. It is encouraged.

9. Last, but not least . . .. Don't mention you know me. It’s been thirty years. Boy, can those people carry a grudge.

Anyway, I hope this has helped and you truly enjoy your first trip to Texas.

Your Buddy, Stud Terrapin

Man Handling the Ice Dam

2011-01-30T20:09:00.000-08:00

I live in Minnesota. It has its blessings and curses. We usually have beautiful summers. Rarely does it get over 90 in the summer. One of the curses is, summer only lasts for a few hours, and if summer comes on a Sunday, we usually have a picnic. The jokes abound about our weather. We really don’t have summer in Minnesota, just three weeks of bad snow skiing—or ice fishing— or snowmobiling—or whatever winter sport you desire. You may get from my drift (ha, get it? drift?) that I am NOT writing this during our beautiful, though fleeting summertime. I am writing this in the Long Dark Tea Time of our Souls called winter in Minnesota. It is in this setting that anyone even slightly familiar with Shakespeare understands the term, “winter of our discontent.” And this winter has definitely brought its share of discontent. As of today, January 30, 2011, we have had officially 55 ½ inches of snow in the Twin Cities, with 4 to 6 inches more promised by tomorrow night. This snow has also come with the attendant low temps which have reached an actual 16 degrees below zero in our area (we don’t worry about wind chill in our state because the actual temperature is bad enough). North of me, it has been much colder, but I think this has been cold enough. Of course there’s always some moron who will ask, “Cold enough for you?” to which I usually respond with a well placed punch to the face. I know I’m not the only one. Once I actually got arrested for this action. When I went to court, all I had to do was tell the judge why. He considered it justifiable physical assault and threw the case out. In fact, he sentenced the other guy to thirty days of shoveling my driveway. His reasoning was a legal term I hadn’t heard before. He called it criminal annoyance. Personally, I think it should be enforced more often.

As I said earlier, this winter has been one that memories, albeit bad ones, are made of. One thing that all Minnesotans are dealing with this year is ice dams--record setting ice dams. If you are not of the initiated, ice dams are ridges of ice that build up along the lowest edge of a snow covered roof. They form by snow melting on the upper parts of the roof and upon reaching the cold air at the edge of the roof it refreezes. This happens over and over until a large “dam” of ice has built up on the edge of the roof. The problem with ice dams is that they then “dam up” the flowing water made up of melted snow forcing it back under the shingles where it can leak through the roof and cause damage in the house. I’ve heard from a number of people this year who have suffered water damage in their houses from ice dams. I am lucky in the fact that I have long overhanging eves on my house, so the water doesn’t get in the house, but it does get into the eve portions and I get a lot of water in the soffits. This disturbs me since I just put new fascia and soffits on the back side of my house this year. I Do Not want to do it again. So I, like almost every other house owner in our area have been faced with how to get rid of the ice dams.

Earlier this winter I went to the hardware store and got a new big cold chisel (interesting name for how I planned to use it), a small pick axe type hammer, and a long handled special chisel used to chip big holes in the ice on frozen lakes for fishing through said ice holes in quite inclement weather. Another great winter sport partaken of in Minnesota. I wasn’t planning on any ice fishing expeditions in the near future. I was going after the ice dam. I then spent hours busting up part of the dam on the south side of the house where it was worst. I didn’t get far, and afterwards, due to the joys of arthritis, I was in some significant pain for a couple of days. I also had numerous small lacerations scattered all over my face, neck and ears from flying shards of ice. Who knew that frozen water could be so sharp? Anyway, my efforts were somewhat successful, and the forced back flow of melting snow was abated for a time. I knew it wouldn’t last, however. As I said earlier, we have had a lot of snow, and that snow has to melt and refreeze some time.

One of those sometimes—I’m sure others will come—came this weekend. We have had a few warmer days which are just made for melting snow on the roof, coupled with cold night temps which are quite effective in refreezing it on the edge again. Yes, all over the neighborhood, the tink tink tink, tap tap tap, and chip chip chip of home owners doing battle with the ice dams could be heard on Saturday as I looked up at my eves and cringed in trepidation. I knew I had to face it, but was putting it off. I wasn’t really procrastinating; I was trying to figure out a way I could tackle the daunting task with more efficiency and less pain. I had already spent $40 on specialty tools earlier. They had worked, but not to the efficiency I had hoped. So while I was mulling this over, I openly mused to my wife, Gayle, “I wish I could get hold of a small jack hammer to handle the ice dams.” While she voiced her concern at that concept, a light bulb lit up over my head. She didn’t see it but I knew it was there. I didn’t have a small jack hammer, but I did have its smaller, hand held, air operated cousin. I, being the tool monger and sometimes mechanic that I am, did have a pneumatic air hammer in my possession. I have used it on many occasions to noisily chisel through steel, so why not use it on ice? I believed I was on to something here. A quick stop at the hardware store for a new chisel to use with the air hammer and a protective face shield for reasons alluded to earlier, and I was ready to tackle the ice dams like the man that I am.

So, after running the air line from my compressor in the garage, I climbed the ladder and went to work. It was a beautiful thing! Ice was flying! Big chunks! Small chips! It didn’t matter. I was on a roll. I was master of my ice dam! I was having a ball, and the testosterone was runnin’ high. A man and his powerful tool—it doesn’t get any better than that. Air hammers, however are definitely not the quietest tool in the box. They are, in fact quite noisy, but that’s part of their appeal. That’s part of what’s cool about any power tool—noise! How can you tell that they are power tools unless they make noise? And that noise seems to have a strange pied piper sort of allure to men. Johnson from next door, his arm now in a sling from his non-powered ice dam removal, peeked over the fence in envy. Hammel from behind took a peek. I’m sure Fredrikson and Haynes took a look too, but they were a bit more stealthy than the others. I had, in a single moment, with my ingenious employment of an air hammer to blast away my ice dams, become the unrivaled hero of all men in our neighborhood. And I was liking it. Take that Johnson with that big new fancy truck of yours—and you Hammel, you and your swimming pool—and how about you Fredrikson, with your zero turn riding lawn mower—and finally you Haynes, you and your fancy power boat. None of you have the ultimate ice dam air hammer, do you? Arghh, Arghh, Arghh!

So, yes, its winter in Minnesota, and in the cities, they’re carrying on the annual winter celebration. One of the big draws of this celebration is the ice sculpture contest. I can’t believe some people do this stuff for fun. The rest of us do it because we have to, to save our homes. Mine may not win any prizes. What I had left did not resemble anything that someone would marvel at, but I did accomplish the task set before me in record setting time. I think, maybe this could be a competition for next year’s Winter Carnival—speed ice dam removal. Now that’s one competition I could get into. I may even try it, but only if I can use my monster air hammer.

So the ugly, daunting task is done, and I don’t ache too badly from it, though with 3500 blows per minute from the air hammer pounding the palm of my hand, I may soon be a candidate for carpal tunnel surgery. Oh, well. Sometimes glory comes with a price. But, oh, the glory!

2010-12-31T11:22:00.000-08:00

Oooop! Did I Really Do/Say That?

Have you ever done or said something that you wished you hadn't? I'm sure it's a universal condition. I'm not talking about mean or vengeful stuff that you later wish you had not said or done. I'm talking about real "foot in the mouth", hang your head in embarrassment, "I can't believe I actually said or did that" kind of stuff. Two very glaring examples come to mind at this time. I know there are more, but these two, to me, remain as priceless.

To preface these situations, I want everyone to know that though I fool around a lot presenting a curmudgeonly character, I truly try hard to treat everyone with respect and don't wish to hurt any feelings. I know, it's hard to believe, but it is the honest truth.

The Boy Friend and the Pork Chop
The first happened some years back when my youngest sister-in-law was visiting home from out of town with her boy friend who would later become her husband. We had heard a lot about this guy and we made plans to have them over for dinner. I decided to make my latest and greatest version of pork chops for the meal. They turned out great and everyone seemed to enjoy them. After the dinner was over and our guests had left, I realized I only knew the "boyfriend" by his first name, Ben. I felt bad about that. I am a social clod at times and wished I had learned his full name. I then asked my wife, Gayle, what Ben's last name was.

(I will now spell his last name as given to me phonetically to highlight the humor and embarrassment of the situation.)

Gayle's response was, " I think it's "luh-vine" (as in grape vine).

"Really?" I responded. How do you spell that?

She said, "L-E-V-I-N-E".

"Luh-vine." Are you sure that's how he pronounces it?

"That's how Mom pronounces it," was her response.

Knowing my mother-in-law, I shook my head and said, "'Luh-veen.' That's how you pronounce that spelling. It's a common Jewish last name!"

"Are you sure? she asked."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure." I sarcastically confirmed. I had just fed pork chops to a guy named Ben Levine!

It turns out that yes, he is of Jewish descent. Luckily for me, he was not actively practicing the faith, but it took some time to figure this out, and there are those out there who may enjoy the internal turmoil I went through until this fact was confirmed.

But, you know, it would have been nice to have had a "heads up".

The Female Mechanic and the Local Florida Festival
This was one of my best "foot in the mouth" moments of my life. I work as a Mechanical Design Engineer, which means I design manufacturing machines of all types. I engineer and design the machines and then we have "Assembly Technicians" (mechanics) that assemble them on the assembly floor before we send them to the customer. The assembly and what is involved in this job demands highly skilled technicians of widely varied abilities, and our company had many. One of them was a woman. You seldom see a woman in the technical fields I work in, but when you do, they are good. As always, a woman has to be very good to succeed in what is strongly considered a man's field. This woman, I will call her Randi, was good--very good. She was good, but with a hard edge, which again wasn't out of place, because many of the men in this field have a hard edge. They are especially cranky at the Design Engineers who don't always get every minute detail correct.

I can handle the hard edged men on the floor, but I wasn't sure about how to handle this woman, but through time I gained about as much respect from her as anyone would ever gain, and we developed an almost friendly relationship depending on what day of the week it was, of course. Randi wasn't the most feminine of women, either. I had wondered if, because of her looks and mannerisms, whether she was a Lesbian or not, though it really didn't matter to me, and somewhere along the line it was confirmed that she was. Again, it doesn't matter except for the story that I will relate.

One day, Randi and I were talking about a vacation she was taking with her sister to visit her parents in an area of Florida that I was extremely familiar with. We were talking about what she would do while there, and I popped up with the words, "Hey, you should go to the Mullet Festival!" Before I could even realize how that sounded to her she barked back at me, "What the hell is that?!?"

Some serious back pedaling ensued as I tried to explain to her that a local fish of the area is the mullet, and as many a small communities all over the country do, that particular area had formed an all out festival around whatever they could single out as something, no matter how lame, that identified them as a community. They had mullet feeds, the mullet ball, the crowning of Miss Mullet, and the highlight of the day was a mullet toss.

In my explanation, I said nothing of her sexual orientation, though we both knew it was at this very moment the big blue elephant in the room. I, a heterosexual male had told a Lesbian woman she should attend a Mullet Festival. It's hard to explain yourself with two size thirteens planted firmly in your mouth.

Earlier, I confessed that I am, at times, a social clod. These two incidents don't go far in refuting this fact.

What Does That Mean?

2010-04-18T19:02:00.000-07:00

Once in a while we all come across words of which we don’t know the meaning. It’s normal, but for a basically educated person, it shouldn’t be common. I am an educated man, but I try not to use big words just to prove it. I have known those who have done so as a regular practice, but I feel as with extreme body building and overblown attempts at beautification (working hard to make oneself look beautiful) this is an attempt to salve a low self esteem. I believe that communication is the highest goal of the use of words and using unnecessarily complex terminology can be a big road block to true and effective communication. Even now I am wondering whether I have employed reasonably understandable verbiage for that which I am trying to convey. Oh, well, I will continue.

I recently spent some time on the Gulf beach in southern Alabama. Alabama, as most Americans know is one of the southern states. In fact, being on the Gulf of Mexico, it honestly has to be one of the most southern states. The South has its own way of speaking … let’s face it; they have their own way of thinking, too. I once came across a northern college professor who said openly in a class that when he heard someone speak with a Southern accent, he immediately felt that their IQ was no higher than 60 (very low for those who don’t pay attention to these things). I took offense to that then as I do now. You see, I come from the South. I know southern people. I know that though they talk with a drawl that runs slower and sweeter than honey, they are as a rule fantastic people. So, getting back to that teacher, it’s a good bet that this particular Southerner has a higher IQ than him, and I know many more who would rival his Northern bred intellect as well as schooling. With all that said, to the rest of the world, the South doesn’t really come across as … lets’ just say it, “smart”, no matter how it grates on those of us who claim the heritage. This leads up to the story to be told.

I was on the aforementioned beach in Alabama. I was enjoying myself immensely. I was flying a kite. I love kites, and the beach with its breezes proves to be prime kite flying real estate. The kite I was flying only resembles the kites of childhood inasmuch as it sails in the air. This type of kite is called by more than one name. It is sometimes called a power kite, because when flown, it produces a very strong pull. This pull is used by some to propel themselves on karts, buggies, boards in the water and whatever else they can dream up. It is also called a parafoil due to its shape when inflated and flown being that of an air foil or wing. The “para” part comes from the most common use of this type of air foil which is in high performance parachutes. It is also called a stunt kite as it is flown with two control lines, which when manipulated, can cause the kite to climb, dive, and spin. This kite, however, when flown by a novice in a stiff breeze, say 25 mph, can also aggressively swoop very low to the ground at high speeds at the end of very taught, unbreakable control lines, and even violently crash.

Knowing the possible tendencies of the kite, especially in my inexperienced hands and the breeze being more undeniably a wind, I had scoped out a section of the beach that had no inhabitants and very low traffic. After first spotting this area, I watched it for a while to make sure that it was truly an unwanted part of the beach. It was perfect. It was here that I would fly my kite. So I did. It was comical at first. Not for me actually, but for anyone who may have been watching. Slowly I started to get a bit of a handle on the process and was truly enjoying myself. At my will, mostly, it would climb and swoop and loop and, of course, sometimes “violently crash”. It was still a good thing that I was in a deserted part of the beach. No one had bothered me and people had stayed clear until over my shoulder to the rear quite a way back, I heard a sound. The sound was quite; shall we say “Southern”? The sound was actually a word. Though the sound occupied at least three seconds of time, it was only one word.

It is at this time that I must thank, with all my heart, the team of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. They are, of course, Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, Larry the Cable Guy, and Ron White. If not for them, you as a reader could never even come close to imagining what the following conversation sounded like.

So, to get on with the story; by employing my Southern upbringing, I was able to determine that the sound/word I heard was a rendition of the word, hello. In this form, however it took on a near melodic form as it stumbled from her lips. The phonetic spelling of her utterance would be huh-loooOOOoooo. Sorry, that’s the best I can do, but understand that the lower case to upper case and back to lower case represent the pitch change as her very pronounced drawl strung out the syllable.

I ignored it the first time because I was intent on keeping the sucker in the air and figured, or at least hoped that she was talking to someone else, or maybe trying out a new bird call. Shortly thereafter, though, I heard it again. “Huh-loooOOOoooo.” It was now that I knew that I had to take notice. Multitasking was now in order. I would try to turn my head to see whoever it was, interact with them, and keep the kite under some semblance of control. As I turned my head, I noticed a woman in her forties and four teenagers walking right toward the “danger zone”. It seemed obvious that her aforementioned utterance was to let me know they were coming and that they didn’t intend to change their course. In hopes that I could encourage them to rethink their choice of routes, I yelled over my shoulder, “be careful, I’m a novice.”

Her response was, “whu-u-u-u-U-U-UT (what)?

I restated louder and with a little more affirmation, “I’m a novice!”

“Wuz zat meeEEEEEeeeen (What does that mean)?

It was here that a million possible answers ran through my mind, like:

“It means your IQ probably is 60.”

“It means I’m surprised you have as many teeth as you do.”

“It means you didn’t finish high school and if by some stretch of the imagination you did, you definitely did not deliver the valedictorian address.”

“It means you married your brother, or at least dated him a few times.”

“It means you are the epitome of what outsiders call the ‘stupid South’.”
I know, more words that she was probably unfamiliar with.

But, I refrained from denigrating her and said, “It means I don’t know what I’m doing.”

No response. Nothing. So I explained, “It means, this kite may crash at any moment and hit you.”

This got the response of, “oooooOOOOOOooooooh (oh)!”

So they came—walking right on through the “dangerous fly zone.” I would like to say I couldn’t believe it, but after my recent interaction, I honestly could believe it. What I can’t believe is that I didn’t expect it. This “novice” was able to keep the kite in the air, however; at least until they were past, but shortly thereafter, it “violently crashed”. It’s a good thing this kite is virtually indestructible. I know, “wuz zat meeEEEEeeeen?”

There’s Nothing Wrong with it … (with apologies and props to Jimmy Buffet)

2010-04-12T18:33:00.000-07:00

I’m on vacation. It’s been a long time coming and very much needed, not only for me but even more so for my wife, Gayle. It’s been a long and rough year and a half. Family deaths, illnesses injuries and job struggles all piled on top of the regular zoo we call life has left us as Crosby, Stills and Nash put it, “wasted on the way.” So, we finally took the cues and opportunity and got the heck outa Dodge.

We headed south since we live in the north and wanted something called sunshine and warm. For those not familiar with winters in Minnesota, they are not only long and cold, but they are dark. When one talks of cloudy in Minnesota, they are referring not to broken billowy/puffy formations of cartoon like shapes, they are talking about a big heavy, dark blanket thrown over all of existence not only blocking any natural occurrence of light, but actually sucking light from the surrounding world and one’s soul. There is a little known field of scientific study known as Meteorolical Physics which is working to define a new state of matter called a “Grey Hole”. That field of study, of course, is centered in Minnesota.

All Minnesotans, at the first signs of spring exit their burrows resembling albino moles squinting at the light that has finally won the battle to shine forth. Don’t misunderstand; people of color actually turn a sickly pale for their own skin type, as well in Minnesota. The result is that we all look and feel sickly by the end of the annual “winter of our discontent.” But if one is lucky, or has the wherewithal, one sneaks a trip toward the more tropical latitudes for a brief taste of what may or may not come in the northern summer months ahead. Gayle and I did just that.

So here we are, inhabiting a rented cottage across the road from the beach on the beautiful Gulf of Mexico, just chillin’, sluggin’, and generally taking it easy. That’s what we wanted. That’s what we came here to do, and we have no misgivings concerning the matter … or at least we didn’t until we started sitting on our small patio, facing the ocean and just vegging out. You see, the problem is, a public walk way passes a few yards away from said patio. So as we sit and veg, we are constantly—OK, occasionally—confronted by people power walking, or cycling, or jogging past us and of course they do it with a very smug air of superiority. “Here we are, jogging and your lazy butt is stuck in that chair.”

It bugged me. Yes I am out of shape. I’m very over weight at the moment. I hate that fact. I have to admit that I need exercise, and this is a beautiful place. The weather is great and it wouldn’t hurt me—it wouldn’t hurt us to take the cue and get up and do something physical.

It’s amazing how shame can spur a person to action. I have been motivated by shame much of my life. You have to admit that shame is the great motivator. So, once again the vile beast of shame was rearing its ugly head, and I was beginning to feel its goading pricks as I rose from my leisure. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I was going to do something. I was going to get up and walk … no jog … maybe find a place to rent a bicycle and go pumping my little (actually large) legs into shape. I wasn’t going to be a lounging vegetable anymore. I was going to do something!
`
But as I poked my head into the living room of our cottage, I saw my lovely wife. She was comfortably resting on the couch. She had formed a symbiotic relationship with the couch. She had become one with the couch and the fact is, she needed it. She has been through a lot, and this vacation was almost too late for her. I nearly had to scoop up the puddle that was my wife and pour her onto the plane to get here. The TSA agents at the airport nearly confiscated her and scolded me for trying to bring a liquid of more than three ounces onto the plane when I explained that the puddle of liquid was my wife and showed them her boarding pass. And to be honest, I was only one step away from her condition. So, as I stood there in a complete quandary over what to do, an open topped car cruised by outside playing Jimmy Buffet. It was then that it hit me.

Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise.

She aroused out of her half slumber to give me a foggy, inquisitive look. I smiled shook my head, motioned for her to go back to her rest and turned away to go back on the patio.

For the rest of the stay I spent as much time just vegging on the patio as I could. Sometimes we’d sit together and sometimes she would renew her relationship with the couch. And as the parade of aerobiphiles passed by, I would sit in my chair with my coffee, or iced tea, or beer, depending on the time of day, and nod and smile and take a puff on my cigar as they passed by thinking, “You go for it, but for me, right now, there truly is nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise--a big double stacked cheeseburger with all the trimmings, and extra mustard. Yeah."

PLAYING A SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS GOLF BALL AT A WATER HAZARD

2010-04-04T17:08:00.000-07:00

This is a weird one. My Dad and I were playing a round of golf. He’s aging with poor eyesight and I’m mid-fifties, overweight, and prematurely arthritic, especially in my upper back affecting my golf swing, but we went anyway. We were going to have a good day out and just have a ball, so to speak. Speaking of balls, I stopped by the local Wall Mart and bought a bunch (emphasis on bunch) of balls so that we wouldn’t have to waste time, energy, and frustration looking for lost balls, of which we expected many.

We’ve played this course forever. It’s in the area I grew up and close to where Dad is retired. There is one specific water hazard which invariably sucks even the best hit balls out of the air swallowing them into oblivion. For our entire 50 year history of playing there, Dad has always used an old, ugly ball—one that he’s not afraid to lose—to play this hole. He says he has a friend that won’t do that. The friend says that if you use an old ball to play a water hole, you’re just expecting to lose it, which you probably will. He feels that you should use one of your best balls to play across water. That way, the player will be more conscious of making a good shot to save the expensive ball. Who knows if he’s right, but he may have a point.

My Dad, however, at this hole, this particular time pulled out a Sponge Bob Square Pants ball. Now I first have to ask, where does one get such a ball? And then I would ask, if one had such a ball, why would one show it in public? I don’t think Dad even knows who Sponge Bob is, or where the ball came from. He just looked at the ball and figured it’s one he could afford to lose. It being a Sponge Bob ball, I would have to agree.

Now for those who know the very least about Sponge Bob, which is what I know and would definitely like to keep it that way, they know he lives at the bottom of the sea, he being a sponge and all, I guess. Being a Sponge Bob ball, one would figure, and it turned out rightly so, that it would have an attraction to water, and it did. Dad teed it up, swung and, “bloop” Sponge Bob had returned to the bottom of the water where he belonged. Dad wasn’t going to try again, but I teed up one of the new balls and coerced him into trying again. So he swung, and once again it headed for the drink, but with a different spin, I suppose. Because this time when it hit the water, it skipped. We thought that was pretty miraculous but it still didn’t have the distance to clear the water. It then, skipped a second time and to our complete surprise, ended up on the far shore in a playable lie. Back slapping and high fives were shared and we headed to the cart path to continue play. Later on, he single skipped another ball across a small water hazard onto playable ground.

After the day was done, we ended up losing only two balls--one that I lost in the woods and the Sponge Bob ball into the water.

So I guess there is one solid lesson we took away from this day of golf. No, it’s not as Murphy knows, If you are running short on balls, you will lose a lot of them. It’s not even the converse of that which is if you have a bunch of extras; you will miraculously come home with most of them.

What we learned is, if you happen to mysteriously pull a Sponge Bob golf ball out of your bag, tee it up at a water hazard and it will find its way home. You won’t even have to try, it knows the way. So let it.

Waiting in a Hospital Again

2010-03-02T06:33:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm sitting and waiting in a hospital again. I didn't realize it until a few minutes ago. Actuall I did know where I was, it just didn't hit home. Gayle, my wife is having an upper gastroscopy today. It is purely precautionary. No more. But while she's in there, I have to sit in the waiting rooms, and go to the cafeteria, and see the sights, hear the sounds, and smell the smells. It took a little bit, but the ugly feeling that was growing finally hit me. I've had enough of hospitals for a while. I know there are some of you who would feel the same.

Two exhausting weeks with my Dad last May, which slowly, but eventually turned out well, and 6 brutal weeks with my mother-in-law in October and November which turned out horribly sort of puts a different spin on it. I used to be able to go to hospitals--walk through them and keep mostly oblivious. Not any more. I hear the words of the health care professionals. I can read their body language. I overhear the conversations of those around me and hear their phone calls. I know the tones of their voices. I recognize those looks on their faces. This is not the same hospital as before, but honestly, they are all the same.

If you want to know where people are hurting and being slammed by what life can truly throw at them, come and spend some time in a hospital. Sit and really look around--really listen. But maybe you can't unless you've walked the path that they have walked before. I now can, because I have. I'm sure Jesus is here somewhere. I feel that I should want to try to find him--to stay and work with him, but all I want is for the test to be over so I can collect my lovely wife and in the immortal words of the Monty Python troupe, "run away, run away." Maybe later I can handle it. Maybe after more time has passed I can stay and care, but this is too soon.

They gave me a buzzer like they use at restaurants to let me know when she is out of her test. When that sucker goes off, we're outta here like birds heading south out of Minnesota in the fall.

Smart birds.

BECOMING A CONNOISSEUR OF THE "DELI" SANWICH AND WORSE.

2009-11-16T11:26:00.000-08:00

There are times in our lives in which we don't get to eat as we would like. Illness can get in the way. When my wife wasn't subsisting on IV fluids during her stent with the severe Hyperemesis Gravidarum (look it up) that accompanied both pregnancies, she enjoyed small amounts of boiled chicken, green beans and pound cake daily. My son, as with many young struggling college students got quite creative with the 5 and 6 for a buck packages of Ramen noodles. During earlier time in our lives, we also stretched our budgets along with our culinary skills with the likes of cheap hot dogs, Spam, an instant Kraft noodle dinner we affectionately called "chicken glop", and the proverbial pinto beans.

Lately, my wife and I, along with many in her family have been entertaining foodlike substances which we would not regularly ingest if left to our own choices. My Mother-in-law, Cindy, has been in the hospital truly fighting for her life after complications developed from what was supposed to be a "slam dunk" surgery almost four weeks ago. She has been spending more days in the surgical intensive care unit (SICU) than out of it for the duration of her stay. With this being the case, the whole family around her has focused their lives on being at the hospital with her whenever possible. Children have flown in from out of town, regular job schedules have been scrambled and rearranged to allow for time at the hospital to support Cindy and each other through this ordeal. With this being the case, many of the regular parts of "easy" day to day life have been set aside. Houses may not be as clean. Laundry may not be caught up. Groceries may not be bought, or at best grabbed little by little as truly needed. One of the most neglected parts of our lives recently has been cooking and eating regular meals.

My wife, Gayle and I have been eating way too many "deli" sandwiches lately. Now when I say "deli" sandwiches, I don't mean high end deli sandwiches. There's a reason I put the "deli" in quotation marks. I'm not talking that classy, up scale little deli you pass on the way home. I'm not even talking Jimmy Johns, or down the scale to Subway here. I'm talking about prepackaged sandwiches which you can buy at the hospital snack bar/coffee shop/ deli or worse. By worse I mean quick shop type places, gas stations, roach coaches, and heaven forbid the ubiquitous carousel vending machine standing always at the ready when nothing else is open or available.

Gayle and I seldom share a meal at home on week days lately as she heads to the hospital immediately after work while I head home to take care of the pets. Not wanting to waste precious time she usually grabs a sandwich at the hospital snack bar. As for me, not wanting to waste effort on preparing a full meal for myself alone, I usually forage or grab something more or less grotesque on the way home. I have, however been to the hospital enough to sample just about all of their deli meat, cheese and bread combinations. Honestly the sandwiches at the snack bar are not bad for the first 5 or six times one uses them as a substitute for sustenance, but they do start to wear on a person. The price tag wears on the pocket book as well. Five bucks a pop seems a bit extravagant for what you get.

To try and vary the selection as well as mitigate the damage to our budget, we have tried other options to the snack bar. The quick stop type shops--with attached gas pumps or not--between us and the hospital have produced lunch or dinner with differing levels of satisfaction or complaint. All I can say is you gotta watch the dates. As the under-inspired, underpaid employees don't seem to care much about stock rotation or clearance, you have to not only know what day it is, but what month, and sometimes what year. Just the other day, as I was quite late in getting to the hospital, and needing gas anyway, I stepped in to peruse their bread wrapped offerings. I had already picked out a reasonable offering with an acceptable date stamp on it when I looked down and found some marked down sandwiches. It makes one wonder how old a sandwich has to be in a place like this to earn it a place in the marked down bin, but I digress. Considering the Dirty Harry question of "do you feel lucky?" I honestly could answer for that day that yes, in fact, I did feel lucky. I probably wouldn't need this extra sandwich this evening, but just in case I did, it didn't look that bad, and the price was right if I ended up discarding it. So out I went with my hospital dinner for the night.

The waiting room for us has taken on quite a communal atmosphere at times as we sit around and take turns stepping in to visit Cindy. Fresh baked Molly Muffins are shared. Muchies of different types get passed around. Chewy candies, licorice, and gummy bears all get shared. As the day passed, I realized that though I had brought two sandwiches, I was lacking something to drink. Not wanting something with caffeine, my sister-in-law, Ruth, offered an extra soft drink matching my requirements. That's the way it has developed lately. Later I tried to return the favor. Ruth realized that she was hungry for something more substantial than the usual finger fare and the snack bar had just closed for the day. It being my turn to commune with the family, I offered my second (reduced) sandwich.

Ruth has a bit of a particular taste but the circumstances lately must have worked to temper her culinary requirements. She reached for the sandwich, then noticed the marked down price. Drawing her hand back slightly, she remembered her hunger and the distance from better options. She gave the sandwich another look. "What kind of lettuce is that?" she queried?
"The green stuff? I think it's ham," I said.
"Oh," she winced, "well, at least the guacamole looks good."
"That's mayo," I corrected.
She really must have been hungry. She took it anyway. Not really. She decided to live with her hunger, which was OK by me. I ate it today while on my way to the hospital on my lunch break.

Oh, well. It's hard to be too choosy or to complain too much lately. With Cindy still being fed through a tube, our little discomforts really don't seem that great. Here's looking forward to the day she can share a "deli" sandwich with us all.

Bail Out--Oh goody hand me a bucket

2009-11-03T11:28:00.000-08:00

I don't think anyone would argue that our economy sucks right now. It has been officially deemed the worst economic downturn since the great depression. That should be a bit scary and it is. Banks are failing. Big banks. Auto companies are struggling to the brink of failure. People are losing jobs and houses faster than the Detroit Lions can lose a football game (for those uninformed, Detroit has really sucked for the last couple of years--the football team, that is, not just the auto and music industry). One of my best friends since youth, a chronically, very gainfully employed person got laid off for the first time in his life recently. It really does suck, and I feel for him since I have been in the same boat before. I have had the wonderful distinction of having ridden in the funeral procession of four companies as they proceeded to the grave of financial failure (I was only an employee, not any part of the moronic management who couldn't run a company unless the economy was so strong it was impossible to fail). The result of being employed by such an organization is one day everyone is called into a room and given the bad news--"Oh, and by the way, as of now, you are unemployed." No "thank you." No "we're sorry we sucked so bad at running a business and that our heads were up our butts so far that we didn't see the writing on the walls before it was too late. And oh, by the way, you're whole life will suck for the next 2 to 18 months (the amount of time I have been unemployed due to these circumstances). Just, "That's it. Turn in your keys and clean out your offices/cubicles." So I do feel for my friend, and like so many others, wonder if I will be in the same boat trying to bail and stay afloat long enough to reach the next solid landfall (or landfill) of employment. Your arms do get tired, and your will does grow weak.

Yes, the economy is in terrible shape and it is effecting nearly every part of our lives. What is interesting in this particular "recession" is there has developed the concept of the "bail out". The government is "bailing out" banks, and auto manufacturing companies, and insurance companies. Yes, the government sees the economy as being so bad and the possibility of such major stalwart institutions failing as "not a good thing," so the government is bailing them out to the tune of BILLIONS of our tax dollars. I'm not sure what I think about all of it, but I do believe that in offering such "bail outs" in the way they have been offered, the government is just rewarding the poor judgment, and stupidity--oh all right, let's say it straight, greed, and corruption that produced this massive recession in the first place. The idea is, "we have to bail them out. We can't just let them fail." Hey, wake up! They have failed. It's right there in black and red. Lot's of red. They have failed in a gargantuan way. They and the government just don't want to face it.

But honestly, as far as the bail outs go, I've reserved opinion and judgment for the most part until yesterday. That's when the idea hit home very hard. That's when the company I work for demanded me and my coworkers bail them out. No, they didn't ask. They just said, in effect, "things are so bad, and the only way we can keep them going is to bail the company out in the form of pay reductions, to the tune of 5-15 % (an average being 12.3%). Oh, and by the way, you don't get to stay home 12% more of your time. No. What you do get to do is to continue not only working full time hours for less pay, but due to the needs of the company, all salaried employees are expected to continue working long hours and for some, Saturdays in order to make this all work. That's like being punished twice for someone else's crime. Which is exactly what it is.

Do I sound a tad bit bitter? Maybe it's because it's not only the economy that has landed our company in this position. It's been very poor choices and performance in upper levels. Our illustrious leader admitted in our meeting where all of this was spelled out yesterday, that a big part of our problem is due to one specific BIG project that wasn't quoted and conceived well. Imagine that. Who knew that if you didn't conceive and quote a large project well you may lose lots of money on it? I'm guessing the upper management should have known this. I'm thinking it's their jobs to know this kind of stuff, but I may be mistaken. If they, in fact, did not know, all they had to do was ask any of us in the lower levels who have worked on projects for years and we could have let them in on the secret. I was intimately involved in the design and build of this particular "difficult project". I wasn't brought in at the beginning, however. I was brought in after the conceiving and quoting was done, and along with the rest of the team told, "here it is. Now, design and build it within the insane budget and time constraints quoted." We immediately knew it was impossible, but any voicing of such was not accepted. So here we are, with a massively over budget project, hemorrhaging cash every day while we struggle to correct the remnants of it's poor concept. I have personally worked one and a half years on this project. I've put in long hours, late nights, and Saturdays. I have wrestled, on my "off time" with design issues while I'm supposed to be paying attention to my wife and others around me. I design in my head as I creep along the paved pathway leading to work every day and while slog through a consistently congested route home. I have dreamed incessantly about this project and it's endless debug efforts. And now, I get to continue doing all of that for 12.3% less compensation. Yes, I get to bail out this project and my company. I get to pay for the stupidity of those above me. But we don't want the company to fail! Listen up people! The company has already failed. It's right there in black and red. Lot's. . .of. . . red! And now the powers that be are putting the rest of us in the red to prolong the agony and keep it on life support for a while longer.

There are those who will say, "well, at least you still have a job." They are correct, for the time being. It's hard to look at this in a positive light at present, however. Whether one tends to be a glass half full or empty type person depends a lot on where the glass started. If it was full or at least more full than not, then yes, the glass is half empty. If it was more empty than not, then yes, it is half full. It's not a matter of attitude, it's a matter of motion--progress--or regression. My pay has now regressed, so you see, the glass as I see it is definitely half empty. And yes, I still have a job, but the basic problem remains. The company is doing terrible and those at the helm helped navigate it into shallow, rocky waters. They are still at the helm, and I'll guarantee you one thing, if I had done this poorly in my work here, I wouldn't be around any longer. I've been here before with other companies whose leadership were just as inept. On one such occasion we got our pay cut 20% with an additional poke in the eye of postponing our pay period 2 extra weeks right before Christmas. Did that help save the company? No. The company went out of business shortly thereafter. Luckily I jumped ship before the waves came over the boards. Not many of us have much faith that this will end any differently. It's just a matter of time. How can it come out differently with the same leadership at the helm? As it stands right now, they have driven the ship onto the rocks and are asking the crew to bail diligently after having cut their rations significantly.

I wonder if he'll go down with the ship? Oh, I hope so.

Pictures of Love and How it Should Be

2008-06-26T15:31:00.000-07:00

Somewhere along the line, during the process of growing up, little boys and little girls get a picture in their heads of how it’s going to be. This picture is based on, and usually a reaction to what they see around them as they grow up. If they see something that they relate as being good, their little minds say, that’s how it should be. If they see something that they interpret as not so good, their little minds say it shouldn’t be like that. It should be different, and thus a contrary picture is formed as to how it should be. We all came through life with these little pictures in our heads. Many of these pictures have to do with our grown up relationships. Boys and Girls alike come to their adult relationships, including marriage, with presuppositions—pictures—based on what they grew up with. When these pictures clash or just fail to develop in reality (pun intended) is when problems start to arise. You see, the expectations that these pictures produce—and how they are met or not met—become in many cases tests of love. He opens the door for me—he loves me. She cooks me breakfast on Saturday morning—she loves me. He brings me flowers—she loves me. She irons my clothes—she loves me. He carries out the trash . . . . Wait, did I just say, “he carries out the trash?” Yes I did. Can carrying out the trash honestly be seen by anyone as a test of love? To answer that question, yes it can. I have tried to deny it, argue with it, ration with it and just plain push it aside for many years, but in the little girl mind of my wife is the picture of a man happily carrying out the trash, and that picture equals love.

Now I don’t want anyone who reads this to think that my wife is weird or petty. Of course, concerning the trash issue, I used to think she was until today. My wife is no different than any of the rest of us. We all grew up with these pictures. Some healthy, some unhealthy, and some benign, but we all grew up with them. This just happens to be one of the strongest for my wife, and like I said, I didn’t fully realize it until today. I got it after a stressful morning discussion spurred by a political ad on TV.

So, here’s the scene. I’m just a few minutes out of bed, barely working on my first cup of coffee when a political commercial comes on the television during the morning news. In this commercial, our state’s current Senator is trying to show that he is just an every day guy. His wife addresses the camera concerning her husband while he messes around in the background with a cup of coffee. At the end, she asks him to take out the trash. The bone head (who is NOT getting my vote, now) answers in a cheerful Father Knows Best voice, “I’ve got it honey!” Geeze, you can almost hear the 50’s sitcom music playing in the background. I am fighting back a gag reflex when my wife pipes up and says something to the effect of, “I wish you would do that just once.”

Of course, my response is, “I carry out the trash all the time.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

So, like I haven’t ever stepped right into an open bear trap before, I ask, “Well, what are you talking about?” SNAP!!!

It wasn’t all that bad, really. Since I have been here before, I knew what to do. After a lot of gnawing, I was able to escape with my life. What’s one less foot anyway?

Actually, it didn’t really get that far. Her point was, I “don’t ever” (in my defense translate that “seldom”) do anything she asks with a joyful Robert Young/Ward Cleaver response, “Yes dear, I’d love too.” According to her memory, I either ignore the request, argue about it, or when I do accommodate her, I give some smart alek response. Of course I argued the point to the full extent of my wakefulness, but I was finally able to convince her I was unarmed, not having had at least one full cup of coffee, yet. We did talk for a short bit later, and she tried to convince me she really wasn’t that upset. She tried to say that she was just joking based on the commercial. That’s her story, now, and she’s sticking to it, but I have learned a few things, having lived with one woman for almost 35 years. I have learned that there are looks that speak louder than words and these looks aren’t always the angry ones. She doesn’t realize it but I saw one of those looks this morning. This particular look was that of a little girl whose picture of how it should be had just faded away to be replaced by a reality that is not so picturesque. Somehow in her mind, the picture of a husband pleasantly, if not joyfully carrying out the trash is how it should be, and when he does it, it means “he loves me.”

Like I said, I have carried out the trash many countless time in our married life. I mow the lawn. I fix the cars. I cook many of our meals. I am admittedly a challenge to live with, but I do a number of things in my own way and my own time—sometimes without even being asked! But in many ways she is right.

So where does all of this lead? In the past we have argued about whose job it is to take out the trash. As far as I’m concerned, when it comes to chores, taking out the trash is at the top of the gender neutral list. Any man, woman, or even gender challenged person should take out the trash if it is in need of out taking. I finally realized today, however that it means much more to my dear wife. In some odd way, it means love. Me joyfully taking out the trash means everything is the way it should be. That’s sort of a weird concept to me. I’ve tried to show my wife that I love her ever since I met her. Being a guy, it usually meant something physical, but I’ve tried other things too. Gifts, flowers, etc., some hitting the mark, some not, but I have honestly tried. Also, being a guy, I am constantly amazed at what truly means love to her.

So, like I said, she’s no different than any of the rest of us. We all have these pictures in our heads. These pictures were taken when we were small and they slowly developed over time. These pictures aren’t always of reality, but they represent a reality to us. We have them and from them grow expectations and tests of love that we put on other people, especially those closest to us. As far as my wife’s picture concerning the trash goes, I don’t see it as too unhealthy, so I’ve made a choice. I’m going to live that picture out for her and help her fulfill her vision of how it should be. So, dear, from now on, whenever you ask me to take out the trash, my answer will be, “sure, honey, I’d love to,” or at the very least, “as you wish.”

Besides, I’m running out of feet to gnaw off.

ST

What Women Find Sexy

2007-05-26T10:25:00.000-07:00

Men, have you ever wondered what is sexy to a real woman? By a real woman, I don't mean one that only lives in your imagination or on the pages of magazines. I mean a woman who will stay around a while—a woman who will love you and put up with your man stuff. I am speaking from some experience here. I have been married for quite a while to a very lovely, real woman, and have done some forced research on the subject.

Now you would think that wearing rugged manly clothes would really turn a woman on, but she tells me that the old worn out jeans, boots, and the flannel shirt with holes in it don’t really do it. When I am in a bit of a feisty mood, sexually, and am wearing my man clothes or my favorite college team T-shirt and hat after my team has laid waste to their opponents, I have attempted a “come on” to her only to find that the mood is not reciprocal in any way.

Being a bit of a hunter, I have come home from a kill, all manned up and full of testosterone only to hear her say I need a shower, a shave and a change. My poker-playing persona doesn’t seem to do it either. Sitting there with a pile of chips in front of me, having vanquished my foes in good order, smelling of victory (sweat, beer, and cigars) doesn’t trip any triggers of attraction with my mate. I was stumped for many years at what really was attractive to my mate. I know that I had been attractive to her at times in the past, but I had not really taken the time to figure out why. Being a man, I just took advantage of the situation and asked no questions. Becoming more comfortable in the ongoing relationship, I did as so many other people do; I eased into my more real self and come to find that my attractiveness seemed to wane or fluctuate at best. I didn’t understand it, and began to wonder why. Loving my wife and our relationship, however I decided to conduct some personal research on the subject to try and better my odds (there’s that gambling thing again).

For many years I was bewildered as I methodically tried to ascertain the key or keys to unlocking the mystery. I tried buying her things. I found that flowers did it many times, but not always. Flowers from a man dressed in hunting clothes was less effective than from a man dressed in dockers and a nice shirt. I tried fine chocolates, but found that this was at times a total mistake. If she was watching her weight, which is almost constant for most women, giving her sweets was worse than smelling of deer scent. So, OK, watching her weight. I gave her an exercise bike. I’m here to tell you that was definitely not the key to me being more attractive to her, and it seemed to effect my attractiveness for quite some time. I tried buying her fancy sleepwear. No go. I tried buying myself sexy under things, thinking that would be the ticket. Not so. In fact that only got a good laugh. Not what I was trying for at all.

I stumbled on one thing by mistake and wondered at it for quite a while. The company she worked for had an annual semi-formal gathering every year, and I was almost forced to wear a tux to the event. This happened for three years running. After the second year I began to notice a pattern. She seemed to be very lovey to me for no apparent reason. After the third year, I began to realize that it might be the tux. This point was further supported by the fact that a young gay man flirted with me a good part of that third night. Now what the hell would a young attractive (I guess) gay man be doing flirting with the likes of me, a middle aged, chubby, balding man? After scoring that night, with my wife, not the gay guy, I started to realize that I might actually be on to something. I wasn’t able to do further research, however, since I had to return the tux the next day.

I seemed to stumble onto other triggers of female attraction as my research continued. It seemed that evenings after a long day of house cleaning went far better than days of such things as watching football or any other type of sports. I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen for some odd reason one time and the results were headline worthy. Was it a coincidence or not? I wasn’t sure until I picked up my dirty clothes and actually did a load of laundry all by myself completely by mistake one day. Another headline. To further my research, I actually cooked a meal and then cleaned up the kitchen. Stop the presses! We have a breaking story! What was going on? The subject was showing behavior that was truly contrary to what my male mind would expect. Was there a connection between my activities and her amorous responses? It couldn’t be. Or could it? I pressed on with my research.

I stumbled onto another bewildering trigger to my goal of romance purely by accident this last week. I am a man who hasn’t kept his garage in very good order for many years. As I see it, a garage is just so much storage space. I have, however spent the last couple of months cleaning it out in the attempt to turn it into a clean and well-ordered workshop. The unexpected result has been that now I am able to fit a car into the garage when needed. So, when a snowstorm hit our area this last week, I told my significant other that she could pull her car into the garage for the night. Nothing happened that night, but the next night—Wow! What was this all about? So, she didn’t have to scrape the windows and brush off the snow. Big deal. But it seemed to be a big deal to her. Now I’m faced with a quandary, deal with the familiar rejections to my manly advances or lose my workshop to her car. Tough choice.

So, this is what my research has turned up. A man is never more attractive to a woman than when he is cleaned up and wearing formal wear, doing some sort of house cleaning, or giving up his man-cave for her parking comfort. Does this make any sense at all? Not to my male mind. Women are attractive to men for a whole list of different reasons, most of which are not easily definable. A look, a smile, a special way they wear their hair, a special outfit, or especially no outfit at all. But do I want to do dishes just to reap the rewards? Do I want to keep my dirty clothes picked up or relinquish my man-cave merely for the prize that I seek? I can’t do it! At least not in an ongoing pattern. I want my garage back, and housework sucks, period. That’s one of the reasons God gave us women.

I am not willing to live totally without loving physical relations in my life, however. That’s why I went out yesterday and bought myself a tuxedo. I figure the price of a tuxedo is a lot cheaper than the price of any of the other options. Now all I have to do is come up with a good explanation of why I’m wearing the damned thing when I’m hunting, fishing, or playing poker. I wonder if a camo tuxedo would do the trick?

Oh, and one last observation. It doesn’t hurt to trim the nose hairs once in a while.

Who knew?

Meetings Are a Lot Like Enemas

2007-04-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

As far as I’m concerned, meetings and enemas have a lot in common. They may both, at times, be necessary, but are definitely a pain in the butt.

Neither should be used more than is absolutely essential, and only to keep things moving smoothly.

When their use is unavoidable, they should be short and effective, as having to do either again would prove to be a rather uncomfortable experience.

And finally, if someone truly enjoys either one or employs their use too often, one may conclude that there is something definitely wrong with this person.

A Different Perspective

2007-04-18T07:46:00.000-07:00

I learned a bit of a lesson, today, or at least I think so. Being a middle aged man who rides an old Harley that I built myself from a basket case and a lot of swap meet parts, you might not believe that I also ride the totally gnarly wave of audio technology, but it’s true. Well, to a point, it is true. It is a fact that I didn’t get a CD player until I was almost legally required to do so. I still have my original copy of Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida enshrined on an alter in a secured room. I had to ask my son to move out of the house, or at least into the garage to make room for the shrine, but he’s 14 and should be able to handle it. He visits now and then, and hopefully, some day he'll understand.

This wave of audio technology I talk about is summed up in two words i Pod. Yes, I own an actual Apple iPod brand MP3 player. I got it for Christmas. It’s not one of those little shuffles, either. Though it’s not the biggest one, it is a Nano with 8, yes count them, eight gigs of storage! To quote Tim Allen, “Aarrghh, Aarrghh, Aarrghh!” This is cool, because I’ve been a music head since the British tried to repackage American blues and rock and sell it back to us wholesale. I got the iPod from my dear and beautiful wife because that’s what I wanted for Christmas, and my birthday combined since they both fall in December. My wife did it up good, though. She not only bought me the iPod, but many of the cool “necessities” that go with it. Probably the coolest of these extras was the little radio wave converter that allows me to play my pre-programmed digital collection through my car’s radio. No more inane chat. No more listening to the same 5 “hit” songs over and over, whether they be new or classic hits. I am in charge of my own musical listening destiny! Or at least I was until I lost the radio converter thingy. That sucked. I had no idea where it could be. I looked and looked. I cleaned things that hadn't been cleaned in months in hopes that I would find it. I was afraid to admit it to my wife for fear of chastisement, but when I did, she couldn’t find it either. Purchasing a new one was becoming a consideration, but this particular item goes for around fifty dollars.

Finally, today, I was sitting in the back of my cubicle at work while waiting for the local computer guru to do some troubleshooting. I never sit back there, or at least in that position, a half sitting/leaning sort of pose against the credenza that is usually a catch all for junk. I seldom have reason to, but as I sat/leaned there, waiting for him to do the voodoo that he do so well, my gaze wandered to something on the floor under the edge of my desk. Yep, you guessed it. It was my radio converter! What it was doing there, I don’t know, but I never would have found it, or it would have taken much longer if I had not been looking from a totally different perspective than normal. In fact, no other perspective than that particular one would have allowed me to spot and recover the missing treasure, for I could only see a very small part of it peaking out at me. It was an exasperating problem with my computer that brought about the tech visit, but it put me in the exact position I needed to be in to find the thing I had been missing and was trying to find.

It seems like there should be a moral to this story, but I’m having trouble putting my finger on it.

Oh, well. Maybe you can figure it out. If so, let me know.

ST

Oh, by the way. Here's my bike.

2007-04-15T21:18:00.000-07:00

Bad Harley! Bad Boy!

Don Imus Leaves a Legacy

2007-04-13T10:15:00.000-07:00

Just for the record, I didn’t know who Don Imus was until this week. Just in case you are less informed than I, Don Imus has been a legendary “shock jock” for some years, I guess. He is a radio personality with a large listener ship, or so the story goes. Who knew? Don Imus had never crossed my personal radar in my whole life until this last week when a firestorm of controversy came down upon him for a remark which, if it were not highly racist, is still so derogatory in nature that it’s public utterance should be called into question. In an ill considered, flip remark concerning a predominantly African American college girls’ basketball team Imus took center stage in national news and controversy, and entered into my world of knowledge and consideration, as well. I don’t have a lot to say about him or his remark. The public outrage has been so great, that he has become the veritable “sacrifice” our current society demands to pay for our collective sins of racism. Does he deserve it? I'm not the one to be the judge of that. However, to be honest, I don’t think there is any real place in our world for that sort of comment. Imus lost his job over the remark. No amount of apology seemed to be sufficient to dam up the rushing waters of public opinion and reactive sponsor withdrawal. He’s in the media. He’s an entertainer. He has fallen into the Dixie Chicks trap. He opened his mouth publicly without consideration of how his audience would take it or how it would affect his income. In effect they both put their mouths where their money is. One funny thing is that in his own defense, he stated that he was not a bad person. He should have added, “but I may qualify as a complete and total moron.”
With all that said, there is only one main point I truly want to make here. Again, as I said, I didn’t know who in the world Don Imus was until this all hit the media fan this week. How wonderful it must be to have this as his only legacy in the minds of myself and so many others.

"Who is Don Imus?"

"Oh, he’s that racist DJ who is out of work, now."

"Oh. . . yeah."

How's the Weather Down There?

2007-04-09T18:21:00.000-07:00

(To be honest and give credit where credit is due, the inspiration for this one came from a comment my wife made. The rest is mine, but she did inspire it. So there! ST)

“OK, here we go. (dialing phone) 4-1-1.”

“Hello? Information?-----What city?-----Well it’s not really a city, (under breath) though Detroit may come real close.-----What’s that?-----Oh, nothing. I’m just wanting to know the phone number for hell. -----How do you spell it? H-e-l-l. You know double toothpicks . . . Double hockey sticks? Hades? The Inferno? The Nether World?-----Yes, that hell. Do you have a listing?-----Oh, good. What is it?-----(repeating) 1-800-666-6666. I should have known. Oh, well. Thank you very much. You can connect me for no extra charge? That would be great. Thank you.”

(Ringing)

“Oh, hello. Is this Hell?-----It is? Wow! To whom am I speaking?-----Oh, so you’re not the big guy?-----No, I guess I wouldn’t be answering the phone if I were him either. Sorry.-----What do I want? Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I don’t want to waste your time. Although, as I understand it, you pretty much have eternity on your hands, there, right?-----Sorry. Forget I even said that. -----Yes, to get to the point. OK . . . well . . . I was just wondering . . . how’s the weather down there?-----Yes, the weather.-----Why would I care about the weather in hell?-----Am I planning a visit soon? Oh, no, nothing like that. Or at least I hope not. It’s just that . . . well . . . there have been some developments up here, top side that got me to thinkin' it may not be quite as hot as it usually is down there.-----What developments?

Well, for starters, my daughter, Becky . . . oh, yes, I’m sure you know of her. But listen, she’s a fantastic kid, or young woman, now. Always has been, but I"m no fool. I know she had her moments. I’ve got the gray hairs to prove it. Well, you see, she straightened up, started going to church, and went so far as to marry a minister. Well, yes I was glad.-----Of, course. -----Yes, I understand.-----I’m sure your boss wasn't. In fact, I’m sure some heads rolled for losing that one.-----Yeah, that’s what I thought. Well, that’s not the worst of it.

Next, there is my son.-----Yes, Jesse. A pretty good boy, though I know he’s pulled a few shenanigans, himself.-----He what? I didn’t know that. I guess I’m going to have to have a talk with him. Anyway, I’m not real worried about him; at least I wasn’t until you started talking, but he’s one of those young people that I call “hosers”. He’s never really been a slacker, but these hosers are just different. They don’t see the need to look or act particularly normal, or even dress well, unless it’s a holiday or something then it’s a bit overboard with the outfits and hats and even colored hair and stuff. I don’t really know if he’s a gen X, Y, Z or what, but as most generations of parents before us, we’ve all wondered if the generation that follows ours is ever going to get it together.-----Yes, I know, eternity not withstanding, I’m wasting your time. Sorry. Well, here’s the deal. Jesse now works at the Target Corporate headquarters and, get this, he wears a tie to work. Can you believe that?-----Well, yes, I’m sure you know about it. Of course. You’ve got your ways. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm unbelieveably happy for him. But I'm just a bit blown away at the same time. Jesse . . . corporate office . . . shirt and tie!

Now just settle down. I'm tryin' to get to the point. There is one last thing, though.

Last week, Gayle and I . . . now don’t start telling me stuff about her. I don’t want to know.-----Good. You had me worried there for a minute.-----Oh, so now you're the comedian? I guess I deserved that one. Well, last week we were coming out of a restaurant when we ran into one of Jesse’s good friends. You know the guys he calls Tokes?-----Yeah, that’s him, the founding member of the long running Punk band, Nuke.-----Yeah, his real name is Chris. Well, the thing is, when I first met him, he was about 14 and had a long, colored, spiked Mohawk to go with his complete and utter devotion to his band and punk music in general. Later he shaved his head. Oh, yeah, he had that pet alligator for a long time. Then he got some tattoos, and you know the whole Punk bit. I’m sure you have a number of them down there. Well, this time, when we met Chris . . . Tokes, his hair was normal, he was with his young wife, and his new baby. Can you imagine this died in the wool punker with a wife and kid?-----Well, yeah, I know it happens, but I didn’t ever expect it from him. But here’s the real kicker. The band, Nuke finally broke up. I never thought it would, but that’s not the worst part. Chris, or Tokes, is now playing old school country and western music.-----Yes, he is. -----You mean you didn’t even know that? I guess your network isn’t quite as good as you thought. But it’s the truth. Country and western. You know, Johnny Cash, and Hank Williams and the like. And he swears he likes it!

My point?-----Not the time thing again?-----Well, my point is this. With all this going on up here, the wife and I were wondering how the weather was doing down there.

Really?-----Frozen over?-----No kidding. Completely?-----No thaw in the forecast? Wow! Can’t say I’m surprised, though. With all that’s been going on up here, if you know what I mean. Heck, the Eagles’ reunion . . . yeah, the first one, is nothing compared to all of this. Well, I won’t waste any more of your eternity . . . I mean time.-----Yeah, I know. I’m a funny guy. And you should learn to lighten up, hellfire and brimstone and eternity not withstanding. I’m sure things will heat up soon enough. Kind of makes you understand us Minnesotans a little better though, don’t you think?

Anyway, good-bye.

ST

Minnesota----------My Sincerest Apologies!

2007-03-29T16:51:00.000-07:00

I have to offer my sincere apologies to the inhabitants of the great state of Minnesota, on this day of March 28, 2007. No, I haven’t committed any horrific or heinous crime against the statutes of the state and/or government. I have, however, committed what may be considered an unforgivable offense against the people of Minnesota, a crime against society itself. I may not ever be prosecuted for this transgression, but I truly should be. I have done the people a grave wrong. And I am here today to confess it, offer my sincere apologies, and ask forgiveness for what I have done, accepting whatever punishment may be doled out upon my person.

What is this great, horrendous deed you ask? Before I answer that question, I must describe the scene out my window at this very minute. Looking out upon this early morning, it is gray, gloomy, cold and rainy. There is not to be any singing in the rain in Minnesota today or for the next week or more. The rain is to continue for three to four days, and when it finally subsides, even cooler temperatures will descend upon us and our state.

You may say, “so what?” So what? I’ll tell you, what! Only three days ago it was eighty-one degrees. It was sunny. It was beautiful. It was glorious. Snow was melting. Trees were budding. Birds were chirping. To make a reference to the work of Douglas Adams, the long dark tea time of our souls was lifting. To reference Shakespeare, the winter of our discontent was being made glorious spring, if not summer. And now this! That’s what! And it is my fault.

Yes, it is every bit my fault. You see, I jumped the gun. I got excited about the untimely harbinger and just plain got carried away. What did I do, you ask? Well, for starters, I did a little bit of spring cleaning. Then I did some pre-season work on my boat. I actually did some work in the yard, knowing full well it was way too early to be doing such things. And if that wasn’t enough, I decided to do some serious gambling. Thumbing my nose directly at the fates, I put away the snow shovels. Yes! I did! Nobody in Minnesota puts away their snow shovels before mid to late April, but I, standing proud and bold put away mine! And since I was on a role and had crossed the line into flagrant affront with no chance of exoneration, I set my face toward the shed and determinedly marched to the door, flung it open wide, and (imagine a deep thunderous anouncer voice) rolled--out--the--Harley (echo, echo, echo).

It was then that I knew I had truly gone too far. Somewhere in the distance I heard the faint sound of rolling thunder. As I neared the garage with it, I could swear I could feel the barometric pressure dropping, and as I stopped to dust it off and wash it I felt a slight drop in temperature. Not more than a fraction of a degree, but I could feel it. As a man bent on transgression that leads even unto death, I didn’t care. I persisted until all physical signs of winter were gone from my yard and garage. I was hell bent for spring, whether its time had truly come or not.

And so, here I sit, along with the rest of Minnesota, staring out the window at cold, damp, pure ugly, gloom. From the sound of the weather reports, it’s going to stay around a while, and it’s all my fault. So, again to the people of Minnesota, I sincerely apologize. I beg your forgiveness and hope that some day you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Why don’t I just remedy the situation, you ask. Why don't I just put the Harley back in the shed and bring the snow shovels back out?

What? Are you nuts?!?

Screw that!

Storm Chasing

2007-03-29T16:01:00.000-07:00

It's seems from the news and weather casts, we are into tornado season in parts of the country. In fact, some people have lost not only their homes, but their lives already. I just watched a news cast that showed numerous tornadoes and funnels video taped by "storm chasers". Storm chasing. Now there's an interesting past time. I've not really considered being a storm chaser. One reason for that is when it comes to storms and chasing, I have too many times been the chasee.

You don't grow up where I did and not know about tornadoes. I grew up in "Tornado Alley". In fact, I grew up in Tornado Alley of Tornado Alley, which is northeast Oklahoma. During the height of tornado season, we would go to the cellar at least once a week. I have, not by choice, either seen or been up close and personal with over a dozen tornados. I have toured the horrific aftermath of a mega killer tornado that hit a town I used to live in. In fact, one of my childhood homes got hit by a tornado while we were home one evening. We all survived, but I've got to tell you, it's not an experience I would actively pursue. In fact it sucked out loud (that's a little twister humor if you didn't catch it) It is from this background, I have one thing to say about storm chasing.

Chasing a storm is stupid. In my opinion, it's a lot like a dog who is always chasing cars. It seems like a lot of fun, until you actually catch one!

But, if you insist on chasing storms, maybe you should just hang around me. One will show up sooner or later. I can almost guarantee it.

Sorry It's Late

2007-03-27T15:40:00.000-07:00

The text of an E-card sent to my son-in-law very near the end of his latest birthday---

Sorry it's late.

Actually it is still your birthday and if you get this and read it before midnight it will still be your birthday, but I know you probably won't, since you are busy right now and it's getting late, but you know, that's how it goes some times.

Some times you plan to do something and then someone at work says something weird and out of left field and it's while you are eating lunch and you spew diet coke and tuna salad out of your nose all over your computer screen, and then you can't find one of those computer screen wipes that don't really work very good any way, not to mention that diet coke and chunks of tuna sort of burn in the back parts of your nasal passages so you spend a few minutes producing a sort of "sknark" sound trying to clear the goo and phlegm out, and you get most of it except for this one irritating little piece of pickle relish which just won't budge until you finally sneeze, on your computer screen of course. And in the middle of all this, the boss wants to talk about something totally trivial to you but seems to be quite important to him, like project delays and budget over runs and stuff like that.

So he finally leaves and you are about to regain a small inkling of the original thought to start to re-enter the firing synapses of your brain, the office manager comes by and wants to know why you are using more than your allotment of screen wipes, "did you know that they cost money?" and "we all are responsible for saving money as well as natural resources!" Screen wipes being made out of trees or oil or some sort of worm spun non-absorbent yuk smearing fiber.

Anyway, while you are making your best effort to show some slight bit of respect (actually you are trying not to laugh or jump up in a rage and tear her oddly shaped head off) you let out an enormously loud and long belch from the air you swallowed while catching your breath from the diet coke/tuna/nose thing. Well that sends her type A personality into a serious tizzy and sends all of your adjoining cell—I mean cube--mates into fits of laughter and spewing of their own which, of course, only serves to deplete the natural screen cleaner resources even more. So in effect I got sent to the Principal's office at work and forgot to send off an E-card in time for you to receive it during your actual birthday.

What can I say, but what I said to my boss.

Sorry.

What to Do About Sanjaya?

2007-03-22T09:33:00.000-07:00

I gave up watching American Idol about . . . . let me see . . . . Oh, yeah that's right. I never watched it. I got my fill of "reality" programming very early on. All that contrived drama and creative editing of supposed live, unscripted video turned me off before Rudy discovered that Richard was gay. (don't recognize the reference? Google it.)

The media won't let me escape the day-to-day melodrama of what's going on in the "reality" world, however. Every day, I check in to TV "news casts" and I am faced, not only with what is going on in the "exciting" lives of the Faux and Pseudo Celebs, I am accosted with reports of who is on and off the island, who is dancing and who is not, and who is surviving, not only the island, but the barbs of Simon, the sexual advances of Paula, and the on line voting of the devoted fans. And don't even get me going on Super Nanny. My Mom could take her on her worst day, hands down.

Now, however, comes a real enigma. A young, "tone deaf" (according to Rosie O’Donnell) Idol contestant is totally baffling the judges, the world and even me with what is going on around him. Sanjaya is his name (real? I don't know). He is young, good looking in a teen idol with interesting hair sort of way and he can sing, albeit, not the best. In fact his singing, though well chosen and well timed, seems to be of such quality that the other judges have made derisive comments about it.

The enigma is not only why he is still hanging on in the competition, but that fact that he has fans, and they are a bit devoted to say the least. Sanjaya, Let's call him "sonny", is first the focus of a bit of a hoax on the judges and possibly the viewers of Idol. A web site, which has been supported by the views of Howard Stern, has decided to instigate an uprising, as it were, to keep the worst contestant alive on American Idol. That contestant as of late is our dear Sonny. Don't get me wrong. I have not problem with anything that messes with the substance of such shows. In fact, I think it's a great idea. So, Sonny is still in and still smiling his very big, almost Steven Tyler-ish smile, and still shaking that mane, and still singing just a bit off key. Good for him.

The hoax is one thing, but I just read a headline that says that a young girl is starving herself because of sonny. Why is she starving herself? Is she such a devoted fan, or does his singing bring about this effect? Granted he's not a great singer, but he's not bad enough that I would miss a meal over. Of course it would take another rendition of the Star Spangled Banner by Rosanne Barr to get me to miss a meal, and that would definitely do it. So I have to assume (there is it an ass of u and me) that this young girl is starving herself because she is a fan.

To quote Jerry Seinfeld, "what gives?" Sure he's young and I guess he could be considered cute to a young teen and pre-teen girl, though I must confess I’ve never been either. I will admit to my age group, and confess that I was around when the Beatles hit American shores. They were a phenomenon. Young girls went nuts. They too cried, screamed, and I’m sure a number of them missed a few meals due to their devotion to the Fab Four. I believe it was totally out of proportion to their talent, at least for the time. They turned out to be an undeniable major influence on music and will be for a long time to come, but that was not who hit the shores. They were four young lads with instruments, some “boppy” styled songs, and interesting haircuts.

Wait a minute. That’s got to be it. The hair. It’s not the talent, or even the lack thereof. It’s not so much the cuteness. Ringo and George were not that cute. It’s got to be the hair. Take a Sanjaya, a Beatle, or even a gray haired hick, and give him a crew cut and what do you have? You’ve got nothing. No Idol contender, No British Invasion, No “Soul Patrol”, and definitely No weeping and/or starving fans. You’d just have a goofy looking punk who can’t sing that good.

I say, get rid of that hair! Maybe we should start a web site, not encouraging people to keep a less than deserving contestant on American Idol, but one that encourages shaving of all contestants heads. And while we're at it, why not Simon, and Paula, too. And some duck tape over Simon's mouth. Yeah, that's it.

What do you think?

Last Night I Went to Sleep Happy

2007-03-17T16:04:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to sleep happy. I had been severely chastised by my wife, and though it may sound a bit strange, I was able to go to sleep happy.

No I’m not a wimp or a Casper Milquetoast who can’t stand up for himself or feeds into a relationship where the male part is only content when the female counterpart is in total control. I just accept the fact that, putting PC’ism on the shelf where it oft times belongs, men and women are different. They see things differently, and there is no getting around it. That’s what prompted the little disagreement between the little woman and myself last night. We just saw things differently; she went just a little ballistic at something I had done. We “had it out” as it were. I lost, in a manner of speaking, and went to sleep happy.
To help anyone reading this to understand the situation, there does exist a story that I might offer to give a little clarification. In fact, there are two stories that I could offer. The first story contains the events leading up to the butt chewing I received. The second story explains how I, a man among men so to speak, could be the recipient of such a butt chewing from a cohabiting female and still go to sleep happy, and totally secure in his manhood.
You see, as of late, I, admittedly, have been spreading my “man wings” just a bit too much. Now being a “real” man, I believe a guy in co-comittant relationship has the right and even obligation to spread his “man wings” now and then. Now and then - therein lies the crux of this story. To put it in easier to understand terms, I have recently been buying hunting paraphernalia (you may read that as shotguns if you like). Yes, I have been buying shotguns. Plural. As in “how many can one man shoot at one time?” It all started innocently enough. I was going to shoot with some friends in an informal clay pigeon league. Now as every sporting man knows there’s never a bad reason to buy a new gun, and the old pump Winchester just wasn’t up to clay pigeon league standards. Plus, I had never shot too well with it anyway. So a new (not previously owned by me) shotgun was in order, preferably something in the auto-loading fashion. The first one I bought was a good gun, but I realized later that it was not well suited to the type of shooting I was going to do so another one was in order. Let is suffice to say that I had been bitten by the bug. A collection of shotguns was started (all having a very good reason for holding a place in my arsenal) and didn’t stop until I had purchased a total of four. I will not tell you how much the last one cost, but it truly is a beauty.
So that’s where the first story rests. The female, though raising an eyebrow more than once, handled all of this surprisingly well. Not well enough that I thought I could eek out a fifth shotgun, however. So on to the second story.
The mate and I were at a restaurant recently with friends from her work environment. She works in the computer network field. Now most outsiders think that people, who have anything to do with computers other then being astute at hitting the “any” key, are complete and total geeks. I am here to tell you that is not necessarily true, or at least I didn’t think so until this dinner. Though these people are work companions of my wife, I have somehow been accepted into their company on certain occasions (I make them laugh). As we sat through the meal, subjects of golf, family, movies, and any number of other things were bantered about. Everything seemed quite normal, and we were having fun, but something wasn’t quite right. Every once in a while the “geek alert” hairs on the back of my neck would bristle. One such bristling was when one of the guys that I thought was rather regular talked about staying up all night rebuilding his computer. The reasoning behind this all nighter was he had come to realize that his was not the “fastest machine in the valley” anymore. Well, actually it was, but there were other contenders nipping at his heals. The only solution was an all night session to eek and tweak and geek out every last bit of performance from an already screamin’ machine. Now remember we are talking about a computer, here.
The second such bristling caught me off guard when a couple of the males at the table started talking about an all night weekend game at someone’s house. It sounded intriguing. The wife would be gone along with the kids. There would be food and freedom to play through the night and into the next day. I considered trying to score an invitation to this game. Maybe the funny guy would be a good addition to the festivities. It was only then that I realized they were talking about computer games. They were going to gather at one guy’s house and network their computers together and “game” to the proverbial death. My balloon deflated,
The dinner continued, but the third and final bristling was to come just as sure as the Ghost of Christmas Future came to visit Scrooge. Now, keep in mind here, that this dinner came on the heels of the shotgun-collecting spree. It wouldn’t be long before I overheard the spouses of the other men talking about their husbands spending unauthorized money (men, of course, never have any authorized money to spend unless it’s on eating out with the woman or buying her specific gifts). My spirits began to rise as I once again felt that I might, in some way, be among kindred spirits. Yes, these might be real men after all. They too spent unauthorized money. They too snuck out to those “men stores” and dropped cash on “men things”, and came home with the logoed shopping bags that they would unsuccessfully try to conceal from the woman. They too would be confronted and chastised concerning their unacceptable behavior, but find a way to proudly take it like a man. Yes sir, I was in the company of real men after all. “Wait a minute. What did you say they bought? Computer equipment? Chips, boards, cards, disks? Excuse me, but that’s not man stuff!”
I must tell you right here and now, that when you are in the presence of a group of people and your geek alert bristles thrice in one sitting, there is a good chance that you are, in fact, in the company of geeks. That is why God gave you that survival sense in the first place. And when that survival sense bristles, do as the wild animals do. Don’t hesitate, don’t investigate, - don’t even look back, just run. Run in the opposite direction, and run fast!
Being there with my wife, I couldn’t run, so I did the only thing I could think of. I stood up. And no, I didn’t “flip over the table, whip out the shotgun that I had recently sawed off and cleverly concealed in my boot, and treat the geeks to a little head pudding “ for desert, as my friend Ed Jones* and possibly others might expect of me. I merely stood up to speak.
“I must be in the wrong crowd,” I began. “I don’t understand you guys. When I stay up all night to squeeze the last bit of performance and speed out of something, it had better have four wheels, eight cylinders and at least one huge-assed carburetor. And if I stay up all weekend with a bunch of guys to play a game, it had better involve beer, cigars, cards and cheap greasy chips. And finally, if I ever take a thrashing from the wife for spending unauthorized money on something, I had better damn well be able to hunt or fish with it!”
There, I said it. I threw down the gauntlet. I drew the line. One this side are the men. On your side are the geeks. Well, so much for making them laugh. They just sat there with a blank sort of stare on their collective faces. I had obviously just spoken a foreign language to them. An ancient language of far removed times and places, and the faint hint of natural instinct that may have been peaked by these utterances was so deeply buried in cold ashes that not even a tiny ember glowed any more. They turned away from me, the grotesque alien creature, and continued to make plans for their “gaming” weekend. I, on the other hand, got the waitress’ attention and ordered some 12-year-old single malt Scotch straight and savored every drop of it.
Now back to the butt chewing I received and the part about going to bed happy. I did not receive the butt chewing for speaking up in the midst of a group of my wife’s co-workers. That remained a non-issue between us. The butt chewing came days later. The said chewing came when I admitted to her that I had just ordered a hunting bow off of that great on-line shopping Mecca in the sky on the web, Ebay.
Since I earlier used the term “spreading my ‘man wings’”, I will add a little color commentary here. We have a beautiful back yard, which is a natural habitat for birds. To enhance the natural habitat, we have added feeders and houses for our little feathered friends. We along with our cat enjoy watching the winged creatures as they go through their lives in our full view. I personally enjoy observing their physical behavior in relation to each other. Dances I call them. There are territorial dances. There are mating dances. There are relational dances of all types that can be observed.
Upon my conveying the news of my recent purchase, my mate and I entered into one of the very common relational dances that humans do. The male had spread his wings a bit too wide for the female’s comfort, and her posture was conveying that notion. The male, on the other hand, believed that this particular spreading of his wings was justified (read that, “a deal too good to pass up”). With her foot stamping, and wing flapping, accompanied by her high, shrill aggressive vocalizations the female let the male know that the “gun-buying spree” had not yet fully cleared her craw. The male responded with his own stamping and flapping as well as vocalizations, followed by what could only be recognized as capitulative behavior. He took his trouncing, head hanging low, and as is the custom of this species, vowed never to do it again. Then the male went to bed as happy as any male of any species could be.
No, he did not go to bed happy because he and his mate’s dance progressed into a mating dance. He/I went to bed happy because I had taken my lumps for something that mattered. I had not taken such a thumping for some pitiable piece of processed silicone arranged in a specific microscopic configuration. I had neither taken this pasting for some miserable magnetic media-recording device, nor for some elusive fraction of a gig, whatever that is. I had taken these lumps for something that was truly worthy of a man. I had willingly taken this beating for something that would bring home game . . .. Meat . . .. Flesh . . .. Wild and dripping with blood! Yes!
So, last night I went to sleep happy in the knowledge that I was not a geek. I was, in fact a man! I had splendidly spread my wings. I had faithfully performed the dance. I had once again paid that awesome price – the dues to the fraternity of manhood.
The female of this relationship may not realize what transpired last night, and I may not tell her of the part she played, or that she played that part so beautifully (no sense in letting her get too uppity). But as I began to drift off, I smiled and whispered under my breath a loving “thank you”. And went to sleep happy.