bootroot

Window Shopping Perils

2011-09-07T21:56:00.003-05:00

I like to shop as much as the next guy. By that I mean I don’t like to shop. That doesn’t mean I have anything against shopping. I understand there are those of a certain genetic persuasion who enjoy it. Quick trips, weekend binges, window...any shopping will do.

I prefer window shopping above actual shopping by a wide margin- about the width and depth of a store’s door. Window shopping means I don’t actually have to go into a store. I make an exception for food.

I often grace the doors of a grocery store, but even there I will window shop. Yes, there have been many times when I have fixed my gaze on something I desired but have overcome my impulse to buy.

That something is almost always Krispy Kreme doughnuts, chocolate iced, if you please. It is never difficult to find those lovely green and white boxes of delight. Kroger is exceptionally diabolical at placing the Kripsy Kreme table where it is impossible to avoid, and if they don’t put it in a place I’d trip over it, I’ll walk around until I trip over it.

Each time I see that table it goes much the same way. I’ll stop and study for a moment, making sure they have chocolate iced on hand. No need to get excited if they aren’t there. I might pick up a box and gaze at it, and then, with a surge of will power and discipline, put the box down and walk away. Or put it in my cart and walk away. Either way, I walk away without ripping open a box and taking a bite. Yes, I'm Mr. Discipline.

So, I can sympathize with those who window shop, like my friend who is a girl, who I'll call M. M was on a Chicago shopping binge doing so much more than mere window shopping when she walked by a window that caught her eye. There was the top she had been looking for. She stopped and gazed at this black, one shoulder top with one full, fitted sleeve as the mist started rising, the lights got brighter and the music started playing. It was love.

She knew it would never work out. He- if you can call a woman’s designer top “he”- was from a different world, a designer store, and she was a bargain hunter. So, after a moment of silent regret, she moved on.

But she couldn’t get him out of her head. She kept thinking about him, wondering just how much it would cost her to own him, how he would feel wrapped around one arm, holding her tight. After a restless night, she decided. She would go back. She would set her limit on what she was willing to give, but she would pursue her dream.

She marched down Michigan Avenue with purpose, not pausing at the designer store door, not tempted by the designer store décor, breezing straight to the designer store tops. She saw him. She touched him. She felt his silk threads. She read his price tag. She stared at him slack jawed. $1,098. She lost her appetite for him.

I understand. Sometimes the calories on the back of the Krispy Kreme box have the same effect on me. But not often.

Manly Communication

2011-08-02T19:42:00.005-05:00

Men have been unjustly maligned, and I think I know the culprit. Women. In fact, some women may even go so far as to disagree with what I say. I know, hard to believe. Just goes to show you how intent women are in unjustly maligning us.

For instance, it is common hearsay, started by a woman I am sure, that men don't communicate or, for those who try, don't communicate well. I am here to set the record straight. In fact, I intend to prove, once and for all, that men want to communicate, are open to communication, and often attempt to initiate deep communication, but that women- yes, women- purposefully ignore our attempts to initiate communication.

If you are a woman, think back. -If you are a man, you can go blank here and pick back up at the, “You're welcome,” a few paragraphs down. Trust me, you won't miss anything.- Think back to the time your man was right there in front of you, holding the refrigerator door open, staring into it, with a puzzled, confused look on his face. You knew what was coming. A question. A question along the lines of, “Where is the ketchup?” Of course, it could have been a question about the whereabouts of the butter, the mayo, the mustard or the milk. All those things tend to pick up and move themselves around at random.

Now it is time for some hard truth and complete honesty. What did you think at that moment? What was the thought that went through your head? Be honest. Wasn't it something along the lines of, “You idiot, it is in the door, top self, right next to the chocolate syrup, right where it ALWAYS is!”? Yes, of course, you were much too diplomatic to say anything so demeaning. Instead you said, “It is in the door, top self, right next to the chocolate syrup, right where it always is,” only implying he was an idiot.

I'm sure you now understand your man much better.

What?! You STILL don't see it?! Okay, let me spell it out.

Your man is not blind. He is not helpless. He is trying to pull you into a deep, meaningful conversation. He knows where the ketchup is. Of course he does. What he is really saying is, “You mean the world to me. What do you want to talk about tonight? Where is the ketchup?”

Yes, every time you've accused your man of being uncommunicative, you should have been pointing that finger at yourself. Shame. Shame on you.

Of course, this isn't just a refrigerator issue. The same dynamics play out in the closet, a toolbox or a pantry shelf when he seems to be looking for a shoe, a screwdriver or the tea bags.

The question is, how should you respond? You want to use this opportunity to engage your man in the way that will be the most meaningful to him, that will encourage him to keep wanting to open these vital lines of communication and will build your relationship to the pinnacle of bliss. What you want to say is, now listen carefully, “Darling, the ketchup is in the door, top self, right next to the chocolate syrup.”

You're welcome.

Real Trouble

2011-07-26T17:25:00.001-05:00

In this human life, there will be trouble. It may be financial trouble. It may be physical illness. It may be family problems. It may be any or all of these plus dozens of other troubles and hardships. You never know where it is coming from or when it will arrive, but you can bet it is coming. When it comes, you have no choice; you cope, you push through, you persevere.

I have trouble. Real trouble. I am coping, pushing through, and persevering.

I am living in the most primitive of conditions. Due to circumstances beyond my control, my life is in shambles, in total disarray. A storm came through and my electricity is out. Kaput. Missing in action. That means I have no air conditioning. The horror.

Sure, some people may think they have bigger troubles, but that is just because it affects them. Some have lost roofs, cars and boats. One unfortunate family lost all three to one downed tree. Another house has been split by a tree. But all that happened to someone else, and I am the one who is hot and inconvenienced. Well, not exactly hot. I am at an air conditioned O'Charley's eating a chocolate brownie and ice cream. But I am inconvenienced

It is not convenient for me to be here instead of at home eating an ice cream sandwich. I did that earlier to save the poor thing from melting away in a warming freezer. Of course, it wouldn't have been kind of me to leave its brother behind. I ate that one, too. Trouble requires sacrifice.

As usual, and as trouble will do, this trouble sneaked up on me. It came in the form of a surprise storm. Storms find me an easy target because I don't watch The Weather Channel. They know that and use it against me. Sneaky little wind bags.

This particular storm was even more diabolical than others. She timed herself to inconvenience me to the utmost. She wasn't content to blow in at a time convenient for me. No. She struck right at the end of the work day, making me choose between staying dry by staying put or getting wet while making my I'm-out-of-here-end-of-day dash. I stayed in and stayed dry. Yet another sacrifice.

She didn't hang around long. She didn't need to. Temper tantrums don't have to be long to be effective. She blew through town quickly, leaving the evidence of her temper in the downed trees, electrical lines and fires. And she made sure that I, personally, didn't have electricity.

On top of all that, her denying me my electricity means I have to type this brilliant little piece on the tiny keyboard of my Blackberry. Such deprivation.

Okay, so maybe my trouble is not big in your eyes. How big does my trouble have to be to suit you? How big is big enough? Can't you see that this trouble is big enough for me?

It gave me an excuse to eat ice cream. That is as big as I need.

p.s. Now that I have finished my brownie, the guy next to me is tempting me with chips and dip. That didn't sound quite right. His chips and dip are tempting me. Never mind. I am not tempted at all.

Lost In Kentucky

2011-05-09T22:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I get lost in thought. It surprises people that I have thoughts deep enough to get lost in, but one man’s deep is another man’s shallow. Let’s just say I don’t like to tread water. Wandering mindlessly in the shallow end is how I ended up at on a dead end road somewhere between Bonnieville and Clarkson, somewhere in Kentucky, just past Little Flock Baptist Church.

You have to appreciate any congregation that names themselves Little Flock. No unrealistic aspirations for them. No illusions of grandeur. No need for a big building fund.

I wish all churches followed this pattern. It would make it much easier to tell what you were getting yourself into. You would know before you even walked through the door how you would be treated at the Self Righteous Christian Church or the Overly Friendly Methodist Church. High Tech Production Second First Episcopalian Church would attract a lot of entertainment fans. There would be less competition for the moniker Long And Boring Sermon Baptist/Christian/Catholic/Take-Your-Pick Church, though it should be one of the most sought.

As I was saying a few paragraphs above, I can get distracted. Such was the case on Mother’s Day. One of my gifts for Mom was a Jerry Clower CD. I was distracted because I was listening to it. I should explain why I was listening to a gift CD, which would make it, in essence, a second hand CD, but I won’t. It’s my story and I don’t have to.

Anyway, I was listening to Jerry and drove right past my appointed turn. It only took me some 30 minutes to notice that I had missed the turn. I’m quick like that.

My choices were to turn around, head to my appointed turn and get back on track, which would have cost me another half hour, or to try a new route from where I was. Since I was where I was and couldn't start from anywhere else, I went with the new route from there, hoping to save a half hour but knowing it would probably cost me twice that. My new, direct route meant making 15 turns on 10 unlined, one and a half car wide country roads.

About 15 minutes into my detour I saw a sign that said, “High Water,” but since I couldn't see any water over the road, on I went. In another 15 minutes, soon after passing the Little Flock Baptist Church, I found the water. It came with a barricade. Impassible water. Time to turn around. Find a new route. Help me phone.

Surprisingly, I still had a phone signal, so I eyeballed a route that looked promising – there were green lines on the phone indicating there were roads there – and headed out.

At one point, a truck in front of me pulled over to let me pass. I suppose he thought I knew where I was going and that I wanted to get there fast. Actually, I was in a hurry to find out where I was going and when I would get there.

In any event, Jerry and I made it to Mom’s for Mother’s Day.

As an added bonus, Mom didn’t have to unwrap the CD. I always have been thoughtful like that.

Speed Dial

2011-05-03T19:21:00.006-05:00

There are some traits, some characteristics that, no matter how much you like a person, will rub you the wrong way. Sometimes it is something as innocuous as that fidgety person setting there tearing up the paper napkin - for those of you who have had to put up with those of us who tear paper, or tap pencils, or drum fingers, I apologize.

Sometimes the cause of irritation is as hard to put a finger on as a frog in a pond. Other times you know it is a contrived simile that is irritating you.

Yesterday I was at the doctor's with my mom. The doctor was a leisurely moving gentleman who seemed to have all the time in the world. His chief assistant and nurse was a pinging bundle of energy and intensity who knew he did not. As she flew from room to room and corner to corner, he ambled from area to area. The effect was as if he was a planet slowly moving across the universe and she a wildly rotating moon sort of following along.

At times the planet-doctor would look around trying to locate the wild-moon-nurse and get irritated because she wasn't where she would be if she had stayed on course and on pace – his pace- while the wild-moon-nurse couldn't believe the planet-doctor was dragging his heels so. It's a wonder there wasn't a Big Bang.

You've seen it before. People who have everything in common...except their pace. Their speed dials are set at a different rate of living.

The first time I noticed this was at work. A group of five were to meet with our CFO about some highly important and unforgettable issue which escapes me just now, and were in a pre-meeting to go over the details, i.e., trying to get our story straight. This group was rather relaxed, calmly discussing the remarkably impressive issue of the day, sharing our opinions while enjoying each others company. Then the CFO walked in.

He didn't so much walk in as burst through the door, grab a seat and start talking. He said a quick “Hello,” briefly stated the issue under discussion, and started into his thoughts. He then paused briefly, asked if anyone had any other thoughts, then, before anyone spoke up, said, “Okay, that is what we will do. Thanks.” And he left.

We sat there stunned and someone said, “OOOOkay. I guess that about covers it.” Everyone gave that wide eyed, open handed look that says, “What can you do?” He had been courteous and had offered everyone an opportunity to speak, but everyone felt railroaded. Yet, I had, before and since, witnessed this same group with the same CFO using the same speed, but feeling involved and important.

The difference was that at this meeting our speed dials were on "slow" and his was on “busy.” There was a mismatch and we were irritated.

I say all of that to point out that the reason I got my ticket was that the State Trooper and I had our speed dials set at different rates. I think his setting was closer to his radar gun. With just a slight adjustment on his part, this never would have happened.

Signs of The Age

2011-04-19T18:22:00.001-05:00

The World is spending way too much time telling me I am old and on my decent to forgetfulness and oblivion. With any luck I will forget where I am going and never get there. That seems to work for me in my life now, though not when I want it to.

You would think Mr. World has enough other stuff going on that he doesn't need to bug me. Earthquakes, tsunami, wars and pestilence. But no, he has to pick on little ol' me.

Sometimes he is subtle. He leaves little clues to see if I am paying attention. This weekend I stopped at a little place called Broadbents to stretch my legs, hit the restroom and buy a snack of chocolate covered peanuts and almonds – required road food. The hand dryer in the restroom had a hand written sign on it saying, “Hit.” Apparently, there are people who have never used a button controlled hand dryer. I don't know about you, but after, oh, 32 minutes of waving my hands under a chrome vent with no hot air I might try hitting a 3 inch chrome button on the front of the machine, just to see what happens.

There are two points to notice here. First, there is a piece of machinery out there that I am old enough to have used but is antiquated enough to confuse people. Second, I have little patience for young people who can't use something I find easy to use. Lack of patience with young people is the second sign of age, right after a lot of birthdays.

Sometimes, World is less subtle. Eating a relaxed dinner at Joe's Crab Shack, I surveyed the knickknack and brickbat on the walls. Nets, life preservers, lobster traps, water skis, anything to do with water. And there it was. My ski. My at-the-time-state-of-the-art water ski hanging on the wall like a cheap antique. The ski I still have and would still try to use, if any of my friends were still young enough to water ski.

Again, two indicators of age. The prized possessions of my youth being displayed for decoration, clearly implying it is no longer of use, and knowing that my friends prefer a slower, more leisurely pace than a speed boat.

Sometimes World just smacks you in the face. I was lounging around a marina with several friends, waiting for the restaurant to open, when a man came in and asked, “Where is the young guy?” as if neither my friends nor I could be mistaken for young guys. I threw my hands to the sides, palms up, and called him on it saying, “Are you saying we couldn't be mistaken for young guys?” He didn't back down. He simply said, “Not quite,” and walked on.

Here, too, were two age indicators. First, the obvious dis' we received. Second, that we were waiting around for the restaurant to open. Can anyone say, “Early bird?” Can anyone say “Early bird” and not think old?

But it's okay. With age comes experience, and with experience comes skill and wisdom. Unlike many of my younger friends, I know I can hit the button to get hot air.

Or I can write hot air.

Balding Is Perplexing

2011-03-21T20:52:00.002-05:00

As I lose more and more hair, I cut it shorter and shorter. Some people think it looks better that way, but the main reason I do it is to reduce the number of long hairs on the bathroom floor. Not that I like having a lot of short hairs on the floor, or any at all, but seeing long ones down there is just too depressing. When they're shorter I don't feel like I have lost as much.

As more and more of my shorter cut hair finds its way to the floor, I'm having a real problem dealing with some very tough questions. Fortunately, none of those questions involve comb-overs.

A former co-worker crushed any thought I might have had about committing a comb-over. I witnessed the horror of his windblown hair popping up like a hinged toupee. Hands full, he nearly knocked himself out with his briefcase trying to pin it down. Those kind of things stick with you.

Most of my questions involve length, or more specifically, how short I really want to go. I could go shaved, with a buzz, or real short but not quite to a buzz. I've gone the real short route once before, right before a job interview.

One of the interview steps was a group discussion with the folks I would be managing. It went well. So well that I overheard one guy say to another, “Do you think we'll have to get a flat-top?” This confused me until I was in front of a mirror. My hair looked like I had jelled it up to a desert mesa. My own version of windblown.

I could go with the shaved head. That kind of appeals to me. I like the idea of low maintenance. At least it looks like low maintenance. Clip it, shave it, and go. They may even have special razors to get from fuzz head to chrome dome faster. I'm just not sure what I would look like totally shaved. Hard for me to picture.

As an aside, having nothing at all to do with this current discussion, and not that I would know, but it is a really bad idea to use duct tape to see what your head would look like shaved. That stuff really sticks to hair. So I am told. And it's silver.

As some of you know, cutting my own hair doesn't scare me as much as it should. I have attempted, sometimes successfully, to repair bad haircuts on my own. In junior high I got a bad haircut and I vowed no one else was going to touch my hair. I cut my own hair from then until I was a junior in college. I kept it quiet because I didn't want all of the guys on the football team bugging me to style their hair.

I could go with a buzz. Not quite bare, but not obviously trying to hide the march of the hairless follicle. That is okay, and I have seen some men, and women, who have pulled it off very well. But to me it feels like a half step. It might look like I can't make up my mind.

I'll think about it while I soak my head. I wonder what solvent works best on duct tape glue.

Shortcut To Disaster

2011-03-10T14:45:00.003-06:00

I go through eggs. I go through a lot of eggs.

I re-started eating eggs as part of my new, healthy diet. I know it sounds strange to load up on eggs to eat healthy, but with my private and proprietary shortcuts, going through a lot of eggs is not much different calorie wise than staying away from eggs completely.

My healthy diet’s main rule is not eating anything white. No wheat, no rice, no sugar. That means no bread, even whole wheat, no candy and, because of the sugar they contain, few dressings and condiments. Paper and cauliflower are fine. I eat only complex, low-glycemic carbs (veggies), proteins and fats. I lied. I eat only complex carbs, protein and fat most of the time. On Saturdays I eat whatever I want. My Saturday gluttony feasts are a fat-boy's dream.

A key part of the diet is eating a high protein breakfast, thus the eggs.

If I was going to eat eggs for breakfast, I had to find a way to fix and eat them in 5 minutes or less. Any more time and I lost too much sleep. I guard my sleep. I adore it.

My quick egg technique: Two eggs in a coffee mug, usually without shell. Whip until blended. Forty seconds on high in the microzapper. Mix the cooked egg and the uncooked together. Twenty seconds in the microzapper. Wah-la, hot, scrambled eggs.

The trouble was clean up. Eggs stick to Teflon. They would stick to Bill Clinton. If I didn’t want to fight dried-on egg, I had to clean the mug right then. That sixty seconds was an unacceptable use of time. This led to my first shortcut to disaster.

I purchased paper bowls so I could cook, eat and toss. Not only would I save time, but I would save wash water, a precious resource. I was sure that if I took time to research it I could prove that wasting water was a greater ecological issue than constructively using paper, so I assumed I proved it. Success felt great. Right up until the time I tried it.

You see, mugs have handles and paper bowls do not. As I carried my blended, raw eggs to the zapper, I lost the metaphorical handle to the bowl. Splat. It takes more paper towels to clean up egg splat than paper bowls to cook egg unsplat. Lesson learned. I am now much more careful with paper bowls than with anything in my cabinet that might actually break.

My next shortcut was a beauty of time management. Realizing that I spent an extra 11 seconds transporting the egg carton back to the fridge after cooking them, I simply cut out that step. I decided to grab two eggs and leave the carton in the fridge.

For those of you who hadn’t noticed, eggs roll. One of my unrestrained eggs rolled off the counter. Splat. Since I didn’t want egg on my bare feet, I jumped back, which meant I was too far away from my eggs to catch the second egg as it rolled off. Splat, the sequel.

If I add many more shortcuts to my egg production I will soon be eating less eggs than I was before I re-started eating eggs. Cleaning, yes. Eating, no.

The Cure For Baldness

2011-03-03T17:15:00.003-06:00

I have such wonderful friends. They are always looking out for me. Always thinking about what is best for me. Always trying to build me up in every way.

One friend recently told me that I spread sunshine wherever I go. What is sweeter is that she said it in a way that would not embarrass me in front of other people. Her approach was really ingenious, both complementing my disposition and showing how sensitive she is to my embarrassment over public compliments.

I was in a hallway conversation when this sensitive friend passed by and said...and what is sweeter yet is that this was totally out of the blue...she said, “You need a hat. That shine off your head is blinding me.” What an unique way of complementing my radiance while not embarrassing me by the compliment.

Another friend, somehow under the impression that my radiance was due to a balding spot and not from my glowing personality, told me she had the prefect cure for my “cute spot.”

By the way, I shall use “balding spot” in place of “bald spot” since “balding” sounds so much better than “bald”. I have another friend to thank for that suggestion. Thank you, Vicky. I hope my friend who called it a “cute spot” is not offended, I would hate to offend anyone. However, I want to save “cute spot” for the high probability that someone will use that term for some other cute spot on my body. I want to avoid any future confusion.

My “cute spot” friend said I should covert to Judaism. I stared at her like a goat on sedatives, so she explained. She said my balding spot is about the size of a yarmulke or skull cap, and pointed out that if I converted to Judaism I could wear a yarmulke everywhere to cover my balding spot. I think she has something.

The great thing about this Judaism and yarmulke idea, apart from the whole religious conversion and circumcision thing, is that it fulfills my “you need a hat” friend's desire for me to wear a hat, makes it appropriate to wear said hat anywhere and everywhere, yet does so with the smallest hat possible, thus avoiding overheating. That, my friends, is an elegant solution. Simplicity and effectiveness combined.

Never one to let a good idea go unchanged, I think we can improve it, keeping the elegance of the yarmulke solution while getting rid of the need to convert and cut (I'll just say C&C in future references). I am relatively certain that the conversion would go against my religion. The cutting would go against my...let's just say I don't think it's going to cut it.

My improvement: take the basic yarmulke and sew hair onto it. That would give me a relatively cheap toupee, and if anyone noticed the change I could simply claim it's a cashmere yarmulke with extra long fibers. Plus, by using a yarmulke, I would eliminate the need to use spray-on hair, officially called hair color thickener and sometimes derisively called hair-in-a-can. At $1.99 a can, this will save me a ton.

Or would. If I used the stuff. Don't even know what it is.

Shalom, out.

Tires

2011-02-24T22:13:00.000-06:00

I just ordered a Big Mac at Wendy's, or the automotive equivalent.

Walking into a Firestone Tire shop, I asked them to price a set of Michelin tires for my SUV. My service representative didn't quite know what to say. She had a slightly panicked look on her face as she searched for just the right words to tell me I was an idiot without sounding like she was telling me I was an idiot.

After a pause, she told me, with just a hint of condescension (as opposed to condensation, which is what my wet noodle mind wanted me to write), that they didn't sell Michelin tires (as opposed to Michigan tires, which is what my spellchecker wanted me to write). She went on to explain that they were a corporately owned Firestone store (that is probably why they had "Firestone" in big red letters on the side of their building) and that they only sold Firestone and Bridgestone products.

Of course, I immediately jumped on the fact that they did, after all and contrary to what she had told me, sell tires other than Firestone. This was an obvious justification of my multi-brand confusion and went a long way towards countering my seeming stupidity.

She was kind enough to ask if I wanted to spend as much as Michelin tires would cost or whether I would be okay with a better value. As much as I wanted to maintain my seeming composure and my confident air by telling her I just wanted to spend a lot of money to ensure I got a good tire, my frugality and slowly improving sense took over and I told her a good tire at a great price would be fine. I think I actually said, “Okay,” in a slightly disappointed and whiny tone.

After she recovered from her disappointment of not winning salesperson of the year by way of a single customer, she gave me some options, including a free alignment check. Knowing that a free alignment check would lead to a not so free alignment, I adroitly told her, “Yes,” and, just to be sure I had the greatest opportunity to spend the most money, I added that I probably needed one. I couldn't resist displaying my tire knowledge by adding, “My wear pattern looks like I need one." Of course, my free check proved me right. Again.

Later, after I had authorized the totally unexpected alignment, my assigned auto technician formerly known as mechanic stopped by to visit and let me know I was a quart low and that he had a flask with some fine Kentucky bourbon…no, he said my SUV was a quart low, and asked me if I wanted him to add some oil. But I saw through his game and threw him off by saying, "Why don't you just change the oil, too." He played it cool, as if he really didn’t want me to spend the extra money or he didn’t have the time, but I convinced him otherwise.

After spending most of the day at the tire store, I snuck out with new tires, a hazard warranty, an alignment and an oil change, but I held strong and didn’t buy the gold plated wheel spinners. They clashed with my new chrome mud flaps.

Thinking About It

2011-02-17T22:02:00.005-06:00

The start of a new year is a good time to sit back and reflect on the year past and year future. I thought about doing that in January, but I never quite found the time. Looking back - although it is early for me to get around to January reflections - I can't say why I didn't have the time. You would figure that if I didn't have the time, I should be able to remember what I did to fill up the time I didn't have. I can account for only a part of it.

That part was the very productive hours used in thinking about going to the Super Bowl. I set my budget. I did my research. I checked my research to make sure the prices I found on my research were really that far over my budget. I considered upping my budget. My credit card declined to cooperate (or would have). I watched the Super Bowl on TV.

Anyway, that is the way I spent much of January and, if I were to admit it, a good part of February. So, with my busy schedule, I'm just now getting started on my 2010 reflections. Let me tell you, the year was jam packed.

Early in the year, as I have written before, I thought of going hang gliding. I won't rehash my imaginary adventures, but let me tell you, they were exciting.

At some point, busy as I was, I thought about going on a cruise. This gets a bit complicated because I had so many choices. There was Alaska. Everyone who has taken an Alaskan cruise raves about it. Then there was the Caribbean. The attractions of the Caribbean were food and scuba diving. I could eat my way though the buffet by night and dive by day. Parrot fish as big as your body, barracuda with teeth as long as your fingers, shark, sting ray, and all kinds of exciting, exotic creatures. After exhausting myself with mental adventures in the Caribbean, my mind turned toward the Mediterranean: Italy, Greece, Monaco and the Riviera. Luxury and pampering. Choices. Too many choices. I stayed home.

Then, just in time, came football season. Up until then you have to admit I had had a pretty exciting year. Then came games on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, many Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Thursday, and Friday. The excitement was relentless, leaving no time for anything else. Oh, I suppose I could have DVR'd games while doing something more productive, but really, what could be more productive. Other than thinking about going to the Super Bowl.

Of course, now that the Super Bowl is past, I'm soooo glad I didn't go. Did you see the crowds?!? And the traffic. Then there was the cold weather. If I had gone to the Super Bowl, I would have wanted a place that was warm and sunny. No cold weather football for me. Plus, I know what those people paid for tickets. I wouldn't want to sit in the same stadium with the kind of people who would pay that much for a ticket.

But. If I start thinking about next year's Super Bowl now, maybe I can swing it.

This should be another exciting year.

Christmas Cars

2010-12-27T21:55:00.001-06:00

Christmas is over but the Christmas car ads continue. I for one am grateful for this public service. It is obviously an attempt by the car companies to extend Christmas joy a few more days, to bring Christmas happiness to just a few more people, and to truly make Christmas, if not a year round attitude, at least a New Year’s week attitude. This is corporate responsibility at its finest.

Christmas car ads are not difficult to figure out. There is a formula. A car with a bow. Excitement and joy when the gift getter is surprised with the car. Perhaps a shot of the gift getter joyously driving the car. At least most of them. Not Lexus.

I am confused by the Lexus Christmas ads. To me, they are a bit off kilter. They don't quite fit the Christmas car ad formula. The ads build up to the grand surprise of Christmas, the presentation of a new car, red bow and all, and the woman getting the car is so excited, she smiles warmly and gives a sigh of…of…well, I suppose relief. Yep, that’s about all the reaction she gives. No excitement but a gentile smile, much like you would expect her to give a waiter delivering her meal, if it was not quite what she ordered but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Maybe she is relieved she didn't get a Ronco Makin' Bacon Master. Or is longing for one.

The guys getting a Lexus are a different story. They are much more expressive. One guy walks into his normal, everyday living room with a 20 foot long fireplace and floor to ceiling windows with a Lexus setting right on the white carpet and can hardly contain himself. He is so excited that he actually smiles broadly, yes, broadly, and walks up to the car, touching it gently. No unbecoming fist pump or other expression of joy for him. No sir. Just a good ol’ broad smile. Very moving.

Even the Lexus' ad family children act strangely sedate. The biggest gift of Christmas is so exciting to them that they gently hug their mom. No running to it, no dragging her to see it. No laughing or jumping. No crawling in and playing with buttons and cup holders. Just a hug and a smile. It's just not natural. I would be pushing buttons.

Maybe Lexus should have hired actors from other car commercials. Those guys and gals know how to show excitement. They don’t even wait for the garage door to open before they plow through it with joy. Or they fight to set in the drivers seat while it sits in their living room, probably because they have no idea how to get it out of their living room. There is no garage door to plow through.

My favorite reaction to a Christmas car was the son of a radio station employee. In one of those holiday spots where families talk about their favorite things about Christmas, this kid talked about how he loves his BMW. Hood. His favorite part of Christmas is when his dad hooks a BMW hood to their four-wheeler and pulls it though the snow like a sleigh.

I wonder if they take it off the car first.

Do What

2010-12-07T22:28:00.002-06:00

I hope he didn't see me.

I did a quick are-you-serious glance when he made a lame comment using the truism, “roll with the punches.” Which isn't really so bad to use. It is not so bad primarily because I have said it. Recently. So it must be very good. And I wouldn't have thought it lame if he would have stopped there. Unfortunately, he didn't.

He had to add, “...to quote an old saying that has been around for a long time,” in a rather condescending voice, as if the guy he was talking to wouldn't recognize it if he didn't point out that it was an old saying. Not to mention that “old” and “long time” are repetitively redundant.

For that matter, I hope he didn't hear me when I added a wee laugh. I mean a hearty, manly laugh. Quietly. A very masculine, quietly hearty laugh.

Which brings me to the question of why does “for that matter” mean “and” in the paragraph above? Why didn't I just write “and”?

For that matter, which in this case means “on second thought,” why do I say, “Do what?” when I mean, “What did you say?” or “Pardon me?”

Admit it, if you are a Southerner, and especially a Kentuckian, that special breed of Northern Southerner, and I ask you, “Do what?”, you automatically and quite naturally repeat what you just said. It is instinctive. Probably inbred, which has a totally different and much more negative meaning in certain parts of Kentucky and Tennessee. But only the parts above water.

Obviously, “Do what?” does not literally mean, “What did you say?” It literally means something closer to “What did you do?”, but we Kentuckians are smart enough to adapt about any saying to something that might not quite fit. Much like our spelling, our sayings are flexible.

I wouldn't have noticed this little oddity if I had not gone to England. The British have no idea what we mean by “Do what?” It is a conversation stopper.

I was traveling for work on an assignment (“assignment” sounds so much more important than “trip”) that took me to London. While there I decided to perform a cultural experiment, by which I mean I acted just like my Kentucky self without thinking anything of it. One of the Brits, and there seemed to have been a lot of them over there, said something I didn't understand. Actually, many of them said many things I didn't understand, and often I automatically responded with, “Do what?”

“Do what?” gets a quite different reaction in London, England than it gets in London, Kentucky. You get this tilt of the head and a knotted brow looking at you like you are speaking a foreign language. You are. It is the actualization of George Bernard Shaw's quip that we are “two peoples separated by a common language.”

Which brings me to the question of why I would actually try to use the word “actualization” in a real, non-corporate-world sentence.

You will be glad to know that I have no idea, therefore, I will stick a fork in it.

Therapy

2010-11-28T22:29:00.000-06:00

Just between you and me, I put myself in therapy. I am afraid of heights.

This fear has not been a handicap in my day-to-day life. There have been few times in my accounting career where I have had to work at the top of a 450 foot crane. Okay, none. But I was tired of dealing with it.

I am not afraid of ladder type heights, but building type heights, or cliff type heights, or any you-could- jump-from-and-not-survive height. Notice that I said “jump” and not “fall.” You see, I am not afraid of falling. I'm quite sure I would not enjoy a long fall with a sudden stop, but that is not my phobia. I am afraid of jumping.

When I peer over a ledge, I have an urge to fling myself off. Looking down, the distance is like a magnet pulling me forward. Weird. Weird and with a simple solution. Don't jump. Thank you, I don't intend to.

It is much better if I know I can't jump. In a tall building, on an airplane, or anyplace with a solid barrier, I'm fine. As long as I'm restrained, I'm fine. I suppose a large, ugly man holding me in a choke-hold would work, but I was thinking more along the lines of a wall or glass. Something more substantial than a mere rail. If I wanted to, I could jump a rail.

If jumping is expected, no problem. In rappelling down a cliff you are supposed to jump, and I'm fine when rappelling. That first time over the edge is a bit unnerving, but after I know the rope will hold, I'm good.

Having a parachute on my back also eliminates the urge to jump, which is strange since jumping is the only way you can use a parachute the way it is intended to be used. During my first three jumps, I didn't feel that fear of heights. Not in the plane, not at the open door of the plane, and not standing outside the door of the plane holding onto the wing strut. I didn't exactly feel as comfortable as in my La-Z-Boy, but I wasn't afraid of flinging myself out in an intentional effort to plummet to the ground. Yes, I was jumping on purpose, but it was with a parachute on my back and with relative certainty that my chute would open.

It wasn't until my fourth jump, my third of the day, that I felt any fear. Just by coincidence, that was the last time I jumped.

So, a few months ago I enrolled in therapy. Self therapy. I found a 300 foot overlook and I walked to the edge. I looked over. I felt the urge to jump. I didn't like it, so enough of that. I backed up about three feet and sat on a big rock. It is harder to jump from a sitting position. I sat there for about 45 minutes, sort of peering over the edge every now and then. I never got comfortable, so I quit therapy. Just walked out. Personally, I think my therapist had no idea what he was doing.

Or maybe he did. I have decided never to jump. I think that is a decision I can live with.

Thoughts About Gas

2010-11-09T22:11:00.000-06:00

Some thoughts spring out of nowhere. Deep thoughts. Important thoughts. Life altering thoughts. This wasn't one of them.

I was pumping gas into my SUV when it hit me. I have been pumping gas since I was eight, before it was illegal to do it at eight. And may I say (which I may since I am writing this), I am an excellent pumper. I am such an excellent pumper that I once pumped 18 gallons of gas into a 16 gallon tank. That particular tank was in a boat, a 16 foot inboard/outboard that had been the family boat for years.

After a day of skiing we needed gas. We pulled up to the dock, I spun the cap off the gas port, careful not to let the cap fall in the water (the chain that secured it to the boat had long since broken), jammed the pump nozzle in and started pumping. This particular gas port was finicky and you had to hold the nozzle just right or it would cut off, so I sat on the back of the boat holding the nozzle, talking to the guy who had made the gas run with me, and glancing at the pump every so often to see how much it was going to cost him (his turn to buy).

At 16 gallons I thought, “Wow, we ran her dry.” At 17 gallons I thought, “I thought this was a 16 gallon tank.” At 18 gallons, “This is strange,” not thinking how strange it really would be to pump 18 gallons into a 16 gallon tank. But I stopped pumping.

I stopped pumping and started noticing a very strong smell of gas.

I hopped off the back of the boat and pulled the engine compartment open. It had more than the normal accumulation of water. Then I had a thought, arguably my first clear thought since I started pumping. I dipped my finger in the water and sniffed it. It wasn't water. It was gas.

It wasn't just a little gas. It was, oh, about 18 gallons of gas. Eighteen gallons of gas in an open compartment with a battery, a hot engine and a number of electrical wires. I thought, “Not good.” Yes, I am very perceptive. And bright. Except when it comes to calculating how 18 gallons fits into a 16 gallon tank.

None of the gas went into the tank. When I had so delicately, gently, and softly jammed the nozzle into the gas port, I had jammed it though the hose connecting the port to the tank. Every ounce had gone into the engine compartment and up into the hull of the boat. We were sitting on a very large Molotov Cocktail with an electric fuse.

After borrowing a hand pump, we spent the next few hours pumping gas out of the boat. We then started pouring buckets of water into the boat. That didn't seem right, but it worked.

I know it worked because, after closing my eyes and starting the engine, I heard the engine and not an explosion. At the time, I thought it was the logical thing to do.

On second thought, my thoughts that day could have been life altering.

Bad News

2010-11-02T22:25:00.002-05:00

Bad news never comes at a good time. If you are having a good time when he arrives, he kills the mood. If you are down, he kicks you. If you are weak, he throws sand in your face and laughs at you. He is one of those friends that darkens whatever room he walks into.

I was in a good mood when he arrived. I had just indulged in a liberal dose of my favorite mood altering drug, food. It was a mushroom cheeseburger with a loaded sweet potato, preceded by an appetizer of rolls with cinnamon and sugar butter. Good stuff. Very good stuff. I had decided to skip dessert out of a sense of restraint and responsibility, and because I was stuffed. Very stuffed.

Then I got the call.

I answered, "Hello, this is Mark," because that's who I am. She said, "This is Ashley at such and such clinic," probably because that is who she is, and she told me Dr. Soandso had asked her to call about my recent blood work. I knew it couldn't be good. Doctors don't call you with good news.

She said both my triglycerides and blood sugar were borderline high. I took this to mean that my results were almost bad, but not quite. Whether that was true or not is irrelevant because that is how I chose to see it. That way I could rest easy with the false knowledge that my numbers were still on the good side of the line.

This is a reasonable approach given that if I had been on the bad side of borderline Ashley would not have said I was borderline good. She would have said I was bad, and perhaps that the good doctor wanted to see me again. As it was, being borderline bad, he simply passed the word to me to exercise a little more, eat a little less fatty meat, and cut back on the sugar.

Oops. Too late.

Sitting in front of a very empty plate from a very fatty meal, accented with a somewhat liberal helping of sugar, all I could do was laugh.

I am sure you can tell from my tone of voice that I am intent on conquering this borderline bad situation. It is the smart thing to do. Just as soon as I verify the numbers. You see, the night before my physical I pre-arranged an excuse so that whatever the tests results were, I could tell myself I was really better than what they showed.

My secret? I forced myself to swallow multiple doses of prime rib pasta with cream sauce the night before my physical. And I supplemented the pasta procedure with an oral injection of rolls with cinnamon and sugar butter.

Don't get me wrong. I will take this warning very seriously. I will cut down on both the fat and the sugar, at least on all nights that fall immediately before my next physical. And I will increase my exercise. Why, just tonight I increased my activity. I walked and paced as I typed this ditty into my phone.

I probably burned off a whole bunch of that Reese's I ate on my way back from the restaurant.

Corralling Carts

2010-10-26T21:54:00.003-05:00

I would have felt bad for the guy if I hadn't been laughing so hard. In fact, I did feel bad. At first.

I was sitting in the parking lot at Krogers, as I often do on a Thursday night, talking on the phone when a rolling shopping cart caught my eye. It was rolling toward a small, blue pickup truck where a guy was waiting for someone. It wasn't rolling fast, and it didn't roll far. It did roll into the rear wheel well. Not “well” as in it hit the wheel good, but “well” as in it hit the well where the wheel set.

Well, that wasn't very well put. It hit the truck.

The guy was none too happy. He got out to move the cart across an empty parking spot, muttering what I am reasonably certain were not sweet words for the person who put the cart where it could roll, then he slammed back into his truck.

He had barely hit the seat when the cart started rolling again. Towards his truck. Into the front of his truck.

Forgive me, but I started laughing. The guy had become the person he had been cursing.

I told my sister, who was on the other end of the line (which is not an actual line since we were using cell phones, so I suppose she was on the other end of a radio wave, which just doesn't have the same class as saying “line”), and she started laughing. This of course caused me to laugh more, which by this point was well beyond the level of humor of the actual event. I had crossed from laughing at the plight of the guy with the cart into laughing at the guy. Not nice.

Particularly since I could have been that guy. I have been that guy.

Most recently, it was while driving.

I was motoring down the highway, minding my own business and totally focused on my driving responsibilities while I made a phone call, when the woman in the next lane decided she liked my lane better. She started over. I was slightly behind her and hit my breaks to keep from trading paint. I shook my head and thought the kindest thought I could at that moment-“You idiot.” Notice, I did not use an exclamation point. Very nice of me, I thought.

A few weeks later I was tooling down the interstate, totally focused on my driving again with my phone in my hand, when I came upon a slower vehicle in my lane. Rather inconsiderate of the driver to make me change lanes, but being the nice, considerate guy I am, I glanced in my side mirror and slid past him.

As I did, something in my rear view mirror caught my eye. A car. A very close car. A Mercedes. I know it was a Mercedes because the Mercedes emblem on its grill filled my rear view mirror. Yes, I had become the idiot driver switching lanes. Of course, this instance was much different from the one a few weeks earlier. This was a fluke, a blind spot, a mistake anyone could make.

After all, this time I was the idiot.

Bigoted NPR

2010-10-22T00:01:00.003-05:00

National Public Radio is bigoted.

Recently I wrote about NPR in a somewhat, marginally, slightly slanted positive light. I was wrong to do so. This week NPR showed that they are bigoted.

I admit that I am not quite sure what they are bigoted against. They are either bigoted against humans, against reality, or against humans who speak the truth about reality. It's hard to tell.

I hate to get all serious and quotatious on you, but let's start with a definition. Princeton University, on their wordnetweb.princeton.edu site, defines bigoted as, “blindly and obstinately attached to some creed or opinion and intolerant toward others.” Other definitions make it clear that bigotry requires intolerance.

This week NPR fired correspondent Juan Williams for stating that since 9/11 he gets nervous when he gets on a plane and he sees someone who is identifying themselves as Muslim by their clothing. He didn't say it was right, he didn't defend it, he didn't say he refused to get on the plane, he didn't say he asked that they be searched, he didn't say he changed his actions in anyway, he just stated the truth that he had a nervous reaction. Nowhere did he indicate an intolerance, thus, no bigotry.

On the other hand, NPR fired him without discussion. They acted on their prejudice against a different opinion with swift dispatch. Intolerance. Bigotry.

The truth about humans is that we categorize things, situations and, yes, people. It is how we make sense of millions of bits of information so that we can function efficiently by consciously considering only thousands of bits of information. That is just the fact of the matter as it is taught on even the most liberal of college campuses, except they may skip the part about people. Doesn't mean that part isn't true, just that they skip it.

That means that if Yogi Bear and Boo Boo went around eating people, or, say, killed about 3000 people in an attack by commercial planes on a building, a person in a dark forest or on a commercial plane would get a bit nervous if they saw a pair who looked like Yogi Bear and Boo Boo. The person could choose not to act on their fear or nervousness, thus being tolerant, or they could choose to make intolerant, unreasonable and discriminatory demands about dealing with these bears, and thus be bigoted. Same experience, different action, different definition.

Over time, if a person was tolerant and ran into enough Yogi Bears and Boo Boos who were just happy-go-lucky picnic basket mooches (sorry to group you with the mooches, Boo Boo, but you seem to always be hanging around the master mooch), the instant reaction of associating these bears to the horror would decrease over time. However, if there were a small but significant number of bears who looked like Yogi and Boo Boo and who loved eating humans, it would be foolish not to pay attention until you knew whether you were dealing with a human eater or a picnic basket mooch. Such caution is not bigotry, it is careful tolerance.

Juan Williams was fired for admitting he felt what the vast majority of people feel, most of whom are tolerant and non-bigoted.

I hope Yogi steals NPR's picnic basket.

Fair And Balanced NPR

2010-10-19T19:47:00.003-05:00

I like National Public Radio. It is a nice change of pace from what I normally listen to in the car. Nothing.

I have about a 4 minute drive to and from work, and that is hardly enough time to listen to one car dealership commercial. Even when driving to Nashville or Louisville I forget to turn the radio on until I have gone though my catalog of thoughts, which takes about 30 seconds. With reruns. Ten minutes after that, and with a totally blank cranium, I realize I could be doing something more productive, like listening to rap music, which I hate. That is when I turn on the radio.

When I do, I sometimes listen to NPR. Sometimes is about twice a year. I know this because I tuned in during the kickoff for their semi-annual fund raising campaign, and the time before it was the middle of their previous semi-annual campaign. Sadly, I missed the kickoff for that one. I hate missing kickoffs. It's like you missed the start of the game.

NPR works the guilt buttons to get donations. They explained that those of us who do not pledge are mooching off those of you who do. This did not work on me because I only listen during fund raising drives and get less listening hours out of my lack of donations. I feel this is a fair trade.

There is one reason they gave to donate that I loved, primarily because I agreed with it.

The announcer explained that public radio is able to support itself though listener donations because it is so great that listeners want to donate to keep it on air. He further explained that this greatness is because public radio knows it has to be great to deserve the donations, so they work at being great. In other words, NPR is a poster child for the free enterprise system.

I realize that associating NPR producers to the free enterprise system could make their skin crawl off their bodies and on to California, leaving a lot of ugly producers, but they know they have to produce something worthy of being produced and that the market (listeners) will hold them accountable if they don't (by not funding them), so they produce something worth producing. That is free enterprise.

While I suspect they still get some tax money, at least I like the concept.

As if to drive home the importance of accountability, another segment focused on defaults in a government college loan program for parents of students. There are billions in default because the government agency administering these loans does not look to see if the borrowers can, and I realize this is a radical concept, repay the loan. No one is accountable, so it's just not worth the trouble.

I was thinking, “There is hope for NPR.”

Then a commentator opined that papa government and momma congress should take care of its inept citizens (definition: you and me) and fund all college educations. Okay, that wasn't exactly how he said it, but that's what I heard.

In the time it takes to drive from Bowling Green to Louisville, NPR went from capitalist pig to Marxist commie. Now that is fair and balanced.

The Silver Surfer

2010-10-11T22:11:00.001-05:00

He surfed past me going surprisingly fast, so fast that I was compelled to look ahead to see what or who he was going to be crashing into. I didn’t think he had enough control to avoid anything, but he surprised me. He sailed past the walkers and the cars without damage to them or him. Impressive.

As impressive as a 45-year old surfing the Walmart parking lot on a loaded shopping cart can be.

He came barreling out of Walmart standing on the back of the cart, gripping the handle, wearing jeans and a burnt orange t-shirt, a long, thin man with a long, gray ponytail not quite blowing in the wind. Every few seconds he would push off with one foot or the other, maintaining his speed and making course corrections.

This was obviously not his first foray off of Walmart Beach. He had way too much control to be a newbie and it was clear he knew his way around a parking lot. He shot through a gap between parked cars without hesitating and without coming close to hitting either one, all the while looking ahead for traffic on the other side.

I pride myself on my parking lot and traffic awareness, honed by growing up working around moving vehicles and walking across Dixie Highway, once known as Dixie Dieway. I am always aware of how close I am to a moving car and what the clearance will be. He put me to shame.

I’m not sure what the other folks in the parking lot were thinking as he flew by, but they were probably thinking some version of what I was thinking; “This is strange,” with a bit of disdain for this adult who was acting like a child. A rowdy, out of control child.

Of course, my second thought was, “That looks like fun.” My third was, “I could do better than that.” Yes, it is a short trip from disdain to arrogance.

If this Silver Surfer hadn’t been so fast, I might have challenged him to a race. We could have gone once up the second aisle, between the blue and the silver car, past the crosswalk, down the third aisle and into the cart return. But he was gone, flashing by with a brief bit of fun before I could go from indignant to amused to competitive. Besides, I had some shopping to do.

Unfortunately, my shopping take was little more than a handful of things, not enough to warrant a cart, so I had no opportunity to practice my cart surfing. Bummer.

But next time. Next time I will choose my cart carefully. I will test it to make sure the wheels have minimal wobble for maximum control. I will try it out with a push and release to see if it has a smooth, straight roll. As soon as I get to an aisle where no one will see me, I’ll do a test push off and ride. Then, when I get to the parking lot I will be ready. Ready to really let loose, push the limits, ride the wind, dent a car and break an arm.

But first I should add a shopping cart to my car insurance.

Faux-No!

2010-10-04T23:11:00.004-05:00

There are times you are a good citizen because you go with the flow, such as going the speed limit with traffic. There are times you are a good citizen because you make an effort, such as picking up someone else’s trash or donating to a good cause. There are other times you are a good citizen only because you are dragged, kicking and screaming, against your will or better judgment. This was one of those times.

Let me define a “good citizen.” It is someone who does the “right thing,” whatever way someone may define the right thing. I define the term because some may not believe the heroine of the story that follows was a good citizen. Some may think this good citizen was…how shall I say this with kindness and thoughtfulness…an everyday idiot. You are free to have my opinion. Others have their own odd opinion, and to them the actions depicted below qualify as the right thing and, therefore, make my heroine a good citizen. It is all relative, like that cousin you can’t stand.

The events are true. The name has been changed to protect those of us who make idiotic mistakes.

Michele is in sales. She makes good money and travels, often to conventions to discuss her product, specialized software. One such trip was to Las Vegas (I didn’t change Las Vegas’ name; it rebels at protection and revels in degradation). Michele was doing what many women do in a tourist mecca with untold attractions; shopping. Specifically, she was shopping for shoes. Michele would work for shoes.

Michele saw a pair of boots she just loved, as only a woman who loves shoes can love a piece of leather. She picked them up. They were Stella McCartneys. They were $1,100. She put them down. Carefully. And walked away.

But she couldn’t get them out of her head. She walked by them again that day, and arranged visitation with them the next. She really loved those boots.

So she bought those boots.

As with most humans, she found it easy to justify what she had decided to do, including how she would hide them from her husband until they were old enough for her to say, “Oh, those old things? I’ve had them for a while. You never notice anything,” with just enough pout to make him feel guilty enough to not ask any more questions.

That night, she was on a new shoe high. She was strutting her boots and appreciating the looks. As she settled in at a bar, she couldn’t resist propping those babies up for all to see.

As she took in a few more compliments, a guy looked at the bottom of her new boots, gave a “Hum,” and read aloud, “Vegan made. No animal products used.”

Michele whipped her leg up, bent her foot around, and read the sole of her new boots. She flew out of her chair and through clinched teeth growled, “You mean I paid $1,100 for a pair of boots and they're not even LEATHER!?!”

Yes, Michele was a good citizen to the vegan community. At last report, she had declined any public recognition for her unselfish contribution to a more animal friendly planet.

Un-Bagged

2010-09-27T17:40:00.000-05:00

This week I keep my investigative-reporter-under-the-cover hat firmly attached to my metaphorical head (though I also have a non-metaphorical head) to expose the true tyranny of the crinkly bag. Last week I raged against the Green Machine and its ultra crinkly, noise pollution causing Sun Chips bag. This week we go on location to un-bag the hidden evils.

It may seem like overkill to spend two weeks on chip packaging, but if we don't overkill issues that threaten our our right to a quiet snack, if we don't protest evil in easy to consume consumer products, if we just roll over and eat chips, this evil will spread to other, more important areas, like chocolate chip cookies, or worse, toilet paper.

My report this week comes from a person in the field, an actual user of the ultra crinkly Sun Chips bag in an actual eating situation. This user shall remain anonymous to protect her, or it could be a him, from any retribution from the Big Bag Companies. The user, whom I will call DG, was on a woman's retreat where one of the attendees smuggled in a bag of, yes, you guessed it, Sun Chips in a compostable bag. The very bag with the very noisy crinkle. Anytime anyone went for a Sun Chip (and I hear they went for them quite often), the crinkling reverberated throughout the living quarters. The noise was deafening. It was maddening. It drove DG to terminate the bag.

DG surgically removed said chips from the said crinkly bag, placed said chips in a quiet food storage bag (as an investigative reporter, I am ashamed to admit that I did not get the name of said savior storage bag), and threw the compostable bag, not in the compost, but in the trash.

Such irony. The marketing of chips in a compostable bag was the direct cause of an additional plastic, non-compostable bag being added to the ecosystem, a compostable bag being tossed before its time, and a bag of unmarked chips being left laying around where anyone, perhaps under-aged chip eaters, could mistake them for who knows what chip. Worse, the unmarked bag had none of the nutritional information that had been on the crinkly bag, making it impossible for said chip eaters to properly monitor their caloric and nutritional intake.

There you have it. A bag designed to reduce pollution by promoting composting led to three unintended consequences, thereby harming the environment and putting chip eaters at nutritional risk.

So I ask: how much compost do we really want in this world? I would rather walk through a field of chip bags than a field of compost, as long as they were non-crinkly chip bags. Not that I am promoting fields of chip bags over fields of grass. I would prefer fields of grass over fields of chip bags or fields of compost. Fields of dollar bills would be even better.

But that is my personal ranking. I am sure there are those who would rather walk though fields of compost, cow chips or other organic, fertilizing material than chip bags or money. I am okay with that.

Only please, leave those shoes at home. I prefer the smell of Sun Chips.

Green

2010-09-20T16:56:00.005-05:00

Green is the way to go, or so I've been told. Again and again and again. Every time I read a magazine or turn on a TV there are ads pushing a Green car, company or computer chip.

Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with Green. On balance, it is positive. It is good to take care of what we have, as long as we don't lose site of its essential purpose, its highest use. I do have a problem with Extreme Greens, those people who want to deny any benefit to men from Earth and who know they are right because, well, they are just right. And very loud about it. No discussion, no debate, no reason.

The reasonable approach to Green is like the maintenance of a car. If you own a car, the logical way to get the most good from it is to take care of it. Oil it, gas it, lube it, and wash it to keep it going good. Let it serve you well by servicing it well. The unreasonable approach is to never drive the car, being afraid to put miles on it, fearing you would then have to perform maintenance on it, and, therefore, not using it the way it is meant to be used. Use the Earth to live and prosper, and take care of it so we can keep living and prospering.

Don't be an Extreme Green. Don't be so loud about it. Let me eat my Sun Chips in peace.

At this point you have quite eloquently asked yourself, “Huh?” or “How did he get from Green to Sun Chips?” It's called artistic license, which means I can do whatever I want as long as I say it is for the sake of Art, with a capital “A.” Even if I do it because I am too lazy to construct a logical transition.

Sun Chips. See, I did it again. Art.

I smoothly transitioned to Sun Chips because I bought a bag. Not remarkable. What is remarkable is the decibel level of Sun Chips' new bag. It crinkles so loudly you need ear plugs to pick it up. And forget about quietly sneaking a few chips. This bag is a built-in alarm. It crinkles loud enough to wake a Robison at 300 yards, and we sleep soundly, even after we get in the shower. This bag is so loud it comes with a noise pollution warning.

Okay, not quite, but it does have a noise warning. On the back it reads, “This Bag Is Louder Because It Is Compostable.” (It also has a picture of compost on the back. Yum.)

So now the Extreme Greens have decided that an irritating, overly loud crinkling noise is better than a quiet, non-compostable bag. This is an outrage.

To protest this outrage, I am going to buy a tank-full of BP gas and drive around in circles. As long as I pour some paint on the ground and drive through it while driving my circles, I can call it Art. That will make it okay. Then we can let the Militant Artists and the Extreme Greens battle it out.

This could be fun.

Granddaughter

2010-09-12T18:04:00.002-05:00

Between you and me, I have not been excited about being a grandfather. Oh, I like kids and am looking forward to playing with grand-kids simply for the joy of play. On the other hand, they really wouldn't have to be my grand-kids to be fun. Anyone's grand-kids would do, although their being your own does make it more regular and acceptable. It's not like I can go up to the neighbor's house and say, “Can Issac come out to play?” Something about the age difference makes that suspect, being suspect can lead to a call to the police, and from there it just gets awkward.

Really, isn't play what kids are for? The main reason to have kids is so you can act like a kid again. When else but around kids can a 35 or a 55 year old get on the floor and act like a donkey and appear perfectly normal? And when we adults are worn out and need rest, watching kids play is enjoyable in its own way. Kids give adults an infusion of fun and energy.

Which is exactly why I haven't been keen on being a grandfather. Grandfathers are the guys who need that infusion of fun and energy the most, men with bald heads who need naps, and I am not in that category. Sure, I am balding, but I am using every means at my disposal to slow it down or disguise it, though the rest of my little hairs have started waving little white flags, which could be mistaken for gray hair around a bald spot. And I admit to taking naps, but only short ones, except on Sundays when it is my religious duty to take a long mid-afternoon nap. There may be other duties I ignore, but resting is obviously the most important, even if all of that other Sabbath stuff seems silly and was really supposed to be on Saturdays anyway. Let's not nitpick.

But here I am, a grandfather with a granddaughter.

She is a tiny little thing, barely two handfuls waiting to grow into a true handful. She is too young to play and she is hooked up to tubes and monitors and lights and we are not supposed to pick her up, so really, what good is she to a grandfather? Later, when I can panic her mother by throwing her in the air, sure, she will be of some use. Or when she can try to grab my sunglasses (I won't admit to needing glasses) or my hair or my nose (I almost said “or my nose hair,” but that is too gross to write about my angel granddaughter).

But it doesn't matter. I am hooked. I had a feeling I was hooked the first time I saw her, but now I know it. It became obvious when my sister and I stopped by to see her on our way to a Louisville football game. I couldn't play with her, couldn't irritate her, couldn't tease her, couldn't even hold her. All I could do was look at her and touch her tiny body with a stubby old finger or too large a hand. That was enough. It was enough that when it was time to go the the game, I realized I would just as soon stay and watch this little being breathe, squirm and, at times, cry her soft cry as to go watch football. That's when I knew.

Fortunately for my male pride, her current accommodations do not allow more than two visitors at a time, and in a show of huge (which I've been told I pronounce “uge”) disrespect and lack of consideration, her parents showed up and I had to leave anyway. Seems they wanted to spend time with their daughter. Unbelievable.

Just proves I was right to demote them from son and daughter-in-law to parents of my grandchild.

Maybe that's not such a demotion after all. Sort of like being called grandfather.

Inside the Lines

2010-09-06T23:14:00.003-05:00

I don't trust people who stay inside the lines.

‬‪I realized this about myself as I followed a co-worker across the street. He stayed inside the lines, literally, by following the painted crosswalk, even though it veered away from the direction he wanted to go. He then had to double back to get back on track.

There are a few things to consider about this. First, it shows the great depth of my self knowledge that I should discover this prejudice after living only half a century. Second, it brings up the fundamental question of why I would not trust this person because he stayed inside the lines.

‬‪The answer is that he was not doing it my way. Although we were going in the same direction, he stayed in the lines and I crossed the lines to walk straight to my target, going totally out of the crosswalk. I cut at least two seconds off my walk. He had to go an extra five feet because he stayed inside the lines.‬‪ Also, my direct route let me avoid making the sharp angle of turn that he required. My route was much more efficient and, obviously, much better. I cannot trust anyone who is not looking for a better way. For reasons I don't understand, the better way often has a very close resemblance to my way.

That is not to say my way is always better. Just that it usually is. Every once in a while I am wrong. When I am wrong, my way is not very good at all. Even I can see that, though not as easily or as quickly as everyone else. However, when I am right, the way I do it works, it is comfortable and it feels perfectly natural. Almost as if it came straight from me.

While it may not always be better, it is almost always more interesting, and often more fun.

I'm sure inside-the-liners have fun in their own way, but I just don't see it. I doubt they get any enjoyment at all from crossing against the light, from going out the in door at the Post Office, or from taking meds out of their bubble pack in random order. A very limited imagination.

Inside-the-liners seem to stay in the lines naturally, and they often don't appreciate those of us who don't. They fail to see the benefits of our off-the-cuff decisions or our shortcuts. Sometimes, they take it as a personal affront, as if we intentionally make their life more difficult and uncertain. Please. We make their life more difficult, and our way is certainly less certain, but that is not our purpose. It's what we do naturally. Or compulsively.

Don't get me wrong. We need inside-the-liners. Given a choice between a me and an inside-the-liner as my airline pilot, I'll take an inside-the-liner every time. I want a pilot who checks every item on the check list. Twice. Who wouldn't think of doing a loop-d-loop in an airliner, and obeys every rule. So I do trust inside-the-liners for limited purposes. Things that are life and death. Or otherwise important.

Other than that, no trust at all.

Facing Down A Cub Scout

2010-08-30T21:46:00.001-05:00

I have a new sport and it is now in season. It is avoiding cub scouts. The season is fund raising season, which so happens to be now. Or any time of the year. During fund raising season, these cubs are easy to find. They hang out in packs in front of grocery and other stores selling various flavors of popcorn.

Warning: These innocent looking creatures are anything but. They are vicious, cold blooded salesmen. Walk by them at your own peril.

My encounter started innocently enough. I walked by a smiling, snarling pack on my way to get cash at the grocery store. The snarling was hidden by the sound of straws in juice boxes, but it was there, just as sure as a young cub's mother is going to be hovering in the background. As I approached, one broke away from the pack and asked me, in the sweetest, most angelic voice such a vicious creature can muster, which is pretty angelic, “Do you want to buy some popcorn?”

I didn't back down an inch. I answered, “No thank you. I don't eat popcorn.” This is the absolute truth. I don't eat popcorn. Unless I am stealing it from someone sitting next to me. Or someone gives me a free bag. Other than that, nada.

Once inside and safe from the snarling pack, temptation set in. There, on a rack in front of me, was a big, garbage-bag sized bag of popcorn, ready to eat. I suddenly had an urge to buy that huge bag of popcorn and carry it out past that cub pack of popcorn sellers, just to see the reaction. Admittedly, the boys probably wouldn't notice, but their mommas would. I chickened out. Ride rapids, okay. Jump out of a plane, sure. Face an indignant cub mother, no thank you.

As I walked out, a popcorn-less coward, the same cub asked if I wanted to buy popcorn. I laughed and said, “No, I still don't eat it.” I escaped unscathed.

Not 20 minutes later I was walking out of another store, one where I had managed to sneak past the camp guard on the way in. The sentry on duty at the “out” doors was preoccupied with a woman who had the misfortune of exiting in front of me. He asked the obligatory question, and she gave the standard, “No, thank you.” Apparently, he was tired of hearing “no thank yous.”

He pushed on. He asked, “Do you have $20? We have change.” I told you, vicious.

Now she was on the spot. She quit fumbling with her wallet and purse and looked up. Her face said she was uncertain how to handle this. As she was formulating her answer, she was saved by a cub mom who nervously apologized.

Looking back, I think the kid had something. He was doing what any good salesman would do. He was qualifying his customer. No need to push for a sale if she didn't have the money. If she did have the money, he was going to get it.

Seeing this display of unabashed gall, I bravely tiptoed away while he was occupied.

An Endangered Species

2010-08-23T22:25:00.001-05:00

“Boys, we are riding a dinosaur.”

That out of the blue announcement was made to seven football coaches by Vic Clark, a fellow assistant on a team I was coaching in the early 80's. Seeing our confused looks, he explained. “Football is on the way out. It's going to be replaced by soccer. Soccer is the World's sport, and soccer doesn't need football coaches.”

We all paused for a second, then ignored him.

His timing was off. Soccer is steadily gaining popularity, but football still has a strangle hold on fall. Vic has since retired and he did it as a football coach.

I was reminded of his comment when I walked into The Chop House. The Chop House is a restaurant, hence my presence, that specializes in meat and potatoes. Literally. Steaks, chops and prime rib, with baked potatoes and baked sweet potatoes. I was reminded of Vic's comment because my experience there made me think, “I am eating a dinosaur.” Not because my prime rib tasted like dinosaur, as if I knew what dinosaur tasted like - probably chicken - or because the place wasn't busy. It was very busy. It was who it was busy with that made me think dinosaurs.

As I looked around, I realized I was the youngest person there. Okay, I only wish I was the youngest. I was among the youngest people there. But it wasn't their age that made me think dinosaur, though there was a lot of leathery skin. It dawned on me that this older group was the last of the “meat is what you eat” generation. For them, going out to eat meant eating beef, either a steak or a burger. Their way of eating is becoming extinct.

Younger generations, and to humor myself I'll include myself among them, still eat beef, but not as much. Modern menus reflect this. The beef section has shrunk and has smaller cuts of beef, and the salad, chicken and fish sections have grown. Beef is gradually being squeezed into a smaller section of the menu, like Rosanne into a bikini.

This was a sad realization, over and beyond the vision just provoked.

Sadder yet, I was thinking about this with a hunk of prime rib in front of me. Apparently, I am emotionally attached to my beef.

This de-beefing of America shouldn't have surprised me. At one time I was an unquestioning “meat is what you eat” diner, eating steak for special occasions and burgers for a casual night out or in. I had pre-game meals of steak and eggs, Sunday dinners of pot roast, and celebration dinners of grilled steak. Now, steak is an every now and then treat. That is a choice I have made for my health and vanity. I don't want to die and I don't want to get fat. I certainly don't want to die fat. Super-sized coffins cost more.

Not only should I have not been surprised, but this de-beefing should have made me happy. It has given me more non-beef selections than ever while still allowing me the option of eating my beloved, but estranged, beef.

Beef and me. It is a strained relationship, but the reunions are very tasty.

Strange People In Louisville

2010-08-16T17:26:00.003-05:00

Friday night I headed to downtown Louisville for a double feature: food and music. The music was free and food was not, but I am willing to pay for good food, and free music is always worth at least what I pay.

I first headed to a restaurant that I heard serves great bison. Being a Friday night and a popular spot, I thought I would be eating at the bar, which is fine, except I found that they serve a limited menu at the bar. No bison. I felt rejected and left.

My next choice was Italian, so I headed to a spot with good Italian which also happened to be closer to the free music. Except when I got there they were having a Spanish night. Spanish night in an Italian restaurant. Tapas instead of pasta. Rejected again. Okay, I did the rejecting, but it was still disappointing.

After hitting two restaurants which refused to serve me what I wanted where I wanted it, I settled in to watch the concert and eat a salad at Hard Rock Cafe. Any other time I would rail about how they serve average food at premium prices, but since no other place would give me what I wanted, I found it quite appealing. Hunger will do that to me. Kind of the foodies equivalent to beer goggles.

In fact, my salad was quite good, which meant it was quite fattening, but because it was a “salad” it allowed me to indulge in a mac and cheese side and, later, Krispy Kreme doughnuts. But just two. I was very impressed with my discipline.

The deciding factor in my choice of restaurants was table location. It was outdoors, next to the free music. It also gave me a ring side seat to people watch. People watching can be a frightening past time.

Two people are stuck in my memory. One was a man of late 40s or early 50s in shorts, t-shirt, and long, wavy, unstyled hair. Long hair doesn't bother me per se, but there are few men that age that can pull it off. It requires a certain confidence and level of masculinity or a rock 'n roll attitude to not look out of place. This guy had none of the above. He looked like a scrawny, awkward kid tying to look cool, except he was well on his way to obesity and Social Security.

The other was also a man with long hair, but he could pull it off. He was in his mid 40s, pony tail and what I think of as a mini-fedora, the hat that is popular with the 20s rock crowd. He was listening to a rock band, up, moving, interacting with his friends and handling the look well. Right until I saw he was wearing jean shorts and cowboy boots. Disturbing.

However, he was not nearly as disturbing as the fact that strange men made my memory list and not beautiful women. I was starting to worry about myself, but sitting here at Panera Bread writing this, I find I keep looking up and watching the cute and pretty women.

Uh-oh, a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt just caught my attention.

Reading Signs

2010-08-11T23:04:00.000-05:00

The sign read, “Current Employees Only.”

Amazing the meaning one word adds. “Employees Only” is common and uninteresting. Add “current” and you immediately tell the world that at least one person didn't understand that the area behind that door, while it used to be part of his universe, is not part of his universe anymore. It tells everyone that someone at sometime didn't recognize that a boundary had changed. The very existence of the sign tells you that someone was so oblivious to having crossed a boundary that it was worth the trouble to to someone else to make a sign. It was probably made for a guy.

Most people don't bother to make signs. More often, the evidence is a little less literal and not quite as visible. The slight roll of the eyes. The deep inhale accompanied by the exaggeratedly large eyes. Perhaps the cut of the eyes to the girlfriend seated next to her. Add the raised eyebrows and the “can you believe this” becomes “please do something.” A much more obvious sign is the person moving away reflexively and as involuntarily as a sneeze when someone gets too close. One or two people in a group won't even get that one. Again, probably a guy.

We guys are not nearly as adept as women at reading signs. Okay, we stink. We are so bad at it that women, because it is so natural and easy for them, think they are communicating clearly with men when we have no idea that anything has been communicated in any way, much less that we are expected to understand it and act on it. Or not act on it, depending on what the woman thinks she has communicated. Which she has, but she has only sent the communication. It has not been received, so it is not understood, and therefore has not been communicated. Later, we men find out we have ignored a woman who has clearly communicated something we didn't know had been communicated. You can see why we guys get confused.

Don't get me wrong. I am not guy bashing here. We have some marvelous qualities, and I wish I had a way to tell you about them.

The thing is, we guys need male-friendly communication. The human race, specifically the female version, should use signs. Not silly things like subtle, nuanced gestures, but real, meaty and in-your-face signs. On paper.

Signs like, “You've Got To Be Kidding Me” would communicate clearly that a woman found a guy ridiculous. “Back Off” would clearly tell a guy to back off. Or try harder.

Not only would these signs be effective in handling unwanted advances by husbands, boyfriends or strangers, but if seen across the room they would be highly entertaining to all guys. We like to see other guys crash and burn.

The same signs could be used by both sexes when driving. All of us have had times when we wanted to quickly communicate our true feelings or, for guys, thoughts - we guys have no idea what our feelings are. And you could use driving signs in a club.

Imagine how useful a “No Tailgating” sign would be on the dance floor.

See, and you thought this was silly.

Dangerous Arrangement

2010-08-03T17:52:00.002-05:00

I have pulled some stunts before, but this may be the one that really hurts. Other than that broken wrist. The one where I was swinging out of a hayloft on a rubber hose.

Apparently, at the age of 12 or so, an old, worn piece of garden hose was not strong enough to support my chubby body, and I wasn't smart enough to figure it out. It popped. Soon thereafter my wrist popped. I jumped up, grabbed it, and knew it was broken. It had a zig where it wasn't supposed to zig or zag. A few hours later, after being turned away from the Athens, Alabama emergency room – a broken wrist was too much of an emergency for them – I was at the Huntsville ER getting repaired. From that day forward I have blamed my cooked wrist for a poor jump shot. My wrist and my Alabama doctors.

The latest stunt has nothing to do with a garden hose. Disappointing, I know. It does have to do with a bed. Actually, a bed frame.

For the past [mumble mumble] months, I have been sleeping on a mattress and box springs on the floor. No frame, no headboard, and some would say no class. I prefer to think of it as living with international flavor. There are countries where beds are supposed to be on the floor, mostly third world countries. I think. I didn't look it up, but it has to be true. We will pretend it is.

And it makes the room look larger. Lots of head space. Particularly in a room with nine foot ceilings. Trust me, it is the bed on the floor and not the height of the ceiling that makes the room look tall.

It is also convenient. In the mornings I roll out of bed and go right into my 100 morning pushups, or I could if I did 100 morning pushups. I am not up to 100 yet, but I am working on it. I am currently at one, the one it takes for me to get from the floor to my feet. That is much easier than doing a three quarter squat from my bed. But it still counts as exercise.

Today, as part of my continuing upgrade of my living arrangements, I purchased a bed frame. Yes, dear readers, I have gathered myself up and lifted myself off of the ground, or at least my sleeping self. And that is the problem.

You see, I am not a morning person. I am more of a sleep walking zombie morning person. All instinct, no thinking. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up and without thinking, since an early morning thought is un-thought of for me, I will roll out of bed expecting the floor to be right where it always is, except the floor will not be there. It will be further down. Much like the jar you get when you think you are on the bottom step, but you're not, I will pass right thought my “it used to be there” floor and go right to my “oh, there it is floor.” On my knees. Ouch.

Some days it just doesn't pay to move up in the world.

Distraction Extended

2010-07-28T23:47:00.002-05:00

It started innocently enough. It was a way to avoid, but became something to be avoided. The distraction became the focus of my life.

Last week I wrote about ways to keep from working on my financial stuff – that is a technical term for financial planning and tax work- and how I had, for the first time since moving in, rearranged my bedroom. That was but the first step on a long and slippery slope. What started as a way to avoid an uninteresting task morphed into a task itself.

No, I haven't been moving furniture around all week. Worse. I've been, decorating. Okay, I said decorating. I'm not ashamed. Just a little.

It started, not with moving furniture, but with rearranging stuff. My stored stuff. Boxes that were in my bedroom in a corner. I rearranged my room to have a hidden storage area and I stored my stuff out of sight.

I have never been one to say that clutter bothers me, but I sometimes admit that there are times when it gets to me, agitates me, and I have to clean off my desk or stack that jumble of books. Fortunately, those times only come about twice a year, so neatness is not a debilitating handicap for me like it is for others.

The de-cluttering of my bedroom gave it a nice feel. Not as jumbled and more sedate, which is good for the room where you sleep.

Thinking I liked that feeling and that maybe, just maybe, a little decorating would increase that peaceful feeling... Wait. It just occurred to me that this sounds like feng shui. If you look it up, like I had to, if only to find out how to spell it, you find feng shui is a Chinese art balancing the energies of a living area to encourage health and good fortune. Okay, not bad. In Wikipedia, that fountain of all things worth knowing that someone else wrote because they were bored, I found, “...feng shui literally translates as "wind-water" in English. This is... from the following passage of the Zangshu (Book of Burial) by Guo Pu of the Jin Dynasty: Qi rides the wind and scatters, but is retained when encountering water." You have got to be kidding.

I did not decorate my room like a Chinese tomb. That may be because I have not finished decorating it, but I don't think that is my current direction.

My current direction is decorating it in, surprise, chocolate brown with accents of leafy green and a touch of red. Quit laughing.

I have spent hours shopping for just the right combination of bedspread, blanket, and wall hangy-thingys to make it look good, but not too good, and to make it look nice, but not so nice that it looks like I spent hours shopping. My sources have included Walmart, that great purveyor of quality decorating materials, Target, Overstock.com and Hobby Lobby. Nothing but class on this side of 45.

I also retrieved a small antique desk with a rich, beat up cherry finish from storage. I like the wood, so I am looking for more wood, ceramics and natural materials. But no bamboo. Too close to feng shui.

Someone might think I am scattering wind and retaining water. Or something like that.

Distractions

2010-07-19T22:48:00.000-05:00

I have never been the most focused of individuals. Maybe it is more accurate to say I am selectively focused. I have been known to be oblivious to conversation and crying kids when concentrating on something I like or am interested in. If I am doing coaching stuff, things like game planning or practice planning, or, okay, I admit it, just watching a game, I have great concentration. Other stuff not so much. I put taxes and tax planning in the “other stuff” category.

This is not comfortable to admit when you are a CPA. It is even less comfortable to hear if you are a client of said CPA. Good thing my only tax planning client is me.

That one client has needed some personal tax planning for several months and I committed to do it this past week, no matter what. I am sure it is pure coincidence that I found a number of other very important projects crying out for my attention.

Take Wednesday night. I decided to buckle down and get 'er done. To make my tax work more bearable, I pulled up some music for background sound. Good decision. Right up until a song in the mix popped up that I really liked. In fact, I liked it so much I thought it highly important that I learn to play it on the guitar. Right then. What added to this desire is the fact that it was simple enough for me to learn. But not quickly. There went Wednesday night.

Or Tuesday. Tuesday it became imperative that I go through two boxes from a storage unit I have committed to be out of by mid-September. While this is somewhat of a better excuse, I have to admit that it was a little overkill. To make it through the boxes by my deadline, I have a plan of one box a night. This night I just had to get through two. And start on a third. Strangely, I found sorting through old boxes, some of which have been on several moves without hands, fresh air, or light touching the contents, to be much more attractive than ever before. Yes, taxes make unpacking seem enjoyable.

Monday night was an even better excuse. I worked out, then went to get a bite to eat. Just something quick so I could get home, unpack a box, and do some taxes. But the conversation was good and I got some interesting emails on my phone, otherwise known as junk mail, and before I knew it I had spent over two hours on a quick meal. Okay, three hours. The tax stuff waiting at home made it feel like an hour. Of course, once I got home, I had to unpack my box for the day. Monday done.

Okay, that left Thursday. Yes, there was a Friday and a Saturday last week, but there was no way I was going to spend those two days on taxes. So Thursday it was. Nothing was going to stop me, and I was going to get it done.

Only once since I moved in about a year ago have I rearranged my bedroom. If I'm not mistaken, that was last week. Thursday I believe.

Upside Down, Naturally

2010-07-12T19:37:00.002-05:00

I can say from personal experience that the bottom of the Ocoee River in Tennessee is just like any other river: rocks, mud, branches, twigs and timber. And a tennis shoe or two. I know this because I spent a good part of a Sunday hanging upside down underwater. I was pretty comfortable, except for the not breathing part.

My underwater hanging was not intentional or by design. It was whitewater kayaking, Robison style.

To hang upside down from a whitewater kayak, you must first learn how to wear one. I say wear because it is much closer to wearing one than being in one.

First, you put on a neoprene skirt. The top of the skirt is a rubberized tube that you step into and slide up to cover your midsection. It's tight, so it has a very nice slimming effect. Attached to the bottom of this tube is a, well, a skirt. It flairs out in an oval. I must say, I looked good in my skirt, particularly when walking around nowhere near my kayak. Swish, swish.

Second, and before you attach your very rugged, very manly skirt, you slide leg first into your kayak and push your knees out and up until they are in the corners formed by the top and sides of the kayak. You then pull a string on each side to pull yourself forward and lock your knees in tight.

Third, you pull a string to tighten a bulkhead against your feet, which, you guessed it, locks you and your knees in yet tighter.

Fourth and finally, you spread your skirt, not for style or modesty, but to hook it over the edge of the opening and seal the water out, or seal you in, depending on your point of view. You are now in, or wearing, your kayak, and ready to slide into the water. If you are close enough to the water. If not, you undo everything, move your kayak, and do it all again.

The snug fit lets you control your kayak with your hips and waist. The snug fit is not comfortable; it puts your legs into a condition where they no longer function, and when you climb out, you loose your footing, can't move your feet quick enough to recover, and tumble into a mud bank – not that I would know. The snug fit is not comfortable hanging upside down underwater, wedged and sealed in. However, after you have been upside down, oh, let's say once or twice, you learn to shed your kayak much faster than you put it on.

That hanging upside down is why they teach you to roll your kayak to right yourself. Or try to teach you. Some people could spend all day on rolling and not get it. Of course, I was the exception. It only took me, oh, most of a day and 30 tries to get upright. What I learned much faster than rolling is that I enjoy breathing air more often than three out of every thirty seconds. I am now very good at escaping an upside down kayak in mid stream. It is my primary kayaking skill.

But that's okay, I have other skills. Like looking good in a skirt. Swish.

Reminders

2010-07-05T21:47:00.003-05:00

I woke up realizing I am not young. Let me correct that. I went to bed realizing I am not young and woke up feeling older.

I knew I was in trouble when I stopped to eat and had trouble climbing onto a bar stool. Then there was the hamstring cramp. I give the bartender credit. He did not show any sign of surprise or concern when I threw my fork down and flew out of my seat mid-sentence.

It got worse before bed. I couldn't get undressed. I couldn't lift my legs. Oh, I could lift them a foot or so but no more, unless I reached down and grabbed a knee for an assist, but that hurt my arms. That meant that the only way I could get out of my pants was to drop them and step out. Charming.

Getting my shoes offs was not as big a problem. I could just bend my knees and untie them. Getting up was another matter. I did it, but I did not enjoy it.

The next morning it hurt to sit up, so I rolled out of bed. Ouch. It still hurt.

Getting dressed was painful. I wished I had slept in my clothes. Still not able to lift my feet to get my pants on, I had to hold one side of my pants with one hand, pick up a leg with the other, and fish a foot into a leg hole. So far so good. Now the second leg. It is great to have a feeling of success so early in the day.

Next, my socks. This was not funny. I usually stand and slip on my socks. No way that was going to happen. With socks in hand, I leaned against a door frame, lifted my leg as far as I could, grimaced, grabbed my knee to lift it further, locked my ankle over my opposite knee, and slipped the sock on. I did it as fast as I could, before I cramped up. Same with the other leg. Yet another victory.

The shoes were easy. I threw them on the floor, forced a foot into each, then bent down to tie them. Door frames are great for pulling yourself up.

I was finally ready to work off some of the soreness. I warmed up, got in a few exercises and stretches and felt better. Until a half hour latter, and then I was just as stiff as before. My first few steps were like a guy on a cane, without his cane, tilting from side to side to get some lift on the legs.

And what made me feel so old? Acting like I am young.

I spent the weekend in and around Chattanooga doing a few young people sports, kayaking and hang gliding. The trouble is, I saw people decades older doing the same things, doing them much better, and not showing any of this wear and tear.

Good for them. I am impressed. It gives me hope.

It's just that right now, standing on my sore legs and typing with my sore arms, it would make me feel a whole lot younger if I knew they felt older than I do today. I doubt it.

An Unexpected Desire

2010-06-29T23:29:00.002-05:00

I walked into Walmart feeling just fine with myself. No major problems, not even a major shopping list: deodorant, Zip Lock storage bags, Hersey bars, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Perhaps a ridiculous shopping list, but not a major one. But then I walked out.

If I had been more fortunate, I would have had a normal trip to Walmart and would have spent the better part of an hour on a 10 minute errand. Perhaps there would have been two hundred customers with two lanes open while 13 cashiers stood around the supervisors desk planning their next break. Or I could have gotten behind one of those people who methodically, slowly, maddeningly count out their money one coin, one bill at a time. But no such luck. I walked right up and payed without delay.

It would have been better to have ignored a “wet floor” sign while reading the label on a can of green beans - if I ever bought green beans – slipped on apple sauce, slid into a rack of paper products, and gotten buried in a tumbling pile of toilet paper. Even better if I could have seen it happen to someone else. But no. No luck there either.

Instead, I walked out before it had a chance to leave. If it would have left earlier, or if I had been delayed long enough for it to be gone, this never would have happened.

Instead, I walked out and headed toward my truck. Or what I thought was my truck. Actually, I had my eyes on a truck that was setting in front a my truck. It was a big truck. It was a Ford F-150, and it totally blocked my little Honda Pilot from my sight. I had never thought of my Pilot as small, but this tricked out F-150 made it look tiny.

For the first time in my life, I wanted a big truck. Or a bigger truck. And I have never before thought of my Pilot as a truck. It is an SUV. Much more sophisticated than a truck. Now I wanted a truck. A truck that would bury that big, black, pretentious F-150. A man-truck. One I could drive up on top of a little sports car. Or, perhaps more constructively, tow a tank out of the muck. A four-wheeler with tinted windows, a tube frame bumper, and, and, and...a wench. Yes, I said it! A wench! A real truck.

This was really weird.

I have never wanted a truck. I used to drive trucks, tow trucks for my dad and rigs for his customers. Real trucks with names like Mack and transmissions like Road Ranger. I know trucks. But they had never meant anything to me.

But I didn't like that F-150 making my truck look so small. What an unexpected blow to my ego.

But I will get over it. I will grow from this devastating experience and become a stronger man because of it. I will NOT go out and buy a new truck. I will NOT hang my ego on a 3 foot high cab step-up with a running board. I will NOT be defined by the size of my truck.

I wonder what a jacked up Pilot would look like.

Miracle Foods

2010-06-24T23:27:00.005-05:00

I was amazed. My jaw probably hung low, but I'm not sure because I was caught up in the moment. I hesitate to share this, because it may offend some. If so, I apologize in advance. I am writing it anyway.

This week I have been eating my way down the road. That is not a revelation to anyone who knows me. My trips are built around food. Restaurants are as important to the itinerary as hotels. This trip I simply took what the location offered. And took. And took.

My first road meal was a Chili's Mushroom and Swiss burger, given as a Father's Day sacrifice by my son and daughter-in-law. This little bit of burger delight is a big burger topped with butter sauteed mushrooms, Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato and mayo. With fries. My strategy to combat the calories was unsweet tea. I am confident my abstinence from sugar balanced things quite nicely.

The next day was a quick lunch, so I walked across the street to Ruby Tuesday's for a salad. And cheese mini-burgers. And fries. This time I doubled up on the calorie savings by sticking to unsweet tea and stacking the burgers together, losing one whole mini-bun. I am certain my double ups were a great help in keeping my buns mini.

That night, to celebrate my calorie savings, I went Italian at Bravo. I had Chianti beef ravioli in Parmesan cream sauce, accented by bits of sweet potato. The sweet potato bites not only counted as a fat burning health food, very important, but they also added just the right touch of sweetness to the beef stuffed pasta. A great flavor combination, but that is not what was so amazing.

The next day, lunch was again under a time constraint so I settled for another walk to Ruby's. Normally I avoid restaurant curtain calls, but a man does what a man has to do. He eats. This time I ate a chicken sandwich. A big chicken sandwich with bacon, lettuce, tomato, mayo and Havarti cheese. However, to restrict the calories, and to avoid extending my jaw beyond human limits, I ate it with a knife and fork, being sure to leave something on the plate. About two bites of bun. Yes, another victory over calories.

That night I was in Lexington, Kentucky and asked locals about their favorite restaurants. From their list I chose Dudley's. Good choice. I had Tournedos Maxwell. Think two prime cuts of filet mignon, perfectly cooked, on buttery mashed potatoes, covered with béarnaise sauce, and topped with crab meat and asparagus. No excuses here, no counting of calories and no guilt. At least none I couldn't handle. But still not the amazing part.

I won't bore you with more of my eating tour, except to say it included eggs, bacon, and more sandwiches and fries than I care to mention.

Now for the amazing part. Please don't hate me, because I have no idea how this happened, but tonight, when I got on the scales, I had not gained a single pound. I was surprised and elated. I almost skipped my workout and went to eat to celebrate. But that wouldn't have been very healthful of me and, as you can tell, health is my number one priority.

Close Encounters of the Nerd Kind

2010-06-14T20:59:00.001-05:00

It is unpredictable and disturbing. Unpredictable because it can happen anyplace and anytime. Disturbing because you have no control. Without your consent, your space-time continuum is violated, and a clash of worlds threatens the stability of reality as you know it.

It happened to me this weekend. Twice. The first time was, as most are, in an unexpected place. I was at Applebee's in Madisonville, Kentucky. The time was High Noon. Looking back, the time was fully appropriate. I was with my mom when it happened. They walked in.

There were six of them, all males. They were following each other just a tad too closely, smiling just a bit too widely, and dressed way too much alike. Black pants, white, short sleeve shirts, and ties. As if to drive home the obvious, they each had at least three pens in their shirt pockets. Yes, it was a nerd pod.

They behaved just as you would expect a nerd pod to behave. All six guys piled into one booth, ignoring the hostess' kind attempt to alleviate the setting-too-close-to-your-buddy awkwardness by offering a chair for the end. A nerd pod knows no such awkwardness.

The awkwardness they do know is when a cute waitress comes and asks for their drink order, or a female of any type shows up for any reason. Every time the waitress left the table there followed a chorus of nervous laughter, strangely huge smiles, five or six guys reaching for a drink of water or tea, and a concurrent straightening of ties. Though these guys were in their mid twenties, their awkward teenage vibe was so strong my skin tingled with pre-acne. Telepathic awkwardness.

The most puzzling thing about this encounter was the lack of a nerd pod feeding source. Madisonville has no Best Buy marketing nerds as computer heros. There are no employers with large engineering staffs. It is a Western Kentucky mining and farming community with little need for nerds. There was no known reason for a concentration of nerds, yet there they were.

In other circumstances, I would have found an excuse to get close enough to read their black name badges - which, by the way, were the perfect nerd accessory - or even have engaged one in conversation. However, engaging a nerd in conversation outside of their native habitat is a tricky business. If done poorly, they sense they have been spotted and quickly retreat back into the comfort of the pod. Alas, before I could satisfy my curiosity, my mother was ready to leave.

Strangely, I encountered a second nerd pod before the weekend ended. This pod was disguised as two regular college students. They were young males, in t-shirts and shorts, setting on a bench, one with a backpack. What gave them away was that one had a lap full of laptop, they were sitting too close while watching a move on said laptop, and they were watching said movie on a bench outside of a Wal-Mart entrance. The laptop was plugged into an outlet as if to say, “This is where I planned to be tonight.” Wal-Mart's sidewalk as a destination social scene. Cool.

I'll be glad to get back around the excellent social skills of my own kind. Accountants.

Made To Fit

2010-06-08T22:06:00.002-05:00

At first I thought it was the angle. Looking at something from a strange angle can make you see strange things. So I looked again. Then I thought, “There is no way someone would put themselves through that.” So I looked again. Sure enough, someone was putting themselves through that. So I kept looking.

What I was looking at was a whale stuffed into a tuna can, albeit a nice tuna can. The whale was a large man, and the tuna can was a BMW Z4. He was not a whale in terms of blubber, just in terms of size. Not fat, massive.

He pulled up beside me at the light and I did a double take. He was slumped over, with his chin almost touching the steering wheel, yet his head was big enough to span from steering wheel to roof top, and it was tilted to the interior of the car. At first I thought it was tilted in because the roof was higher in the middle, but then I realized it was because his head was attached to his shoulders, and the door was forcing him to tilt his shoulders toward the interior of the car. But that didn't keep him from spilling out of the open window. In fact, I don't think he could have closed the door without the window open. His left shoulder was out of the window, and his arm was hanging out of the car and down the door. All of the way down the door.

As he pulled ahead of me, gradually unblocking my view and showing me more and more of his arm, I was wondering where it ended. Just when I thought his knuckles had to be dragging the ground, I found they weren't. His curled fingers stopped just below the bottom of the door. Then again, if he had straightened his fingers and unbent his elbow, he could have dragged his finger tips. That makes me cringe more than nails across a blackboard.

The man did not fit the car. Nice car. Perhaps a nice man, though I couldn't tell from looking at his scrunched up body. But it was the wrong car for the guy driving it. I hope he was borrowing the car. Borrowing it would have been better than owning it, but not much better than Churchill borrowing Hitler's mustache. It just didn't work.

Maybe it was the male version of WSS (Woman's Shoe Syndrome). WSS is wanting the shoe, no matter how poorly it fits, because it goes with the outfit. In this case, the outfit being the self image, which is also what it is when it is actually an outfit.

Or perhaps he had Peacockery and was showing his plumage, the car, to attract a mate. Peacockery is particularly evident if you sit and watch the valet station at an expensive restaurant. Time after time, a very nice car will pull up, a somewhat nice old man will get out of the driver's side – he must be nice, he has a nice car – and a nicely younger woman, say a generation or two younger, will get out of the other side. Nice.

Not that I blame the women. They need their shoe money.

Walkin' an' Talkin'

2010-06-01T23:30:00.001-05:00

I ducked into my apartment, threw my phone on the charger, and changed from button-down to shorts. I wanted to get a little exercise by walking to pick up my mail. Round trip, it was, and still is, a little over a mile. Not short, not long, a good distance for a nice night.

Within a few minutes of hitting the blacktop, I got a call from Randy, a college friend. This would work out fine. I could walk and talk, get my exercise and socialize at the same time. My defining moment as a member of the mobile society.

As I walked and we talked, I walked right past my mail station. “No problem,” I thought without thinking, or at least without thinking of all the consequences, “since our conversation shows no sign of slowing down, I'll keep on walking.” One of the consequences I didn't think about was distance. It seems, as I discovered, that the longer you walk, the farther you go.

The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the Barnes & Noble bookstore. This really shouldn't have been a problem since I wanted to look for a book anyway, except that the half mile or so I had intended to walk had become a little over two miles, and we were still talking. I had no intention of walking any farther from my apartment, but I didn't want to start back, so I walked back and forth in front of the bookstore and the strip mall it anchors. Right up until my foot started cramping.

At that point I stopped walking and started dancing that little bend-the-knee-and-put-pressure-on-the-ball-of-your-foot-dance that you do to get rid of a foot cramp. At the time I started my dance, I was standing in front of the full length store front window of a tanning salon. A busy tanning salon. I moved my cramped foot dance on down the line. To TJ Maxx. I don't know why I thought that would be less busy and less embarrassing. By then I was standing on one foot putting my full weight on it to work it out, when of course, my other foot started cramping.

I started working on one foot and then the other. I imagine it looked something like an old white guy trying to do the moon walk.

Fortunately for me and the two plus miles I had to cover to get back home, the cramps eased after I finished my phone call and had spent 30 minutes or so browsing the books. I then felt like I could make it home.

On the way, I noticed the Steak 'n Shake glowing like an oasis on a hot, muggy night. So I reasonably deduced that my foot cramps were caused by a calcium deficiency. With the proper excuse in mind, I ordered a half-and-half shake, chocolate and vanilla. Yes, some things can be too chocolatey, and this delicious blend is my calcium of choice.

With my calcium supplement in hand, and mouth, I continued home with nary another cramp.

In keeping with my desire to eat healthy, I decided to forgo my second Hersey bar of the night. I do love the science of nutritional substitution.

Plastic Please

2010-05-24T19:36:00.000-05:00

We Americans are a self reliant lot. We want to stand proudly on our own, be self-sufficient, and keep our independence. Except for that welfare thing we have going, and on a more personal level, not having any idea how I would eat if someone hadn't sowed, harvested, killed, cut, processed, wrapped, packaged, shipped, and stocked the grocery shelves. But besides that, very independent.

That is why we need plastic Wal-Mart bags. They support independence thorough usefulness. Once you carry home your bread, cheese, five-dollar-DVD-you-buy-because-its-cheaper-than-going-to-a -movie DVD, peanut butter, roasted chicken, and chocolate bars, their usefulness has just started.

The next contribution is storage. While you wouldn't want to use a Wal-Mart bag to store just any old thing, they are great for storing valuables, like Wal-Mart bags. Hang one up or tie it to a wire shelf, nail or knob of some sort and start stuffing it with more bags. Instant organization and ease of retrieval. Wad 'em up, stuff 'em in, and when you need one, reach in and pull 'em out. Pure elegance.

After storage, garbage disposal is high on the list of usefulness. This includes everything from a quick grab, stuff and toss for roasted chicken trimmings, to lining your bathroom waste basket. When you have chicken scraps that would stink up your kitchen garbage, you can grab a bag, fill it with pre-rancid meat, and take it directly to the outside garbage. Let someone else smell it. You not only avoid the smells, but you also avoid throwing out large garbage bags before they are full, saving both money and effort. And as for their use as waste basket liners, they fit so well that it is obvious that was part of their original design. Don't underestimate those Wal-Martians.

Then there is recycling. The same bag that carries it in when you buy it, carries it out when it's trash. Now that is a circle of life.

You may be thinking, “Why wouldn't a Kroger or Target bag work?” Sure, most any small, plastic, impossible to decompose bag would probably do, but since there are so many more Wal-Mart bags than any other, they of all the bags are the biggest contributor to our independence. If you're not particularly nice, pretty or intelligent, it helps to be available.

While I could go on and on about the many uses of The Bag, as I call it, let me tell you about the use I most recently discovered, the one that inspired me to write this ode to The Bag.

Due to circumstances totally beyond my control, I backed into a garbage can, which in turn hit my garage wall and put a hole in it. Being the independent type I am, I decided to fix it myself, and to do it with as few additional resources as possible. In other words, dirt cheap. Given that it was a hole about ten or eleven inches across, I had some space to fill in, and didn't want to do it with plaster. Yes, you've jumped ahead of me. The Bag was perfect. Stuff it and plaster it. Nice. And cheap.

And that, my friends, is yet another way Wal-Mart is helping Americans maintain our independence.

Chocolate Milk

2010-05-17T21:31:00.001-05:00

Today I am a happy man. Today brought joy to my life. Today I found that not only can I drink chocolate milk, but that I should. I was told that I would lose weight and be healthier if I did. Not that I have ever been a chocolate milk drinker, at least not since elementary school.

Though not a chocolate milk drinker, I have been a milk drinker. Specifically I was an Oreo and milk indulger. It was an after work ritual for years, until that sad time about 8 years ago. That is when I found I had a problem. My belt was running out of holes. So I cut back to just Oreos. No milk. Yes, it was a sacrifice, but one I could bear for the greater good. Oreos.

However, there was a downside to my disciplined approach to Oreos. Without milk, I ate more Oreos. Actually, I didn't see that as a problem since I knew that milk was the real cause of my being at the end of my belt. I held this view until the scientific evidence, my continued movement down the belt holes, convinced me that perhaps, just perhaps, 10 or 15 Oreos a night might have been the real problem.

So I had to eliminate the daily Oreo binge and be content with a periodic one. When I indulged, I still avoided milk since I figured one less glass of milk meant, oh, I don't know, another three or four Oreos. Sadly, the cycle of weight gain then cut back, gain then cut, gain then cut continued until I was down to eating Oreos about once or twice a year. It was like losing a good friend, but without Facebook to keep you connected.

Oh, sure, I could drop by the cookie isle and visit, but that would be like no relationship at all. A quick pass, a stolen touch, yet separated by a cellophane wrapper. No, it was better to keep a distance.

That brings me back to the chocolate milk. In a blog on Yahoo! Health, David Zinczenko gave four reasons why I must start drinking chocolate milk. Bear in mind that Mr. Zinczenko, which I believe is pronounced “Smitho”, is an expert in health and nutrition. He is editor-in-chief of Men's Health magazine, has written a book or two on fitness, and has a blog. An obvious expert.

He made a good argument. More importantly, he couched it in scientific sounding data, talking about caloric intake, timing your chocolate milk for great workouts, taking the required grams of protein for muscle to build to burn more calories, and reviewing a study or two that showed milk helps you work out longer than carbohydrate-replacement sports drinks. Enough! I'm convinced. He had me at the title, The Chocolate Milk Diet.

The problem is, as I noted above, I am not a chocolate milk drinker. However, and in case you were wondering, this is where I pull this all together, I think I can use this authoritative and indisputable blog to get where I really want to go. Instead of putting chocolate syrup in my milk, I will do a little cooking substitution and use another source of chocolate. Oreos.

I love science.

Breaking In

2010-05-10T17:41:00.005-05:00

I have broken into a dozen or more cars. This was going to be another, but I had no choice. The ring was forcing me to do it. My key ring.

First aside. Never set your keys down in your car. That is a sure way to leave them locked in your car.

As soon as I felt for my keys, I knew where they were. I had dropped them onto my seat as I had reached for a piece of chocolate. Sure enough, looking through the window, I saw them taunting me. I laughed back because I knew my widow was cracked. With a hanger I could fish them out and have the last laugh. Better still, a nearby couple had a hanger. Things kept getting better, right up until my keys slipped off the hanger and fell between the door and the seat. Note that the keys fell off, I did not drop them.

Second aside. Calling your ex to rescue you is not good. When she has her phone turned off because it is 11pm, it is worse.

My choices were to walk home, a reasonable choice since I live in a small town, to pop the lock, less reasonable but much more interesting, or to call a locksmith. Having spent an exciting Friday night at Barnes & Noble, I decided to go for interesting and pop the lock. I'm just that kind of guy. Cheap.

The easiest way to pop it would be with a slim jim like the police use, but gee, I didn't have one. However, Wal-Mart was just across the street, and they sell them. They don't know they sell them, but they do. They come attached to hanging file folders. So I headed to buy one. Since it was starting to rain, I also bought a poncho and some tape. The poncho was to keep me dry as I worked, and the tape was to seal the cracked windows if popping the lock didn't work.

Third aside. You can't buy just one hanging file folder. They come in boxes of 25. That was okay since I needed some at home, but it also meant I added a Wal-Mart bag to my walking attire. Yes, it's a good look.

The lock did not pop. I hooked and pulled the interior door handle, but that didn't work. If I had paid attention while getting in and out of my locked vehicle, I would have realized you have to unlock it before the handle works, but hey, I've only had it for seven years, how was I to know. I was also able to open the locked gas cap door. That will come in handy when I am locked out next to a gas pump.

Fortunately, the rain held off, and after an hour and a half of futile but persistent effort, I decided to call it a night. Just as the rain started to fall.

Forth aside. Wearing a camping poncho and carrying a Wal-Mart bag as you walk down the side of the road at 1 am is very sexy. The only thing that could have made it hotter would have been if the poncho had been camo. If only. Sigh.

Invisible or Fly

2010-05-03T23:38:00.004-05:00

There is an interesting question popping up on the radio, TV and in overheard conversations; if you could choose just one superpower, would you choose the ability to be invisible or the ability to fly? Of course, the game doesn't end there. The next step is to describe what the answer means.

Based on the many times I have heard an analysis, three, choosing the power of invisibility means you are paranoid, anxious, distrustful, socially awkward and ugly. Okay, I threw in the ugly part on my own, but it seems to fit. In short, the only reason you would ever want to be invisible is so you could hear the mean and nasty things others are saying about you when you are not around, since you ARE the center of the universe. Not that there is anything wrong with that. So am I.

If you choose the power of flight, it indicates that you are secure, positive, trusting, adventurous and fun loving. Obviously, anyone like that is going to be good-looking, too. By the way, it can also mean that you are sick and tired of the airlines losing your luggage EVERY SINGLE TIME you take a trip, but that sounds negative, and there is nothing negative about those of us who would be superpower fliers.

At first glance you might think this would be an interesting little way to break the ice and find out about someone you have just met, or an easy way for guys to finally figure out why their wives or girlfriends act the way the do. Not that there is anything wrong with the way they act. However, this approach would require us guys to ask a question and then, get this, listen. We guys prefer our enlightenment to require no listening, or for that matter, any attention whatsoever. If we wanted to pay attention, we could just pay attention from the start and never need such questions.

Besides, the question is now useless for personality analysis. Everyone knows about it, so you can't get an honest answer. Now that everyone knows what the choices mean, the only person who would choose invisibility is a person who is secure enough to not care what anyone else thinks, which would mean that he or she could not be paranoid, anxious or socially awkward, and therefore, by definition, would not choose invisibility. Very confusing, and way too much work to be useful.

That is, too much work unless you first ask the person if he or she has heard the question before. Then all you would have to do is figure out if he or she is lying. Of course, if they had not heard the question, you would instantly know the person is a hermit, oblivious to current events or a guy, who by definition hasn't been paying attention. If a guy has heard it, he stumbled across it while looking for a way to understand women. That he believes such a thing exists tells you he is delusional.

As for me, I would choose either the superpower of all-knowing or of instantaneous food delivery. I'm leaning toward the latter. It would be much better to get the food than to know it was coming.

Mismatched

2010-04-26T21:55:00.002-05:00

Some days, maybe most, a person wants to matter, to be noticed, to be important. Other days, not so much. On those not days, it is usually because we know the reason we would be noticed is not a good reason to be noticed. Like a giant zit. Or being mismatched.

Take note. I did not say poorly fashion coordinated. That is common for me. I said mismatched. As in a pink sock and a white sock. Not that I wear pink socks. Those are for illustrative purposes only, and is much, much worse than anything I would ever do.

I was in a training class that started later than I usually start work, so I can't use being rushed as an excuse. My only excuse was that I was, as I normally am first thing in the morning, fogged in between post sleep and fully awake. Not much of an excuse, and for morning people, an admission of flawed character on par with sloth. Morning people, let's talk about that around 11 at night. You know, that time when you quit functioning and we night owls crank it up.

I had arrived with time to spare, parked and started across the street. For some reason I looked down. And stopped cold. I was wearing mismatched shoes. Not just two different styles, but a black and a brown. Not just mismatched dress shoes, but a dress black and a casual brown. The only similarities they had were soles and laces. That begs the question of how I could tie my shoes and not notice the color and style difference. Here I plead dark closet, but know it had more to do with mental fog.

Standing in the middle of the street, I realized I could go home, change a shoe and be late to training, or I could see how long it took before someone noticed. I chose the latter and walked in.

No one noticed. I hid my mismatched shoes in plain sight with a combination of denial, distraction, and hiding them out of plain sight. I kept them under my assigned computer station as much as possible, so far under I hyper-extended my knees. That strategy couldn't help when I was on the move to get a drink, a boxed lunch or hit the restroom. For some things I could avoid exposing my shoes, but not lunch.

While I was exposed, my primary weapon was distraction. I used whatever was going on in the room at the moment, and for those not paying attention to whatever was going on, I used excessive eye contact. I locked eyes, I asked questions and I kept engaged with anyone I ran into so their eyes would not wander to my feet.

When that didn't work, I used denial. I refused to acknowledge anything was wrong.

I have no idea if any of this worked. I only know that no one called me on the mismatched shoes. Either my tactics worked, or my refusal to pay any attention to any hint of a problem short-circuited any opportunity to call me out.

There is another possibility. Perhaps no one noticed because no one was paying attention to me. Surly not.

Yes, denial is a multipurpose tool.

Instant Youth

2010-04-22T23:39:00.002-05:00

I have discovered the secret to instant youth. Regardless of how old you feel, this little secret will instantly cause you to feel young, vibrant and energetic. What's better, it is relatively cheap.

I said relatively cheap because it is inexpensive, and I need a way to transition to talking about expensive ways to stay young. Ways like cryonics and plastic surgery.

Plastic surgery you know about. For a little cash and a lot of pain, you can get your parts lifted, trimmed, de-wrinkled, de-sagged, de-haired or re-haired. And I lied about the little cash. Demi Moore has reportedly spent $600,000 on plastic surgery. From what I can tell, it was money well spent. If you're into looks. Not that I am.

If plastic surgery is the instant gratification approach, cryonics is the patience of Job approach. But you might have to wait longer than Job. Cryonics is the freezing of your dead body with the hope that mankind will one day find a way to unfreeze you without damage and bring you back to life. According to Alcor, the world leader in cryonics, and I know this because their website told me so, the price of cryonics ranges from the head only freezing for $80,000 to the whole body approach at only $150,000.

If it is a leap of faith to think mankind will advance far enough to bring life back to human ice cubes, it is a greater leap to think there will be anyone around who still cares for your old bones after 250 years. Think about it. Do you even know the name of your great-great-great-grandfather? If your future decedents don't know your name, I doubt they will remember to defrost.

Apart from the up-front fees and the real concern about who is going to remind someone that it is time to take you out of the freezer to be thawed, I'm not sure who would want their old head sewn on a new body. Who knows where that thing has been.

But you can forget about the cost of plastic surgery or cryonics. I have stumbled upon a secret to instant youth. It is cheap, it is real and it involves music. Unfortunately, not top-40 music.

I discovered the secret when I went to a performance of Orchestra Kentucky. As I sat listening to the music, I started looking around. Suddenly it hit me. The clearing of a spit valve. Actually that was not what hit me, although I did think about the irony of grown men in tuxedos emptying their spit on the floor. I live a strange life. What hit me was that at 53, I was one of the youngest people in the room. Instant youth.

Sure, there were a few grand kids sitting with their grandparents, but even most of the grand kids were old enough to have kids. Or grand kids. Then there were the few college students there for class credit. But on average, I was below average. In this case, being below average was good. I was younger than average. I don't know exactly by how much, but my guess is that anyone 62 or younger was younger than average.

That gives me a good 9 years to be a kid again.

Sprinklers

2010-04-15T18:35:00.003-05:00

Given the importance of fire safety, I am happy to report that I now have sprinklers in my apartment. Let me correct that. I have a sprinkler, as in one. Let me correct that. I had a sprinkler. I now have replaced my sprinkler with papers strewn about my counter, my table, my carpet, my balcony and throughout my apartment. In the space of a few hours, I converted from fire protection to fire trap. Let me explain.

I had gotten home from a late meal – there, I have made my obligatory food reference- and jumped on-line to pay a few bills. I have a lot of bills, but I like to pay just a few at a time. It makes it seem that I have fewer bills.

Being the neat-freak person I am, or need to be more like, I immediately went to file the paid bills and get them off of my counter, since that is where my computer sets and I get tired of fighting the to-be-filed papers with my mouse. I headed to my utility room, where I keep my files, and where I could have a washer and dryer, but don't. I have a set of shelves. And a printer. And boxes of papers that need to be filed, which happen to be setting next to the more organized boxes that contain the folders where they need to be filed.

As I walked into my utility room, I thought I felt rain. I thought that was rather strange, but I couldn't see it, or see where it was coming from. Then, working my way through the rain in my utility room, I reached for the top of the file box and found it was wet. About the same time, I noticed that I was standing in water. At this point I knew something was wrong. So, standing in water, with water raining down on my head, I reached for the light switch. Not bright, but no shock, and no harm done.

With the light on, I could see the rain. I could also see the rain dripping off of the shelves on my left, which lead me to a fine, misty stream of water that I followed over my head and to the top of my water heater on my right. The feeder water tube had sprung a pin sized hole. It was rather like a lawn sprinkler, but with only one spout, and it was in my utility room.

I immediately hit the shutoff valve, but that didn't stop it, so I grabbed some packing tape and wrapped the hole. Of course, that didn't stop the leak, but it did stop the indoor shower and converted it to a steady drip that slid down the side of the water heater and into a catch pan. If the water sliding into the water heater through the hole in the casing didn't short out my water heater, that would hold me until maintenance came to replace the tube.

I then assessed the damage. Wet papers. Wet boxes. Wet books. Wet wall. Wet floor. That meant that I pulled everything out, threw away what I didn't really need, which was actually most of it, and spread the rest out to dry.

Tonight I will file my now dry kindling. Or think about it. My mouse seems to be sliding quite nicely across the papers.

Tiger Woods And A Report Card

2010-04-12T21:35:00.003-05:00

This is a true story, but it is not mine. It was told by Steve M. during this weeks worship service. However, I am not above stealing a good story, even in church.

“I am a Tiger Woods fan. I know some of you are not, but I am. Then, several months ago, some women messed him up, and I quit being a fan. Then God made something happen. I ran across an old report card.

“Back in the 7th grade, I was the starting middle line backer on the Daviess County Panthers' Middle School football team. I was good. Really good. If you were good, you had a cheerleader for a girlfriend. I had a cheerleader for a girlfriend. She wasn't the prettiest, but she was a cheerleader. I was on top of the world. The 7th graders feared me and the 8th graders respected me. I had reached the peak of my life.

“There was one little problem. My dad told me, 'All this football is fine and good, but you have to keep at least a C average if you're going to play.'

“Well, I got my report card. This is it right here. I ran across it soon after I quit being a fan of Tiger. Let's see, I got a F in Health Science, a D- in Math, a C in Social Studies, and, of all things, an A in Literature and Reading. I was up against a hard place.

“When a guy's in a hard place, a guy has to do something. So I took an ink pen and, with one little line, made the F an A. Then I made a short line in the middle of the D and I had a B. Looked pretty good. That is what I gave to my dad. I didn't think he was all that smart.

“He took a look at it and went on and on about how well I had done. The lying had started, and I couldn't stop now. Then he wrote on the card, 'I am really proud of Steve. I know it took a lot of work. Thank you for helping him.'

“I didn't expect that. I couldn't just change the grades back before I turned the card back in. That comment wouldn't make any sense. So I added below it, in my own writing, 'In some subjects.'

“My homeroom teacher looked at the card, then looked at me, read the card again, and said, 'That's a strange comment, since you're failing.'

“I told her, 'My dad, he's a little nuts.'

“It wasn't too much later that I saw her talking to the principal, and not much longer after that I hear the loudspeaker say, “Steve M, please come to the office. Steve M, please come to the office,' so I made that long walk. As I got close, I heard my mom crying, saying, 'What are we going to do? What are we going to do? He's going to jail.'

“That ruined football for me.”

Steve's point, and the reason he is once again a Tiger fan, was that lying is lying, cheating is cheating, and he wasn't the one who was going to be doing the judging. He realized he wasn't qualified.

One thing I've realized from this is that it is a whole lot easier to talk about someone else's mistakes than your own. Not that I would ever do that.

The Rabbit With The Funny Ears

2010-04-05T17:31:00.002-05:00

I have discovered the true identity of the Easter Bunny. Not that I was looking. I had given up that quest years ago. As long as I got my Easter basket, and my chocolate bunny, I didn't really care who delivered it. I had quit trying to figure it out and was content to enjoy the fruits of my non-labor. I wasn't going to look a gift rabbit in the mouth. I was going to bite it's ears off. Then, out of nowhere, the answer popped into my life without prodding. It was another gift, delivered in casual conversation, on a sunny day in a park. It was, appropriately, on Easter Sunday.

My niece delivered the news. It seems that her just-turned-eight step-daughter, who I will call Tristan, since that is not her real name, but it is what my mother mistakenly calls her, is certain that she knows the real identity of the Easter Bunny. The Easter Bunny is, insert drum roll and dramatic pause here, Braxton, her slightly heavier than lint fluff of a dog. That is what she claims, and that is what she tells anyone who will listen.

Braxton is a Shih Tzu, a small, white speck of nothing that loves nothing better than to let you know that he is not nothing. He makes it a point to be in your face, as much as a nine inch tall dog can be in anyone's face. He whines, he barks, and he jumps on you if you sit down. He works hard to be the center of attention, and is usually successful. He is full of energy, and uses it to drain yours. Constant attention can do that.

Once a year, each Easter, this uber-hyper, almost a dog dons a pair of rabbit ears and delivers Easter eggs, and I suppose candy, to all the children of the world. We are still trying to figure out how he carries the eggs, how he gets to all the children in one night, and why a dog and not a bunny rabbit is the Easter Bunny, but all of those are minor details. If Santa can do it, so can Braxton.

As to why a dog is the Easter Bunny, while we don't know all of the details, we believe he is the tenth in a line of rabbit imposters who somehow stole the Easter Bunny thrown. We figured that out from his name. “B” is, obviously, for bunny, “ra” for rabbit, and X is the Roman numeral for 10. The “ton” is just to round out his name, make it sound real, and give it some gravitas. No one ever said he wasn't a clever little fluff of activity.

Perhaps the most interesting part of this story is how Tristan discovered Braxton is really the Easter Bunny. Her step-mother, my niece, told her. She told her two years ago to add a little playfulness to her answer of a six year old's question. It stuck.

There are a few lessons to be learned here. First, be nice to little dogs. They may be powerful beings in disguise. Second, and last, be very careful what you say to a six year old. It may be repeated to teachers, friends and, in later years, her therapist.

I Didn't Mean That

2010-03-29T19:19:00.001-05:00

Her two young sons were riding in the shopping cart and, following their job description, pushing her buttons by pushing the limits. They were pleading for little trinkets and candy. As I passed I overheard, "I'm not the parent who buys you things," with a special emphasis on "I'm."

What she meant, of course, was, and here I paraphrase, "I am not the parent who you can manipulate with your whining, crying and complaining, so you might as well be quiet. You are wasting your time. And in case you haven't noticed, your father giving in to your badgering is one of the many things I don't like about him. If he would take my attitude, I wouldn't have to put up with this. He is weak and spineless."

Okay, maybe she didn't imply he was spineless. She was saving that for girls night out.

A short phrase can convey much. Often, more than we admit. It is easy to insist you didn't mean what you really meant when what you said can be taken in several ways. You were obviously saying someone was ugly when you said, "She's really cute," as you placed a down-tone emphasis on "cute," raised your eyebrows and did a half eye roll, but you can always claim you said she was “cute.” That is exactly what you said, but it is far from what you meant.

Words are slippery things when you put them in the mouths of humans. Each little inflection, intonation or gesture can change or flip their meaning.

Take “I'm sooo sorry.” That can mean, “I'm sorry,” “I'm sorry you caught me,” or “I'm not sorry, but I should be.” Usually, the longer the “so,” the less sincere the apology. Or take "I'm trying not to get upset." That usually means, "What he did to me was wrong, I deserve to be upset, but I am a better person than he is. Way better."

Content warning. I am about to step onto dangerous ground. Women are more likely to have hidden meanings, at least hidden to me, and men are more likely to be obvious, mostly because we don't know how not to be obvious. The best we can do is the opposite meaning trick, as in “cute” meaning “ugly.” It is a flaw in our genetic make-up.

That is one of the problems we men have understanding women, and vice versa. Women use underlying meaning so often and so well, they look for it in what men say. Men, however, usually have no underlying meaning. We're much too shallow for that.

My daughter would sometimes ask, “What does he mean by that?” when trying to understand a young man who would say or do something extraordinary, like ask her and her mom to join him and his family for dinner. Her confusion was understandable under the circumstances. He was engaged and his fiance would be there. My answer, knowing how we males are, was that he wanted her and her mom to join him and his family for dinner. He might not have thought it through, or thought at all, but what he said was what he meant.

See what I mean about the flaw in our genetics? Way too simple, however you want to take “simple.”

Creepy Parental Dating

2010-03-25T22:13:00.002-05:00

There is nothing quite as creepy as single parent dating, at least according to the dating parents themselves. I base that observation on a very scientific study of two stories told by two of my friends, both of whom are experts. One is the daughter of a dating parent, and the other is, and this is where I get my scientific validity, a dating parent. Experts.

The first story is from Expert One, the daughter of a dating single parent. While out of town with her husband and two daughters, Expert One (EO for short) and her family decided to eat at Moonlight Bar' B Que, a regionally famous barbecue restaurant in Owensboro, Kentucky. People have been known to drive for hours to eat there, and one of those people was EO's mother, accompanied by an unnamed male accomplice - I believe he had a name, and probably still does, but I don't know what it is. She and her accomplice had, unbeknownst to EO, driven from Louisville to eat there. Nothing wrong with traveling to Moonlight, nothing wrong with eating, and nothing wrong with doing so with a date. Or so you would think.

Apparently, EO's mother thought differently. She was spotted leaving the restaurant as EO's family arrived, but it quickly became apparent that she did not want to be apparent. She hid behind cars and tried to duck out of view. As she and her accomplice with the unknown name drove away, she slumped down in the car trying, unsuccessfully, to sneak away. These are, in my scientific opinion, the actions of one trying to avoid detection. By her actions she proved she felt creeped out by her behavior, which wasn't creepy until she started trying to sneak out. She became creepy by trying to be sneaky.

The other story is from a dating parent herself, who I will quite brilliantly call Expert Two (ET), no relation to the big eyed alien or the TV show, both of which are creepy in their own way. ET exposed her creepiness, not by what she did, but by what she would not admit. She, too, went to a restaurant to eat. She, too, went to eat with a male accomplice. She, however, did not hide. She simply refused to acknowledge that it was a date. It was “just two friends eating together.”

In talking to her grown daughter, ET insisted he was a male friend, in the platonic sense, and though they went out to eat together, it was not a date. ET's daughter trapped ET by asking her, “Who paid?”. When ET said, “He did,” her daughter said, “It was a date.” ET relented to the evidence, not by admitting her date, but by refusing to discuss it anymore. It was just too creepy for her.

I am not sure why parental daters are the ones embarrassed by dating. If anyone should be embarrassed, it is the owners of the restaurants that allow couples of a certain age to eat together without their kid's knowledge. Nothing good can come of two youngsters sneaking around after the age of 65. Just ask them. If you can find them creeping around behind the shrubbery.

Disappointment

2010-03-22T21:11:00.005-05:00

Some days, all I know about writing is what I don't want to write. This is one of those days. Today, I don't want to write about fumbling the communion juice – again. Just for the record, and in no way am I trying to make myself look better, but today was only the second time in my life I have ever spilled communion juice. Both times just happen to have been within two weeks of each other. I think it the fault of earthquake aftershocks.

I don't want to write about washing my truck in the middle of a downpour. That sounds like I either have no sense, or I waited so long to wash it that it couldn't wait any longer. My belief is that I subconsciously knew that it would get a much better rinsing this way. Draw your own conclusions, but I will say it got a great, natural rinsing.

I don't want to talk about eating out, because eating seems to be my favorite subject. It is not. It is one of my favorite activities, but not subjects. So I will write about sitting at Fridays, eating, and trying to come up with something to write about. One of us needs to enjoy this.

Nothing is jumping to mind, and the environment is not helping at all. Not my bartender, the waitresses, the multiple TVs or the other customers. I am getting nothing to work with. I don't think shouting, “Work it, baby,” will get me anything but impolite stares. Nope, it didn't.

Unfortunately, the service from my bartender is good, so no material there. The conversation with her is normal, so not much there, either. She is busy yet accommodating. Hard to complain about or make fun of that. See what I mean?

All the TVs are on basketball. That is okay, but I've been watching or talking about b-ball for hours this weekend. Enough. I hope all the Kentucky Colonels, that highly selective, secret society of basketball fanatics, will forgive me for my heresy.

Wait, a waitress just dropped a glass. Never mind. It was plastic, so it just bounced around, put no one in any real danger, and she handled the extra attention well. Nothing there. If only there could have been flying glass embedding itself where it shouldn't, or a real embarrassing moment for her. But no. What rotten luck. Maybe someone will slip on a piece of ice.

My fellow customers are behaving themselves, and are staying within their own little groups. They are mostly couples, and, for some reason, couples are not very interested in bringing a third person into their conversation, not even someone as interesting as a guy sitting at the bar, by himself, typing on his BlackBerry and ignoring them. Hard to understand such indifference.

The biggest issue I have with typing a piece on a BlackBerry is that once I get home and download what seems like pages and pages of writing, I realize that I only have tiny screen after tiny screen of writing, and that I have not written near as much as I thought I had. What a disappointment.

If you have been reading this hoping to get a chuckle, a smile or some slight amusement, you, too, understand disappointment.

At least I got a meal out of it.

Almost Terribly Wrong

2010-03-16T22:05:00.001-05:00

I was running late. I knew that. But not THAT late. As I walked in the door, there was a baptism going on. Usually we do baptisms toward the end of services. It wakes everyone up after a long sit, especially the one being baptized.

My first thought was that the time for services had changed and I had somehow missed the announcement. If I had missed it, so had the six other people who were straggling in, so I dismissed that thought quickly. So quickly I didn't feel neglected. It wasn't a change in service times that no one had told me about, it was a change from the natural order. This baptism was first instead of last.

I don't know the full story. That is one of the penalties for being a little late. I am really hoping that is the only penalty. In the congregation where I grew up, lateness could bring down the wrath of the Elders, or at least the disapproving stares of the older. My current congregation is more relaxed about it.

I suspect the woman being baptized had told the preacher before services that she wanted to be baptized, and he had made the decision to do it as soon as possible. My sect is like that. Dunk 'em, and dunk 'em soon.

This group is not only of the dunk 'em persuasion, it is also somewhat, how do I say this without seeming irreverent...rebellious. Maybe it would be fairer to say that we don't want to be locked in to any old, or even any particular, tradition, so sometimes we slip close to choosing the anti-traditional, or at least doing the traditional in a nontraditional way. So seeing a little variation in time or tradition is not surprising. Non-surprise over non-tradition has become our new tradition.

None of that is terribly wrong. What was almost terribly wrong was the execution of the baptism. The preacher was a little on the small side and the baptizee was, well, larger. One of the traditions we have kept is that of the baptizer dunking the baptizee by placing a hand on the baptizee's back and laying him or her backwards into the water. Usually this works fine. It is easy to lay someone into water while going down with gravity-in the physical and attitudinal sense- and the water cancels a lot of weight. Then, on the way up, there is no tradition against the baptizee helping. After all, this is a resurrection. If you are coming up alive, it is okay to move.

The preacher placed his hands, said the traditional phrases, with the non-traditional changes, and lowered the baptizee into the water. He then started bringing her up. She came up, to the point of leaving the water's support and just beyond, then stopped. She teetered on the brink of re-burial, with the preacher struggling and tilting. There was an instant of suspense, then the baptizee gathered her legs under her, and popped up.

Yes, we almost had a double dunking. I have never witnessed a double dunking, and I am not sure how we would have handled it. Would it have required a third dunking, one to get it right? I doubt it. But that might have been a good start on a new non-tradition.

Too Much Evidence

2010-03-10T19:29:00.002-06:00

I have two vices that leave too much evidence. One is eating chocolate, and the other is eating chocolate. Two different kinds of chocolate, sometimes at the same time.

The first, and by far biggest offender, is the Hersey Kiss. Whether you have Kisses proudly displayed on your desk or hidden in a drawer, there will be a tell-tale trail of bits of tin foil and thin strips of paper. If you keep them in a kitchen cabinet, on the counter, or under the bed, they will give you away. Try as you might, be as careful as you can, and you will never eliminate those bits of evidence. What's more, the bits are almost impossible to pick up, at least by these stubby fingers. If you eat Kisses, you leave evidence. Accept it. And accept that if I am in your home or office, I will pick up on that trail.

The other chocolate offender is the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. My cup of choice is the miniature cup because, and I know this will be surprising, it has a higher proportion of chocolate to peanut butter. It also has a higher tendency to flake. As you pull the little paper cup away from the chocolate, little bits of chocolate tend to break off and fall. This makes the miniature cups particularly dangerous to eat in a car. If you are not careful, you can end up with tiny bits of chocolate in your lap. In the summer, those bits can melt faster than you expect and can create a telling pattern on your pants. Not that that has ever happened to me.

The problem is multiplied when you eat them together as some are known to do. I know at least one person who does this, and I hope there are others. Or at least that others will find it intriguing enough to give it a try. That person would hate to feel he is the only one, shall we say, innovative enough to give it a try. If you are one of those rare and insightful people who would like to explore this chocolate nirvana, the recipe is:

Unwrap one Reese's Miniature Peanut Butter Cup. Set aside on the removed wrapper.
Unwrap one Hersey's Kiss, being careful to control the trail of tin.
Place the Reese's Miniature upside down on its removed wrapper.
Turn the Kiss point side down and push it into the bottom of the Reese's Miniature.
Eat.

Yes, it is good, isn't it?

There is a warning that goes with this recipe. Overuse will result in a different kind of evidence. In my case, that evidence is a line on my belt where it used to fasten.

I am well aware that there are those who cannot relate to this intensity of interest in chocolate, or to the evidential problem it creates. Those people may like blueberries, or strawberries, or they may prefer meat and vegetables to sweets. Don't worry, those of us who prefer, like and, yes, adore, chocolate hold no contempt for those of other persuasions. We chocolate lovers are a kind people, magnanimous to the point of accepting others' failings in this area, acting as if they were reasonable.

We accept you as you are.

Two Good Funerals

2010-03-08T21:52:00.000-06:00

I hate funerals. They bring such a mix and intensity of emotion that most people are uncomfortable and emotionally out of balance. They don't know exactly how to act, and normal reads on people are not accurate. I don't like that. I like to understand what is going on, and there is usually too much going on at a funeral or a visitation to know what is going on. At least for this pea brain.

There have been two exceptions, two funerals that have been positive experiences. One was about 14 years ago, and the other this past Friday.

Fourteen years ago, Alan, my friend and boss, died suddenly at the age of 49. He was a kind, gentle, humorous man who, in spite of his imposing six foot four stature, made everyone around him comfortable. It was a loss for his family, the hospital family, and the community. I went to his funeral service sad and left happy. It was a celebration of his life.

I have been to funerals where they have said it was a celebration, and even a few where they have tried to make it a celebration, but his was the first that succeeded. He was Mormon, and in the tradition of Mormonism, his life and family history had been painstakingly recorded. From this historical record, as well as the memories of his family and friends, came story after story of his childhood, teenage years and adult life. Some poignant, some uplifting, and many hilarious, particularly those about the mistakes he had made. It was a true celebration of his life and what he had meant to those he had touched, appropriately accompanied by some tears and much more laughter.

The other funeral that was truly a celebration, the one this past Friday, was for Lynne. She too had died suddenly, at the young age of 52. I knew Lynne less well, but had spent enough time around her to realize she was a special person performing a special mission in this life. There was less laughter in this funeral than she would have liked, because she loved to laugh, and had an infectious laughter, but that was because the focus was different. This funeral celebrated her life by celebrating not her physical life, but her spiritual life, though they were really one and the same. She lived her spiritual life through her physical life. Her funeral was less humorous, but just as joyous.

For those who are interested, it is worth reading the thoughts of Lynne's husband, Mike, about Lynne's life and about her death. I recommend both “Holiness” and “A Good Death.” You can read them at http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/lynnebreen/journal.

Two funerals, two different approaches, both celebrations. One focused on the physical life that left us laughing, one on a spiritual life on earth that left us joyous. Both gave cause for those of us attending to think about our own lives, and both left us feeling better than when we arrived.

They showed that the way to have a funeral of celebration is to have lived a life worth living, and therefore, worth celebrating.

Bad Week In Egoville

2010-03-01T17:01:00.001-06:00

Some weeks you feel good about yourself. You feel strong, confident, and happy for no good reason. Other times, your ego is not as strong, also for no good reason. You don't know what caused the difference between the two feelings, but being human, you want to know, so you find what looks like a good reason and adopt it. You might realize that whatever you think set you back today didn't phase you last week, and probably won't phase you next week, but it is all you have this week, so you run with it.

That is as true for me as for anyone. Except for this week. This week I know exactly why my ego crashed. I know three whys.

Why one was on Thursday. I had stopped in the office hallway to talk to a couple of folks. A certain someone, who shall remain nameless, but whose first name starts with – no I won't do that. That would be really icki of me. She walked up behind me and said, “Mark, you need a hat.” I was a little confused, since I was inside and the heat was working just fine. She noticed my confusion and clarified by adding that either that, or she needed sunglasses, because the lights were glaring off of my head. Now, I know I have an almost bald spot. It is so almost bald that you have to get real close to see any hair. On the other hand, as long as I am looking straight into a mirror, I don't see said bald spot. So I make a point to only look straight ahead. An illusion ruined.

Why two was on Friday. I was at lunch with a recently retired friend. As he ordered, he pointed out that he was eligible for the senior discount. Yes, you see where this is going. It wasn't until I had pulled out my receipt that night that I realized I am now a “senior,” at least that is what the receipt said, which means that is what the young lady working the register thought. If I had left a tip I would have gone back to get it.

Why three was on Saturday. I was walking down a street in Nashville when a nice and accomplished panhandler approached me. I say accomplished because he had the whole conversational approach down, and had a very good story to go with it, props and all. Very impressive. At one point he said he was a certain age, an age I refuse to publish so as not to embarrass, um, him, and said that I looked about the same age. Here is a tip about trying to flatter someone; lie and shoot for a lower age than you think. Even worse, and somewhat telling of my vanity, is that he was right and I was still offended. To go one step further, he may have thought he was shooting low. Ouch.

Three days, three dings to my ego.

Now I had a temptation. Nashville is a big place, a place where you can build your ego by finding people who you think look worse than you, if you want to stoop to that sort of thing.

I'm feeling much better now, thank you.

Toppling Along

2010-02-22T21:22:00.003-06:00

She was leaving as I was pulling in, I in my car and she walking to her's. She was cute, but that wasn't what caught my attention. It was her walk. No, not the sway. It was the topple.

The topple is found mostly on young ladies. Usually they are going to or coming from a wedding or a prom, and they are dressed to impress. In that effort to be as glamorous as possible, many become topplers.

Toppling is most common on those who are wearing high heels when they are not used to wearing high heels. Since young women are more commonly wearing athletic shoes or other flats than heels, they are prone to topple. The wearing high heels when they are not used to high heels puts heel clad young women up on their toes when they are not used to being on their toes. That creates the topple, that state of being so far on their toes, and so uncomfortably on their toes in awkwardly high heels, that they look like they are going to topple right over their toes. For entertainment value, the higher the heels and the closer to toppling, the better.

Toppling is not the wobble in the ankle, though wobble and topple often go together. While the wobble might be interesting, it is not really entertaining. It is too close to becoming a real injury to be entertaining. The entertainment value of the topple lies more in the irony than in the possible turned ankle. By dressing as glamorously as possible, which apparently includes wearing as high a heel as possible, young women become topplers and look like they are perpetually at risk of toppling and being anything but glamorous. Toppling and glamor do not occupy the same thoughts.

I find it entertaining to watch a sole toppler, but not for long. About 10 feet for any one toppler is long enough. By then she has proven that she is not going to topple on over, so the suspense is gone. On the other hand, watching many different topplers in quick succession can keep me entertained for hours, particularly if I am situated where I can enjoy a meal and watch the show. That is why I prefer proms to weddings. Many more topplers, and they are often found at restaurants. Very convenient, and a great set up for my viewing pleasure.

A few years ago I was sitting at a sidewalk table eating a scrumptious meal when I was treated to a parade of prom couples, and therefore, topplers. They were walking by me to a park across the street for pictures. The topplers weren't there to entertain me, but they might as well have been.

My enjoying them trying to be glamorous but falling short because they look like they are continually in a state of falling could be seen as mean and sadistic. I, of course, disagree. It is more like watching a baby's first steps. The falls are funny, and the attempts look clumsy, but the experience is sweet. With young ladies, there is the assumption that toppling is due to a new experience, a learning experience, and that gives it a hint of charm. Without youth, say with a woman above 30, toppling looks awkward, and is more uncomfortable than entertaining to watch.

But I still laugh.

My Anointing

2010-02-15T21:52:00.001-06:00

It was the first time I had ever been anointed. I did not plan on it, and neither did anyone else. It was not on the program. It was totally spontaneous, unexpected and surprising. And not really welcomed.

I was sitting in worship service during communion. The tray was passed to me and I chose one of the many small cups in the tray and lifted. Or rather I tried to lift. Nothing. It was stuck in one of those little cup holder holes and wouldn't budge. I pulled a little harder. Still nothing. Not being one to give up easily, or to even think about moving my fingers over a mere half inch and getting another cup, I tried to finesse my chosen but stuck cup with a little twist and pull. The cup did not like that. It exploded.

Saying it exploded would not be entirely accurate, and not being accurate in describing the destruction of a communion cup would not be kosher. It would be more accurate to say it imploded. The cup collapsed and disintegrated in my hand, spraying grape juice on my eye, my chin, my neck, my shirt, my pants, my everything. It splashed onto the pew in front of me. It hit the woman in front and three feet to my right. It hit the woman sitting to my left, who, bless her, was more concerned that I might have cut my grape juice covered hand than that I had just sprayed her with that same juice.

I sat there silently stunned for a second, meditating on the crushed cup and my hand, not quite believing what had happened. I then chose another cup and passed the tray, and excused myself to go and clean the anointing off of my body. When I came back, I cleaned up the splash on the pew, or at least most of it.

I was fortunate that I was wearing jeans with a black shirt and a black jacket. What wouldn't clean up on me either didn't show up or didn't matter. While I didn't see any obvious splashes on those unfortunate enough to be sitting near the anointing zone, I was afraid to look too closely. I wanted to take it by faith that no one else had been affected. However, judging from the little dabs of tissue to faces, that faith was shaken. I wouldn't be surprised if bystanders to the anointing later found they were wearing spotted clothes in need of a washing machine baptism.

I'm trying to remember a time when I have made as public a spectacle of myself. I have done a lot of stupid things, but most of them have been more private, or at least less noticed. And no, I am not about to list my private sins. You wish.

One reason I don't recall other instances of public embarrassment is that I am fortunate to have a lousy memory for my stupidity and a long memory for my brilliance. Or maybe that is an ability to convert memories of stupidity to perceptions of brilliance, but right now I can't think of anything brilliant, either. I certainly can't think of anything brilliant enough to offset my exploding cup.

I mean my anointing.

If I Only Knew

2010-02-11T18:42:00.001-06:00

In one of those after meeting discussions where you catch up on your co-workers' lives, we were talking about weddings and funerals. Fortunately, the funerals had nothing to do with the people in the room. Unfortunately, the weddings did. Someone lamented the cost of her daughter's upcoming wedding and the loss of a vacation or two to pay for it.

Knowing I have a daughter just out of college, a prime time for marriage, someone meant to ask if I had any weddings planned. In one of those twists of thought that would be perfectly natural for me to commit, he asked if I had any funerals planned.

I replied something like, “Not at the moment. If you are referring to me, I would rather not.” We laughed at the twist and moved on.

The next day I drove past a burial monument company and noticed they were advertising an inventory reduction. I laughed and thought, “This would be a good time to die. I could get a good deal on my headstone, and avoid paying for a wedding, all in one fell swoop.” Maybe that should have been “one fatal swoop.”

I know that there are those who make detailed plans for their funerals, and that is the smart and kind thing to do. Smart because being dead rather limits your opportunity to shop for headstone bargains. Kind because, hopefully, the kinfolk will be grieving and not feel like looking for a deal on a casket. Since I have not planned, shopped for funeral bargains or purchased my memorial service, that could be seen as evidence I am neither smart nor kind. I prefer to think I just haven't seen a good enough bargain.

With bargains in mind, I went to the Internet to look for a casket sale. The first site was a dead end. They called it a sale, but it looked like regular price to me. With the next one I hit pay dirt, so to speak. Their prices were about two-thirds of the first, plus they offered, “Take an extra $100 off. Sale extended though March 15, 2010.” If I hurry up and die I can get a wonderful deal.

My favorite name was CasketXpress. I think the X in the middle speaks volumes. Their site was very upfront about matching the quality of caskets at Walmart and Costco. They also offered closeout caskets. I have to question how comfortable I would be in a closeout casket.

Having found my box, my next search was for a plot to purchase for our big day. I was not disappointed. I found a thriving network of burial plot resellers. Think time-share brokers, but with a more permanent arrangement. I found some discounting and deals, but I admit I am reluctant to go with a discount plot. I had a flash vision of the temporary parking lots around major sporting events, those houses where people sit in their front yards and sell parking spots. I think I want a more permanent location.

With just a little work, I found a discounted headstone, a discontinued casket and a source for my own little plot of land. Now all I have to do is set a date.

Delusional Decisions

2010-02-04T21:58:00.000-06:00

Reality slapped me in the face today. It wasn't a harsh slap, just a love tap to remind me to come back and visit every once in a while.

I was riding with a group from work and heading back to the office when it happened. I was in the 3rd row seat and the front seat rider was talking about not letting her 16 year old son drive from little Bowling Green into Nashville for a concert. This reminded me of the times we had let my then 16 year old daughter drive to and through Nashville for soccer practice, and how it had helped her.

It made her a better and more confident driver. She is not afraid to drive in a large city, is confident behind the wheel, and has, before the age of 20, driven to and through St. Louis, Atlanta, Birmingham, etc., all without an incident. Given my high opinion of the decision to let her drive to Nashville, and the excellent results, I butted in to tell anyone who would listen about this great decision. Unfortunately, before I could finish telling them how great a decision I had made, Reality slapped me.

I started telling how well Kellyn had handled it and how nothing had ever happened, except for that time her car broke down in the middle of I-65 in Nashville traffic, and how she was frantic and we were fortunate that we had good friends living nearby who got to her quickly, way before I could. And how she was never in any real danger, except for the time she was robbed at gun point for her taco. As soon as I mentioned the taco at gun point thing I knew I had lost any chance of being recognized for my excellent decision.

Kellyn and her friend had left a concert and were on the north side of Nashville when they, as teenagers do, had a longing for food. She pulled off of I-65 at Trinity Lane and hit a drive-thru for a late night taco and trimmings. When she pulled to the side to arrange her money and food before hitting the road, she saw someone approaching the car. Looking to avoid an unwanted conversation, she began rolling her window up. Just before the window reached the top, a scraggly kid shoved a gun barrel through the crack, pointed it at her head, and said, “Give me your money.”

She rolled her window down far enough to hand him her money, and then he said, “I want your food, too.” She gave him her food, he left, and she left, in a hurry.

Meanwhile, her friend was bending over her food, covering it with crossed arms as if to say, “You can't have mine.” They laughed about that later. Much later.

I had started telling about my good decision, but had realized, too late, that it had not been that good. In fact, it could have been disastrous. But time and ego had allowed me to forget about the negatives and remember only the good, at least until I was telling someone else about it.

So, I have learned a lesson. I will strive to make only sane, rational decisions. Then, if they are not good decisions, I will continue to insanely rationalize them.

Creative Sledding

2010-02-01T17:09:00.002-06:00

There are two big snow sledding spots in Bowling Green. The biggest and best is Hospital Hill. It is called Hospital Hill, not because there is a hospital there, but because there used to be. It is also known as Reservoir Hill, because there is a reservoir there. It has also been called College Hill, but that was before the college moved to the next hill to the west, eventually becoming Western Kentucky University. Hospital Hill may have once been called Fort Hill since Bowling Green's largest Civil War fort, C.F. Smith, once occupied the top. The fort's earthworks were constructed under the command of future President Colonel Benjamin Harrison, but I doubt he spent much time sledding.

It has a flat starting area, a steep initial drop, and a flaring out at the bottom, right before you hit the road, sometimes literally. Sledding down a hill with a road at the bottom is not particularly smart. However, sledders don't have to worry too much about cars because the danger is quite obvious. One look at the hill and drivers see they are in great danger of getting their car dinged by the face of an out of control sledder, so they avoid the road on sled days. So, while they don't have to look out for cars, sledders have to watch for the lip of the road, or the uncovered and very non-slippery surface of the bare pavement. Nose sledding is neither fun nor cosmetically appealing.

The amazing thing about sledding on Hospital Hill, other than there being only one ambulance run on Saturday, is the diverse and inventive selection of sledding vehicles. You have your standard sleds, ski boards and inner tubes. Then there are all things that will slide on snow. That includes cardboard boxes, storage containers, garbage cans, tarps, garbage bags, plastic rain ponchos, school cafeteria trays and a large, round metal coke sign. In prior years I have seen sledders on car hoods, sort of redneck McGivers, but the winner this year was a kayak.

It was the most unique and, apparently, the most dangerous. The snow rapids rider flew down the hill, hit the pavement, and earned the one ambulance ride of the day by breaking not one, but two legs. I'm happy to say it was not me. I would never have been that foolish.

My strangest sledding was several years ago on a Western Kentucky campus hill, the second most popular hill for sledding. Someone had a pair of Cypress Gardens water skis, so I strapped them on and started down. They worked well, much better than the sleds I had been on. So much better that they took me farther then I had been. Right past the point where the hill ended with a 3 foot drop-off onto a snow slick road.

With a snow covered hill and a snow covered road, I didn't see the ledge until I was there, much too late to bail out, so I went over. I am proud to say that I landed well, on my feet. I am prouder to say there were no cars coming. I landed past the sidewalk and in the middle of the road.

Sledding on water skis is obviously a much wiser choice than in a kayak. I didn't break anything.

Computers Part II

2010-01-28T18:35:00.000-06:00

This is called Computers Part II because “II” looks so much more substantial than “2.” It is called “Part II” because I wrote about computers last time. It is called “Computers Part II” because, not to repeat myself, but to repeat myself, I wrote about computers last time.

Don't tune out yet. This is not about my love/hate relationship with computers. I have already covered that just fine and I am not one to repeat myself.

For the curious, those on the edge of their seats about how me and my new computer are getting along, please find something better to occupy your time. Your future self will appreciate the upgraded memories.

Speaking of upgraded, that is what my new computer is supposed to be. It has Windows 7, which is supposed to be a vast improvement over Vista. I am happy to say that it is much better in some ways. I get less screen flickers and fewer restarts. Screen flickers may not seem like a big deal, and they really aren't, but they irritate me. Those flickers made Vista look like it was crashing, and even though it never crashed, at least at those particular times, it still made me think it was. Yes, irritating.

Windows 7 has solved some of those problems. The problem it has not solved is keeping a solid, useful, dependable wireless internet connection. You might think this would be an irritating issue in a laptop, given that a laptop is a laptop so you can have it in your lap wherever you happen to be. It is terribly irritating. But I am happy about it.

I am happy about it because, when I spent, oh, 10 hours on internet chat sites looking for a suggestion on how to fix it, I found that there were no good answers. There were a lot of suggestions, but none that worked. They didn't work for me, and not for the vast majority of the other folks who were looking for answers. This is good. It caused many of those other folks to make not-so-flattering comments about Microsoft. This was even better.

This may seem a bit odd to you, this happiness over problems with my computer, particularly problems that seem unsolvable. Let me assure you, there is a good reason for my happiness.

One night last year, when I was having a particularly irritating time with Microsoft Vista, I made the highly informed decision to invest in Apple. Okay, it wasn't an informed decision. Against all logic and reason, I did absolutely no research. I called the next day and bought Apple shares. The stock has done very well since then.

I am not here to promote emotional purchases of stock. Emotion in stock trading is dangerous and can lead to losing mucho bucks. I was lucky.

I was lucky that the stock market crash had knocked the wind out of good stocks like Apple. I was lucky that there has been a lot of pre-hype about the new Apple iPad. I was lucky that Microsoft can't seem to make stable software.

It is so much better to be lucky than good. Too bad luck can't make Windows work right.

It's Complicated

2010-01-25T23:09:00.001-06:00

I love computers. I love the way computers and the Internet give me access and connection to the places and information that I otherwise would be, or had been, disconnected from. They help me keep up with family, reconnect with friends, check out potential destinations, or look up obscure and useful, or useless, facts. Computers are entertaining, and make my life easier, richer and more interesting.

I hate computers. They are expensive. They become obsolete months, sometimes years before you've gotten your money's worth. If they don't grow obsolete from technological advances, they crash, quit working, and put your pictures, financial data and contact information at risk. If the computers don't quit, the network, the printer or the cable modem does. They are as aggravating as a kid sister.

I love getting a new computer. A new computer gives you more memory, an upgraded processor and a newer operating system. You get the newest, brightest and best, and you catch up with innovations like Blue-ray. The only thing missing is that new car smell, which would probably seem out of place.

I hate getting a new computer. The upgrades in technology are only good to run programs you will never run at speeds you will never need. You have to transfer all of your old files to your new one. Then you have to find and reload the programs you have accumulated over the years. After hours of work you're back to a computer that will do what the other one did before you started. If you're lucky.

I love discovering great new software. It is a thrill to FINALLY find a way to organize all of that information, pictures or music on the computer so that I can find it, use it and, in far too many cases, get rid of duplicates that are taking up valuable space. I love the thrill of discovery and accomplishment. It's a man thing.

I hate discovering great new software. I will have to spend hours of time moving, tagging, labeling, and maybe deleting information, pictures or music before I can use the program the way it is designed. When I'm done I'll be able to find stuff I have never looked for and never will.

My computer crashed. I have spent much of the last three days finding, buying and reloading a new one. That process made me realize how many pictures I have, and that I needed a way to sort, categorize and organize those pictures. So, on the recommendation of a good friend, I downloaded Picasa3. It is a great program. I love it and, yes, I hate it. When I have everything loaded and labeled, there will be no more wasted time looking for pictures, but getting everything loaded and labeled is going to take a long time

How long? Let’s see. Picasa3 found approximately 25,000 faces in my pictures. At five seconds a photo to attach a name, I should be done in about 347 hours, but it will be worth it. I will never have to spend another hour looking for a picture again, even the ones I will never look for.

I’m saving real time here.

Twilighting

2010-01-21T21:31:00.002-06:00

I took advantage of a visit to see my mom to check out a local church. As I walked in, I was met by a couple who had been assigned to guard the door and not let any visitors in until they had been thoroughly interrogated. This was not unexpected, and usually not unpleasant. I usually don't mind it at all, and wouldn't have minded it then, if I would have cooperated. But I didn't.

I meant to cooperate. I tried to cooperate. I just couldn't.

It started off okay. They kept it simple and asked my name. I got that right. And why I was in town. I got that right, and correctly told them where I lived. That was the peak of my success.

They asked about mom, and I started telling them where she attended church, but soon realized I couldn't remember the church's name. I drew a blank. Looking to save myself, I threw out my sister's name, since she had once attended their church, and asked if they knew her. That drew a blank look from the interrogators. Trying to smooth the interaction, I explained that she now attended the congregation at...and another blank. I couldn't remember the name of my sister's church, not withstanding that they mailed me their church bulletin weekly. The wife half of the team helped by throwing out congregation names. I recognized one and said, “That's it!” and laughed. I think it was the right name.

Then they asked me where my mom lived. Not a problem. “She lives at,” and another blank.

This time the husband started suggesting names. He hit on it, I said, “Yes, that's it,” and then I made a mistake. I offered the street name. “It's on Stratford.” Blank looks.

A few awkward seconds later, he asked, “Do you mean Seminary?”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” I said with certainty.

At this point, even though they knew it was on Seminary, they looked doubtful. I had said it was on Seminary. If I said it, it must be wrong.

The wife, being the kind soul that she was, asked what room mom was in, saying they would visit her. I said, again with certainty, “301.” At least I got something right.

By then, services were about to start, giving them an excuse to get away from this barely functioning being they had tried to engage in conversation. I never saw them again.

During the service I gradually gained some level of functioning and realized that I was, at least this morning, like mom. The doctor had said that as people age, and particularly when they are ill, have a minor stroke or begin showing signs of dementia, the morning is often the worst time of day. When they wake up, they don't really wake up for a while. That while could be minutes or hours, depending on the person. He called it twilighting.

I don't know if twilighting is a medical term or one he uses to make the condition understandable to families, but it is fitting. It implies partial light, partial clarity, which is what they experience. Or, in this case, what I experienced. I had been twilighting.

I just hope the woman in 301 enjoys her visitors. Mom will be right across the hall.

What Dads Do

2010-01-18T22:45:00.002-06:00

I was involved in a drive by repair. I was sitting comfortably in my apartment when I received an emergency text message from my daughter. She was on a weekend trip, and her camera had broken.

As a young twenty-something female, her camera is as essential to her as her car keys. Sure, she could drive somewhere without a camera, but what would be the point? Without her camera she couldn’t memorialize the event. She needed that camera fixed. Soon.

She asked if it was still under warranty, where I had bought it, if I still had the receipt for it, and where to take it to get it fixed. As luck would have it, I was going on a weekend trip myself, and we would be traveling the same stretch of highway the next day on our way back to our respective homes. I suggested we meet up so I could get my hands on her camera and take care of it. After all, fixing things is what we dads do.

By coordinating the meeting with texts and Google maps, and adjusting the Google estimated travel time for my daughter’s liberal interpretation of the speed limit, we hit the appointed rest stop within 60 seconds of each other. It was a nifty bit of coordination. What’s more, after a hug, I took three pieces of camera and put them together into one within two minutes. Even more impressive was that the reassembled camera worked. A trifecta.

She and her friends gave a little huff with that fake, put-out look and laughed. They and every guy they had run into that weekend - and I don’t want to know how many guys they ran into that weekend - had tried to get the thing working. She had taken it to Best Buy, and the best they could do was offer to send it for repair. Yet her dad had fixed it in two minutes. What can I say, it’s just what dads do. We fix things.

What dads don’t do is admit that we usually have no idea how we’ve fixed whatever we’ve fixed. We jump in, look at the problem for a second, give a nod like we know how to handle it, then we twist, pull, force and otherwise exert our will over whatever the problem is. Lucky for us, that often works. If it doesn’t, we feel we’ve given it our best shot. Then we try again until it is broken enough to require an expert. At that point we’ll let it go.

As a one-time auto mechanic, I can tell you that is also how many cars get fixed. While most mechanics have a better idea of how cars work than most dads have of the problems we try to fix, the techniques are much the same. You figure out what you what to happen; you twist, pull, force and otherwise prod whatever has control over the thing you want to happen; then you try it and see if it happens. If not, you do it again. Until it is so messed up you need professional help.

Yes, I’ve fixed many a problem, and many a car, without a clue how I did it. I call it skill.

Sick Humor

2010-01-14T17:49:00.002-06:00

I have a sick sense of humor. Not sick as in, "That is so good, it's sick." Sick as in, "He needs psychological help." This realization came as I read the Internet headlines for the day. I laughed when I read, "'Strongest Man,' 104, Dies After He's Hit By A Car."

I suppose it hit me as too close to reading, "Superman Dies After Tripping Over Cape." It just sounded wrong.

I immediately felt bad. Here was a human being, and I was laughing at how he had died. The more I read about him, the worse I felt.

His name was Joe Rollino. He was a decorated World War II veteran who had gained fame in the 1920's by lifting 3,200 pounds, a man who, on his 104th birthday, had bent a quarter with his fingers. Joe knew he had been blessed with unusual strength. He worked at his gift by exercising daily and taking care of himself, but would simply say, “I was just born strong.” He used his strength to entertain and, as a life-long boxer, to inspire kids in the Golden Gloves program. Those who knew him called him a hero and a mentor.

I had laughed at how he had died, and I was ashamed. Then I read that the car that hit him was a minivan. I laughed again. At that point I had to admit I was a sick, worthless human being. Who laughs at human suffering, even death? As it turns out, a lot of us. Probably you, too.

Comedian Mel Brooks explained. “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die.” Add an ironic twist and it is hard to resist laughing.

Then there is the whole “it's so disgusting it's funny” humor, like cockroach jokes. I realize cockroach humor is not a form of humor present everywhere. It may not be present anywhere, now. But there was a time and a place where I heard cockroach jokes daily. In high school, one of the diversions of the football locker room, besides putting hot balm in jock straps, was telling cockroach jokes. Strange, and, on the surface, not that funny. They went something like, “My house has so many cockroaches that …,” with the blank filled in with something like, “...last night the dinner table started moving toward the door,” with the next teller trying to one-up the one before. The more sophisticated might alter the lead-in to, “The cockroaches at our house are so big that....” The humor was in the irony of bragging about your cockroaches.

By the way, the jock strap prank fit Mel Brook's definition well, where happening to you is tragedy and to someone else comedy. If someone had the audacity to pull the hot balm prank on one of the bigger, faster and meaner players, there could easily be two tragedies for everyone to laugh at; the burned and the pulverized burner. But those laughs came later. When the burned wasn't around.

Still, death, pain and poverty are tragedies that are too extreme to be humorous. Unless you are really sick. Like me.

Bar Food

2010-01-11T20:14:00.001-06:00

I like eating at the bar. A year ago, I would not have said that. Not because I didn't like it, but because I didn't know. I may have done it before, but I don't remember doing it. Not that I didn't eat alone fairly often when I was on the road, but since I usually drink tea and don't smoke, I would just as soon sit at a table, among the non-bar people.

However, I don't like to wait, so when it came down to a choice between waiting for a table or sitting at the bar, I started choosing the bar. I'm glad I did. As interesting as eating with myself may be, bar eating makes eating out much more interesting. Interesting, colorful and entertaining.

At a table, performing in front of the person who is going to be determining their tip, waiters and waitresses are on their best behavior. That is not usually the case at the bar. At the bar, coming to pick up a drink order, you see the true mood of the staff and the servers. You see their humor, their irritation with customers, and their frustrations. The waitress who calmly and politely, even happily, offers to take your drink back may well be rolling her eyes at the bar. Okay, she will be rolling her eyes. What did you expect?! They are usually barely out of their teens, if not teenagers.

On the other hand, bar staff are more out there and entertaining at all times. They don't have anywhere to go to be out of sight, so usually what you see is what you get. If you visit a restaurant once or twice a week, they soon develop a comfort with you and are even more themselves. With some of them, that can be scary, but usually it is good to see a familiar face, and it is entertaining to have an ongoing, if interrupted, conversation as you eat. Also, if you accidentally walk out on your check without paying, they will cover for you and let you know, ever so kindly, via Facebook, that you are a deadbeat. Not that I would ever forget to pay.

The real entertainment comes from your fellow bar riders. At the bar you meet people from every walk of life. Businessmen, of course. Waiters and waitresses, no doubt. Morticians, recording artists and concert tour managers, surprisingly, particularly in a chain restaurant in Bowling Green, Kentucky. In case you are wondering, Charlie Daniels is as nice as he seems, Bob Dylan may or may not be a nice guy, depending on the day, and Willie Nelson is, well, Willie Nelson. At least that is what the tour manager told me. He also told me about his elderly parents, his successful and not so successful brother and sisters, his deceased son, and the trials of the road, all while he ate a tiger shrimp appetizer, I drank my tea, and we watched a football game.

Speaking of eating, it is about that time, and I know just where I need to go tonight. There is a chance I owe a bartenders for last Wednesday's meal. The things you learn on Facebook.

Cold

2010-01-08T12:52:00.002-06:00

This is Kentucky. This is the South, or at least the upper South. It is not supposed to be 13 degrees.

Yes, I am a wimp. I have traveled a long road to become a wimp about cold weather, and I will wear my wimpishment with pride. Under a very warm coat. I used to not be this way.

I used to take pride in not wearing a coat. That was when I was about 13 or 14 years old. It was a matter of principle that I would not need a coat, I would not act cold, and I would not shiver waiting for the school bus, as long as the temperature stayed above 25. If it got below 25, I would wear a light jacket, but grudgingly. Then, year by year, I started wearing coats more often.

I think it started in high school with a letter jacket, and it probably didn't even have to be that cold to wear it. I mean, a letter jacket is cool, even if it is 60 degrees, or at least no more than 55. That vanity was probably the start of my downfall.

Wearing my high school letter jacket and calling it vanity is a bit ironic. When I got it, my coach thought I would grow. A lot. The popular style was three quarter length instead of the traditional banded waist. When you take an over-sized three quarter length coat and put it on an undersized high school guy, particularly a high school guy who is okay with wearing his workout shorts home, you get a look that is more like a dress than a coat. Add to that mix my standing next to a busy Dixie Highway to wait for a ride, and you get a lot of eyes seeing a scrawny kid in shorts wearing what might be a three quarters length coat, but could just as easily be a dress. Yes, a strange vanity.

Looking like a dress or not, it gave me a feel for what it means to stay warm, and I kind of liked it. I worked my way through the college letter jacket, which, by the way, fit much better and did not look like a dress, and graduated to sport and suit coats when I was thrown into the workforce. Then there was a regression.

Since I hated wearing a bulky overcoat on top of a dress coat, particularly getting in an out of a car, I stuck with the dress coat until it got below twenty, then broke down and wore a light trench coat. About ten years ago I got a bit smarter. I know, about time. I realized I could wear a camel hair sport coat, throw in a scarf on really cold days, and stay warm enough for the walk to the car.

The last stage of my progression, which I hope is not the last but the latest, given the shortness of life that “the last” implies, is that I have purchased a true overcoat. My need for warmth has overcome my preference for less bulk. My decent into wimpishness is complete, this time unaided by vanity.

But I do think I look pretty sharp in the overcoat.

Comfort Food And Comfort Silence

2010-01-04T22:46:00.000-06:00

Cracker Barrel is on the cutting edge of social engineering. The scientists in the Cracker Barrel Lab, known in scientific circles as CBL, recognized a problem and developed a solution. As with all true breakthroughs, the solution is a feat of engineering so simple it is elegant. The problem: Uncomfortable silence. The solution: The triangle peg board game.

If you have ever been to Cracker Barrel, you know the game. It sets on each table, a triangle of wood with fifteen holes drilled in it with plastic golf tees in all but one hole. The object is to eliminate each tee by jumping it with another tee until there is only one tee left. Yes, simple but brilliant.

The brilliance is not the game, but having the game on the table. It is the perfect answer to the social issue of what to do when your dining companion is occupied, say with a cell phone. It fills the void and makes the silence comfortable.

I noticed this on my last visit to Cracker Barrel. My mom was occupied, so I picked up the game and started playing. For inquiring minds, I achieved the pinnacle of success, leaving one peg, on my third attempt. For naysayers, never fear. I did not achieve it again on any of my 10 or so subsequent tries. I soon grew tired, or frustrated, and started looking around. It did not take much looking to see others playing the peg game, or to see why they picked it up.

At the table next to us was a mother and daughter. They talked for a bit, then the daughter picked up her phone, already on the table and at the ready, and started texting. Her mother sat quietly for a long time, probably about 30 seconds, then reached for the game. She played while her daughter texted. By the way, she never came close to my achievement of one peg. She only achieved two.

As I scanned the dining room, I noticed others playing the game. At one table was a man and two women. The women were talking intensely and exclusively, and he was off in his own world with the peg game. At another, there was a young couple with a baby, and as the mother fed the baby, the father played the game. One table over, a couple sat quietly for a while until the guy couldn't stand it any longer. He finally picked up the game and started playing. This was the only instance I saw of someone hitting the game without the other person or persons at the table being previously engaged or distracted.

I also noticed that, with the exception of when it was only women at a table, it was the man who started playing. I don't know why that was, but I have a theory. I think it has to do with a woman's tendency to relate, and a man's tendency to do. The woman would feel she was avoiding relating if she started playing the game, and that wouldn't feel right to her. The man would feel like he was doing something, which would feel perfectly natural.

The other explanation is that men are inconsiderate jerks. Being totally unbiased and a man, I reject that theory and go with the natural tendency theory.

Post Christmas Calories

2009-12-28T22:22:00.000-06:00

I had gone to work out at my gym, or rather the First Baptist Church's gym, after a weekend of Christmas gluttony. Perhaps gluttony is a bit too strong a description, particularly since this was a church gym. Overall, I was good.

I like the word, “overall.” It works well to obscure details and lump everything into a general, kinder picture. Until you add some specific detail, like, except for the buckeyes my niece made. Those little balls of peanut butter and sugar dipped in chocolate led me to a valiant effort at gluttony. I may have succeed.

Otherwise, I was good, as long as we define good as eating no more than twice the number of calories we normally eat. Since I am writing this, and many of you are guilty of the same overindulgence, that is how I will define it. Even being good, I knew I had to work out and burn some of those holiday calories. So I hit the gym.

I had walked in and warmed up before I noticed it. Rachel Ray was on TV, cooking a meal of marinated, pan fried chicken on ciabatta bread, with gravy and smashed potatoes. The gravy was for the chicken, not the potatoes. The potatoes were made with enough Gouda cheese that they didn't need the gravy. Not that I noticed what she was doing. I was busy working out, burning those holiday calories.

I admit that burning the calories took a bit longer than they usually take to burn. They were stubborn. It was as if they knew this is the most wonderfully caloric time of year. It is the space between Christmas and New Years, not quite in the diet zone of post New Years Eve, yet past the excuse of Christmas parties, family get together and cookies or fudge on every other desk.

We won't mention the walks through the halls at work, walks in areas that I haven't been in since last Christmas, looking for those treats on every other desks to see what kind of cookies or fudge they could tempt me with. I was, of course, taking the long to my desk as a way to burn as many calories as I could.

Fortunately, with Christmas behind us and New Years before us, now is the time we can think back on what we have eaten over the Christmas holiday, think forward to the diet resolutions to come, and eat all the more.

So it is quite appropriate that I chose to work out to Rachel cooking. It was me working to burn calories, and Rachel cooking them up. There is balance to the universe.

I just don't want to get too close to the scales.

A Christmas Poem

2009-12-24T15:05:00.001-06:00

The gift shopping is done,

You can tell from the mall.

The crowds are much smaller,

Barely there at all.

Except for many men

Ever late and delayed,

Putting off the shopping

A price to be paid.

Scurrying and grabbing,

Uncertain what to buy.

“I guess it is perfume,”

Spoken with a sigh.

Or practic’ly drawn to

Unexplainably go,

To the place in stores were

Appliances show.

Not learning from last year,

Or the year before that,

They would be better off

With a Russian hat.

While the women are drawn

To stores for food and such,

Preparing a dinner,

Or a Christmas brunch.

Completely expecting

An unsuitable gift,

They have long resigned to

Exchange without rift.

But then the men know that,

And are happy to say,

If only to themselves

In a careful way.

“Whatever I buy her,

She is sure to take back.

I might as well buy her

That toaster in black.”

Even in poor gifting

A balance full exists.

Women get to complain,

Men for ease persist.

Though that is a good place

To end this little rhyme,

I really must question

The Soft Pretzel line.

Why is it that men are

Hardly ever there found,

And that the long lines do

With women abound?

Fooled Again

2009-12-21T18:12:00.000-06:00

I don't like being made to look like a fool. I don't like being made to feel stupid. I can often accomplish either, or both, without any outside help whatsoever, so help is not appreciated. Call it a talent. Even more, I dislike being fooled by the same thing in the same way. That makes me feel particularly stupid. But getting fooled again by the same thing is another one of my talents. For example, cell phone headsets, or more accurately, ear pieces, keep on fooling me into thinking I am in a conversation when I am not.

It happened again today. I engaged myself in a conversation that I was never supposed to be a part of, with a person that I barely know, about a subject that I knew nothing about, with a look that said, “I am really confused.” Thank you ear piece.

As I walked in the door, I swear I heard her say, “Hello, Mr. Robinson.” Although my name is Robison and not Robinson, I have friends of 30 years who still get it confused, so I automatically dismiss it. Particularly if someone I barely know is greeting me by name, which she wasn't, because she wasn't talking to me. But I thought she was, and if she had been, I would have dismissed it. After all, I am a nice guy. My excuse is that she was looking at me even if she wasn't talking to me.

To be fair, maybe she wasn't looking at me, but she was looking in my direction, there was no one between us, and she was talking to someone, so I thought I must be that one. I wasn't, but it sure looked like it to me. The one she was talking to was one who was not there. But I said hello right back to her and tried to carry on a conversation right up to the point she shook her head and pointed to her ear piece. And probably thought, “Got ya!”

This being fooled by a cell phone ear piece is a pandemic worse than swine flu. It is so contagious because we, and I mean we as in the collective we, the “We The People,” don't understand why anyone wouldn't want to talk to us. If someone is generally looking in our direction, and sort of talking, even if it is more of a mumble, and they have any kind of sort of interested look, they must be trying to talk to us. Who wouldn't want to talk to us. If we were someone else, we would want to talk to us. Assuming that a person who is talking to no one is talking to us is perfectly natural. At least I am a natural at it.

In the interest of all of us we-the-peoples who are fooled by cell phone ear pieces, I propose that every ear piece be required to blink a red warning light to warn those not in the conversation that they are not in the conversation. The warning light should be visible from both sides of the head.

After all, there is no telling which direction we potential fools may come from.

Santa Dogs

2009-12-17T19:49:00.000-06:00

I like dogs, I really do. I grew up with dogs, as in we always had one, not as in I was raised as part of the pack. I have also had a dog most of my adult life. This is nothing against dogs. If I still had one, I am sure we would be the best of friends.

This is nothing against dog owners, either. As I said, I have spent most of my life being one. Me dog owner bashing would be very close to me male bashing, and besides, at least one of those is handled quite adequately by women, no help needed. But there is something I don't understand.

Someone please explain why dog owners, some of my favorite people mind you, take their dogs to have a picture with Santa. This is not a case of, “Let's include Spot in the family Christmas photo.” That I could understand. My dogs were usually a part of our Christmas card picture. While I doubt my kids would appreciated my saying the dog was often the cutest part, and I would never say it, or even imply it, it is true that the dog of the moment often received the most comments from friends and family. I personally think that says something about my friends and family, but that is another discussion.

No, this is not a case of including the family dog in the family picture. It is about having the dog, or dogs, picture with Santa. By his or her lonesome.

While I don't understand it, I have to say that it was very entertaining to watch. At the time I was there, there were fifty or so dogs and owners hanging around Santa's quarters at the mall. And they were well behaved. The dogs, not necessarily the people. Okay, most of the people were well behaved. They kept their dogs near to them and away from other dogs and other people, and they waited patiently while each owner did his or her best to place their dog into position, and to keep them in that position while the photo was snapped.

Amazingly, while the cameras snapped, the dogs didn't. With strange dogs, and stranger people around, and I count anyone who was standing around without a dog watching the show as strange, the dogs were very well behaved. Not one snarl or fight. The owners were very good at keeping them occupied. One preteen continually walked her 40 pound mutt around the outpost, weaving in and out of people and dogs. Another woman scratched her dogs belly, at least until her kids showed up to harass the dog and keep it company. Both techniques worked.

Some of the best entertainment was provided by the mall patrons who stumbled upon the Santa and dogs holiday picture event. When they saw their first dog, they were confused. Then they saw the line of dogs and dog owners waiting to see Santa, and understood. At least they understood why the dogs were there. From their faces, I am sure they were as confused as I by the dog-only photos with Santa.

But what they thought doesn't matter. What I thought doesn't matter. All that matters is that the dogs were happy, and that I had a good time watching.

A Black Day Is A Good Day

2009-12-14T20:52:00.002-06:00

I am blessed. I have two great kids, a good job, a warm apartment and a vehicle that is dependable. And that does not scratch the surface. Above all that, I just received an invitation to get a Black Card.

You may not know about the Black Card. I admit I didn't. Given that I was one of the few picked to get an invitation, I probably should have. More about that later. Not until the envelope showed up in my mail box did I know Black Card existed. The envelope said, “Invitation Enclosed,” so I opened it immediately. I'm glad I did.

Not to brag, but Black Card is a credit card made out of, get this, carbon, which is sure to get you noticed. At least that is what my very special, one of a kind, personalized invitation says. It says, “...guaranteed to get you noticed,” right there on the front. It also says, and again, not to brag, that this card is being offered to only 1% of U.S. Residents. There is some small print that said something about having to qualify, but I am sure that is a mistake.

The best part is that you get all of this for an annual fee of only $495. Yes, that is all it costs to carry this practically-a-work-of-art carbon, I mean real carbon, Visa card in your wallet or purse.

I wish I could show you the over-sized picture of this very special, limited to 1% of U.S. Residents Visa card. As I mentioned above, it is black carbon. That is worth most of the $495 annual fee right there. Not only is it black, but it has Black Card printed in gold, yes gold, in big letters right on the front, and in small letters all around the edge, as in BLACKCARDBLACKCARDBLACKCA; you get the idea. It has the same BLACKCARD printed in gray all over the front of the card. The only thing not black, gold or gray is the Visa logo.

That was a mistake. That blue and gold Visa trademark is not nearly as elegant as the rest of the carbon black, gold and gray card. For $495 I should think you would get something a little less, shall we say, tacky.

I forgot to tell you about the envelope. It was, you guessed it, black with, you guessed it again, gold lettering. Even the presorted U.S. Postage label was gold. How classy was that?

Think about the fun you could have with this card. First, you dress down on purpose, maybe jeans and a torn t-shirt. You do this so that when you walk into a high end clothing, jewelry or liquor store, they ignore you, thinking that you can't afford their expensive stuff. You just grin, because you know what is coming. You shop. You select. You walk up to the register to pay. The snooty staff look down their noses, expecting your card to decline. Then you pull out the Black Card. Whoa. Instant attitude change. It is black. It is carbon. It gets you noticed. You have the last laugh.

All for only $495 a year.

On the other hand, a friend of mine recently told me about a $310 haircut she received. This is going to be a tough choice.

Shopping Observations

2009-12-10T20:40:00.000-06:00

Don't let the title fool you. I was not shopping. Okay, I looked a little, but I was not shopping. That one shirt I bought I stumbled upon, I didn't shop for it, and it was on sale at a deep discount. I don't shop on the day after Thanksgiving. It is against my better judgment. And if you go to the mall with the intention of walking to get a bit of exercise, particularly after 5 pm on Black Friday, it is not shopping. Or if you go to do some people watching, it is not shopping. However, since people watching doesn't sound much better than shopping, I will quit defending myself and start diverting your attention to the people I saw.

One of my favorites was the late fiftyish woman who was trying to figure out if she had spent enough, or who had just had enough. She had plopped herself onto the cold, tile floor in the middle of the mall walk, with her back up against a pillar, and she was counting her money. She had pulled out an envelope of greenbacks and was counting them like a teller at the bank, slowly and meticulously, oblivious to the hundreds of people passing by and looking at her stash. I think it was just an excuse to sit there for a while. She looked like she had been at it since 5 am. Shopping, not counting.

Then there were the two women making fun of one of the photographer displays. Specifically, they were making fun of the picture of a couple celebrating a pregnancy. One walked up beside the portrait quality picture and held out her hands like a model on a game show, asking, “Who wouldn't want this displayed at the mall?” In the photo, the woman had her very pregnant belly, and more other parts than necessary, exposed, and the man, with a matching belly, had his shirt off. Some smart alec stopped and said, as seriously as he could, “That's my brother.” They didn't believe him.

Of course then there were the men, who were a study in and of themselves. There were far fewer men then women in the mall, and the only men I saw who were alone were the ones gathered at one of the men oasis, those areas in every mall where there are collections of benches, chairs and other such paraphernalia made for folks, mostly men, to take a break from shopping. They could also be called zombie chairs. Most of the men sitting there had blank stares and slumped bodies. My guess is that most of the mental drain visible on their faces had taken place since noon. After all, they were still sitting up. If they had been at it since, say 5 am, they would have been laying down. Not that I would know that from personal experience.

All in all, for it being so late in the day on Black Friday, people were in a good mood. Even the few salespeople I talked to while not shopping seemed to be in a good mood. Tired, but in a good mood.

Maybe that was because they knew I was not shopping and that they really didn't have to help me. They could just zombie out, which was very easy for the guys.

High School Friends

2009-12-07T17:54:00.001-06:00

You never know how reunions and other meetings with high school friends will turn out. You don't know if the time will be comfortable or awkward, boring or interesting, fun or a chore. The smaller the group, the less certain the outcome. Also, the longer you have been out of school, the more hazardous the meeting. In my case, that makes any meeting very hazardous.

Reunions are your best bet, if only because there are more people around, and if you stumble into an awkward or boring conversation, you can always excuse yourself to another group. All you have to say is, “Hey, there is the girl I stood up on prom night, I need to go say hi,” and no one will wonder why you are moving on. He will probably be happy you are moving on, so he can go talk to the gal who washed her hair every Friday and Saturday night and didn't have time to go out with him.

The other end of the spectrum is the small dinner party of, say, 12. Here there are a number of things that could go wrong. First, you could choose the wrong seat. Once you choose a seat, you are committed to that seat. No matter who sits down next to you, you can't change seats without offending someone, usually the person you are moving away from, although it could be the person you are moving next to. This would be true if you happened to be moving next to the aforementioned girl, now woman, who you stood up on prom night.

Second, the conversation could die. Silence is the death of a dinner party. It makes it awkward, boring and a chore. The grand slam of social ineptitude.

Third, the conversation could sizzle. About you. And about the night you lost your bra, or that little incident at the Friday night party right before graduation that you really wanted to forget. The incident with the person who is setting next to you in the seat you can't move away from.

As you may have guessed, I recently met up with some high school friends. It was the most dangerous of meetings, a small dinner group, but with the most pleasant of outcomes. We laughed, we teased, we ate, we talked, and we laughed some more. I wish I could report some high drama, but apparently all of the high drama happened at an earlier event that I missed, and talking about it just spiced up the conversation. The only embarrassing stories were those told by the person who, in an earlier time, would have been the one embarrassed. The only downside was that some couldn't be there.

It was the kind of meeting where the restaurant staff ran us out of the dining room, and we hung out in the lobby for another hour, talking. Not only was there talk of getting back together, but the plans are under way. Yes, a true meeting of friends, just friends who have not seen each other near enough over the past too many years.

To make things perfectly clear, there was no one there that I stood up for my high school prom, I wasn't the one who lost a bra, and I refuse to comment on any Friday night incidents.

On The Radio

2009-12-03T18:59:00.000-06:00

I was just on the radio. Actually, my name was on the radio, and yes, they were referring to this specific Mark. The country duo Burns and Poe were giving a live interview and performance on a local station and gave me a “shout-out.” Impressive.

I earned this distinction through virtues promoted by the best self-help books, planning and taking positive action. I planned to eat, and I went somewhere to do it. The rest I attribute to sitting in the right seat.

My plan to eat was formulated earlier in the evening, about the time I started getting hungry. No need to form a plan any earlier than you really need one. My positive action was made necessary by the fact that I had no food in my apartment, unless you want to count two-week-old deli turkey slices. I didn’t want to count it.

With a plan to eat and a need to go somewhere to do it, I went to O’Charley’s. This is the point in the story where my brilliance really shines: I sat down next to the prettiest gal who had a seat next to her. Like I said, brilliant. It happened to be Michelle Poe of the aforementioned group, and she was sitting next to her partner in music, Keith Burns. She immediately ignored me.

To be fair, and to balm my ego, Michelle and Keith seemed to be in a deep conversation. When she finally noticed I had sat down, she turned and said, “Oh, when did you set down? And here I’ve been sitting with my back to you.” A very sweet comment, and then she turned her back to me and continued her conversation.

As I proceed through my steak and sweet potato fries, and they finished their conversation, we started talking a bit. It wasn’t until after we had talked about the football game and her week old nephew, with phone pictures to show, that I found out they were a country music duo on a radio tour. She had played bass and sang harmony with Dierks Bentley and Hank Williams Jr., and Keith had been the founder of Trick Pony. Burns and Poe is a new direction for them, and they have just released their first single. Thus the radio tour.

They were both extremely nice, not anxious to be known, but not shy about it either. Keith talked to the guys on the other side of him about football, and Michelle and I talked about politics, education and healthcare. Yes, I really know how to talk up the ladies.

As they left, they told me to tune in for their morning interview and that they would give me a shout-out. So I did, and they did. It was fun to hear them sing and find out how really talented they are. I assumed they were, but the reality was more impressive than I expected. The radio station immediately started getting texts and emails asking if they were really live, they sounded so fine. They sang two songs live, and the station played their just released single. They were all great songs.

Burns and Poe are now on their way back to Nashville. They had the chance to plug their new single, and to have dinner with me. This had to be their favorite stop.

Patriotic Shopping

2009-11-30T17:56:00.000-06:00

I was sitting in church and someone slipped in an economics lesson. Before they passed the hat, a guy got up to say a few words about how we are blessed and how our giving can help others. Both true. In his short little ditty, he mentioned how his preteen granddaughter had earned a few dollars and had come to him and said, “Pappy, let's go stimulate the economy.” She wanted to go shopping.

In those five, short little words, “let's go stimulate the economy,” his granddaughter summed up months of comments from the talking heads on the TV news shows.

We have been told by the talking heads that we are a consumer economy, which means that our economy depends on people buying things. Making things, buying things, using things seems like a decent definition of an economy, so I'll run with it. We have also been told that if the economy is going to start recovering, people are going to have to be consumers and start buying things. I suppose it makes sense that if we are a consumer economy, we need to have consumers. Apparently, his granddaughter had been listening, too, and was jumping in to volunteer.

That said, if you like to spend money, this a great year and a great time of the year.

It is a great year because we are in a recession. Okay, maybe that doesn't sound so great in and of itself. I admit that cutbacks, layoffs, stock market crashes don't have quite the same lovely ring to them as jobs, prosperity and healthy savings accounts. On the other hand, here we are in the buying frenzy that is the month before Christmas, and we are hearing how important it is to spend money for the sake of the economy. The combination of a bad economy, the need to spend to stimulate the economy and this buying time of year give us some real potential to feel good about ourselves for spending tons of money. Or running up tons of debt.

When this realization hits, all of the sudden you go from feeling like you need to be frugal, to cut back on the Christmas shopping and save a few dollars, to realizing that it is your patriotic duty to spend, spend, spend. And from the looks of it, we are being very patriotic.

Where I live the malls are crowed and and the lines are long. I know this because, although I try to stay away from anything resembling shopping the day or the weekend after Thanksgiving, I was out and about this weekend. In my defense, I was more of an observer than a participant. Sort of like the Switzerland of spending. I'm okay if you wage the war for economic recovery by spending and buying, and even better with it if it helps me in some way. I just don't want to get involved.

So I salute all the patriotic shoppers, you spenders beyond your means, and the credit card companies that support you. Spend on. Stimulate the economy. Be the consumers we need to recover from this recession.

If you have trouble figuring out ways to stimulate, I wear a 16 and a half inch neck, 35 inch sleeve dress shirt. Your welcome. No problem at all.

Thanksgiving At My Sister's

2009-11-27T21:15:00.001-06:00

I had Thanksgiving meal with my mom, my sister and her family at my sister's house. It was an enjoyable meal, with good food, good conversation and a holiday disaster.

As anyone who considers it for a moment will admit, holidays are memorable because of the things that go wrong. If everything goes smoothly, it is just another holiday. If you have an uneventful Thanksgiving, eating, talking, perhaps sleeping in front of the football game, it is enjoyable enough, but it is not all that memorable. However, if your aunt drops the Jello salad and it explodes all over the kitchen, or Grandma cooks the turkey a tad too long, say 12 hours at 600 degrees until it is crisply blackened, now that is a holiday to remember and to tell stories about.

I suppose it would be just as memorable if something fantastic happened, like finding a two carat diamond ring around the turkey's neck bone, but, let's face it, those kind of things just don't happen to most of us. They certainly don't happen in my family. If it did, there would probably be an awkward, silent moment, just before we all dove into the middle of the table, shattering dishes and glasses and tearing the turkey from stem to stern, or rather neck to booty, bone by bone, looking for the matching earrings.

Much more likely to happen in most homes is the undercooked turkey, overcooked greenbeans, or under chocolated chocolate pie, as in, “I thought you put the chocolate in!” I am pleased to report that none of those things happened. The turkey was excellent, the chocolate pie was superb, and the greenbeans, if we would have had them, would have been cooked to perfection. So far, a good, uneventful holiday. Very boring.

However, I am happy to say that my sister saved us from a boring, forgettable Thanksgiving. She really messed up.

Before I go on, let me say that she owned up to it from the start. She announced it at the table, and put it on her Facebook page, so I don't feel bad about sharing it here. If she had not have been so forthcoming, I still would have written about it, but I would have felt bad. Maybe. But then, she is my sister. I'm supposed to give her a hard time.

My wonderful sister, who hosted this wonderful meal, and invited me to spend a wonderful holiday with her family, messed up the dressing. We never quite figured out how she messed it up. We just know that it never quite got done. Not after 60 minutes in the oven. Not after 90. Not after two and a half hours. After that, we gave up. Dinner was through. She did bring it to the table at one point, to show us how bad it was.

I am not sure how to describe it. Cold, skimmed over cream of chicken soup doesn't do it justice. It was not pretty. It was ugly enough that no one accepted the challenge to taste it. After all, we only offered five dollars.

However, a few hours later, she announced that she had tried it and that it tasted pretty good. No one believed her. But we do have something to talk about.

Stuff

2009-11-23T23:26:00.000-06:00

I have a lot of stuff. I have so much stuff that I am paying someone else to keep my stuff. I have to pay them to keep it. No one else would want it, no one else wants to keep it for me, and so I rent a storage unit. I have since I sold my house 18 months ago.

After 18 months, you would think I would recognize that I really don't need most of the stuff I have but don't use. I say most because there have been a few things I have driven to the storage unit to use, and a few things I have driven to the storage unit to use and have not been able to find. I suppose if I had less stuff that I do not want to use, I would be able to find the stuff that I want to use. It is the stuff I have not used that I decided to get rid of.

I thought getting rid of the stuff I have not used during the past 18 months would be simple. I was wrong.

I started with a plan. I would take boxes of stuff I have not used since it has been in storage, and throw them away. It probably was a good plan. My problem is that I did not work my plan. I added a step. I looked in the box.

Note that I said box. I did not really make it past one box. True, it was a big box, but I thought that in two hours I would get through more than one box. Even worse, I only got rid of part of one box. The rest I repackaged and re-stored, or I took it to my apartment so it would be closer to me. I wanted some of my stuff closer to me. In case I decided to use the stuff I haven't used in 18 months.

Looking in the box was my mistake. If I had just taken the box and thrown it away, or dropped it off at, say, Goodwill and let them discover if there was anything they wanted, I could have gotten through 20 or 30 boxes. But one look inside, and it was no longer a box. It was stuff in the box. My stuff. The decision went from one decision about one box, to 40 or so decisions about 40 or so pieces of stuff in the box.

This was stuff that I had once thought was important enough to get, and then thought important enough to pay to keep in storage. If it was important then, it might be important now. That bit of reasoning may seem flimsy, but it is nothing compared to the next thought. That thought is the curse of “might”, as in, “I might use that.” Once “might” slips into the decision, you are doomed to keep the stuff unless you can convince yourself you are wrong. I take this opportunity to point out the obvious. We don't like being wrong. I don't like being wrong. It is difficult to convince myself that I am wrong.

I started out with a big box of unknown stuff I did not need, and now have a smaller box of stuff I might need. Now that is progress.

The Pity Card

2009-11-19T17:29:00.000-06:00

Today, I am unabashedly playing the pity card. Woe is me, I have been sick. My dilemma is how bad I should make it sound.

If I make it sound too bad, I will get sympathy, but sound like a wimp. Sounding like a wimp is okay in your own home with your own family. In fact, it is preferable. You get better pampering and attention that way. And they already know you are wimp. On the other hand, people outside the family, and that would be you, could get fed up, roll their eyes and quit reading. Some of you already have. STOP! That “stop” is to catch the quitters. Read one more sentence. Pretty please. Looks like I am going with the full wimp version.

I am sure I had the flu. I didn’t go to the doctor so that I would not look like a wimp. Besides, I read that the CDC is no longer tracking the cases of the various flu viruses. True, I found that out after I decided not to go, but a reason not used is a reason wasted.

The first sign was fatigue. Then chills. On the way home from work I cranked the heat up to max. When I pulled in the garage, I sat there because if felt so good. I closed the garage door from inside my manly SUV, remembered to shut the SUV down, and slept for 20 minutes. Then my joints started aching and swelling. At this point I thought it would be a good idea to take something. I had Advil, so I took Advil.

Maybe it will help me to seem less wimpy if I tell you that I tried some physical exercise on one of the days I had a fever. Nope. Just makes me sound stupid. And I was. Talk about giving me a headache. Oh, yeah, I had a headache, too. It started when I tried to do a light, very light, work out. I was being quite reasonable about my limits.

Let me stop the pity cycle long enough to say that even with all of the above classic flu symptoms, I never had any hint of the number one sign, an upper respiratory infection. Therefore, I was never as miserable as some people get.

But it was bad. Woe is me.

There was a somewhat humorous moment. I had been online, passing time, when I started getting the chills. I decided to shut down my Internet browser and crawl under some blankets. I couldn’t. I was shaking so bad I kept missing the little red X. I finally gave up and lay down.

Somewhat less humorous was trying to, and here I’ll use a good wimpish word, tinkle while shaking with the chills. I want to interject here that non-wimpish German men tinkle while seated. I learned this from watching a fundamentalist preacher on YouTube rant about how one of the first signs of the Apocalypse is when men start sitting to tinkle. His evidence of the eminent approach of the End was that on a trip to Germany, he discovered, to his horror, that real German men sit to tinkle.

Real German men and shaky Americans.

My Diet

2009-11-16T19:42:00.000-06:00

Six months ago I decided to lose 10 pounds. To-date, I have lost 15 to 20 pounds. Impressive, I know. Unfortunately, I didn't lose them all at the same time. I lost a pound or two here and there. Which is good, because you should lose gradually. I also put on a pound or two here and there. About 15 to 20 pounds. Therefore, I still need to lose 10 pounds.

My plan, and a good plan at that, has been to burn more calories while eating less calories. Radical. The burning more calories is to be accomplished with a consistent schedule of workouts, and the eating less is to be accomplished by, and this is ingenious, putting less food in my mouth.

Unfortunately, something always seem to get in the way. Usually, it is food.

Thursday was rather typical. I skipped lunch because I wasn't really hungry, then grabbed an early supper of fish, broccoli and corn. So far, so good. However, by eight o'clock there was a slight hunger pain, which also happened to be about the time I could catch part of the Thursday night football game at Friday's. Friday's has a very good chocolate brownie. I think you know where that went.

I realized that if I am going to succeed, I needed more motivation. I now celebrate diet or workout success. And it works. I am much more focused. However, it has created another problem. A celebration to me includes dessert, and dessert is spelled c-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e. Carmel and nuts are not to be discouraged.

Just an aside here, but did you know that Peanut M&Ms are delicious when warmed in the microwave? But no more than 16 seconds for a snack pack, or they burn. Then they are not good. The celebration that night was not joyous.

The working out part of my plan is going fine. I have, by and large, stayed with it. This is very good since, if I didn't, I would, by and large, be very large. I claim to work out to stay healthy, and that is true, but the real, deep truth is that I do it so I can eat. Good lab numbers during my physical are a nice bonus, but they are not to be elevated to the height of good food. Or of a dessert to celebrate those good numbers.

On the positive side, I take comfort in the fact that I am not at my heaviest. I have weighed more than I do now by at least 5 pounds. Yes, it is a small win, but then I have a small standard for wins. I take what I can get.

That satisfaction with weighing less than my peak weight may not seem like a good motivational strategy. You may be right. At my weigh-ins, I am usually happy when I have not gained more than the 10 pounds I need to lose. You may be thinking that since I am happy, I celebrate, which, of course, means dessert. Come now, I am more disciplined than that. The celebrations on those days are for the great workout, not the weight stabilization.

I do have my standards.

A Drive In The Country

2009-11-12T21:10:00.000-06:00

When my mom wants to get out, we usually go out to eat. On this day she was not really hungry, but wanted to get out. So we hit the road, grabbed a couple of DQ milkshakes and a hotdog, and went for a drive in the country. During the next 90 minutes or so, we discovered a large lake, found a new route to the interstate, and enjoyed the fall colors. It reminded me of some back road explorations the family made when I was a kid.

Every once in a while, usually on a fall Sunday afternoon, Dad would round us up, get us in the car, and we would go for a drive. At other times, whenever Uncle Carl would visit from Ohio, the kids from both families would pile in his station wagon, along with the two dads, and hit the road. At that point, it was literally pile in. There were three kids in my family and, depending on the year, the age and the attitude of the older of Uncle Carl’s kids, four or five of them. That made up to ten people in that station wagon. It was always crowded, and always a good time.

You might think that since I grew up in Louisville that we would have to drive quite a way to get to the country. I probably thought that. But within a few miles, if you took the right roads, you felt like you were in the middle of nowhere, on narrow winding roads, in farmland or in the hills surrounding Louisville. It didn’t hurt that we lived on the edge of the Louisville suburbs, in venerable Valley Station. (A few days ago I overheard someone at a business conference say she was from Valley Station. I told her I was, too. She didn’t want to talk about it. Such is Valley.)

The drives would usually start by heading toward Blevins Gap Road, and then we would see how lost we could get, not that I realized it at the time. I always assumed that Dad and Uncle Carl knew exactly where they were going. I now realize, from personal experience, that as long as you have plenty of gas, don’t have a time limit, and have half a sense of direction, you’re never really lost, just going out of your way. You may go in a circle, which we often did, and that circle may be smaller or larger than you intended, but you are never really lost. You are discovering new routes.

That is also probably the reason the women never went with us. They may have been perfectly content to wander around in stores shopping all day, but when it came to travel, there had to be a purpose and a destination. In these drives, there was no purpose except seeing something new, and no destination except making it back home.

Along the way, we might cross an old iron bridge, travel a road we had never traveled, or see a lake we did not know was there.

The favorite happenstance was to discover a country store, an old style mom ‘n pop, where we would always stop for soda pop (remember, Uncle Carl was from Ohio) and bologna sandwiches (my Kentucky mind will never understand why they put bologna on the label of baloney). After a short break, it was back in the wagon for the ride home.

The favorite part of the ride home was heading down Orell Road toward Dixie Highway. There was nothing special about Orell Road, except for the spot or two where now you might see a sign that says, “Dip In Road.” That dip, or bump, or what have you, was the attraction. If you took it at about 45 or 50 miles an hour, which we always did, you could get that weightless stomach feel that you get in a roller coaster in freefall. Sort of a redneck roller coaster.

Then it was a few short turns and we were back home, pretending like we were hungry so that the mom’s wouldn’t get mad that we had spoiled our dinner with soda pop and bologna.

What We Say

2009-11-09T17:27:00.001-06:00

Every once in a while, I see a high school student carrying a baby simulator, a doll designed to give the student the newborn experience. While there may be value in caring for a pretend infant, other than learning that holding them upside down and spinning them around at subsonic speeds will turn off the crying (note: this works less well with a real baby), I think it would be much more instructive to have each student carry a recorder and record every comment and conversation they have during a day or two of life. Then have them listen and analyze their recordings.

Take the young lady at the concession stand who set a hotdog in front of a gentleman and said, in an instructive tone, “Here is a hotdog.” If she could have heard herself, she would have realized that he knew it was a hotdog. After she said it, he glanced at me with an amused look on his face, and I was already laughing. He said, “I think I got that.” I was hurt and confused that she didn't tell me she was handing me a bottle of water, particularly since I had ordered a bottle of water.

That was a one time experience, at least for me. I fear it may not have been for the young woman.

Or consider the group of young adults I heard playing Mother May I with the wait staff. Instead of ordering food with a direct, “I would like...,” they asked, “May I have...?,” or, “Can I have...?” It is good that I was not waiting on them. I would have a strong impulse to say, “No, you can't,” just to see their confusion. Then, just before it sank in that I was teasing them, I'd tell them, “This is what I want you to have. Enjoy.” If they ask permission, I can choose not to give it to them.

That may say more about my warped sense of humor than their method of ordering, but, since I am writing this, I will assume I am one who is right, bright and correct.

Waiters are used to strange ordering habits. What drives them bonkers is being ignored. Not so much ignored in that no one pays attention to them, but ignored by customers not paying attention to what is said in favor of what the customer wants to hear. One server's pet peeve is to walk up and ask, “How are you tonight,” only to get, “Two sweet teas, please.” The “please” makes the order sound courteous, but that is a clever, deceptive maneuver. What the person has actually said is, “I don't have time to pay any attention to you, so here is what I want.” That is a sure way to get a dirty glass. Not that restaurant folks are vindictive in any way whatsoever. At least not any more than anyone else. So expect a dirty glass.

On second thought, recording all conversations for a day would probably not be such a good idea. We would probably spend the listening time criticizing the other persons on the tape and asking, “Why did they say THAT?” That is, most people would. Everyone but me. And you, of course.

Time Trials

2009-11-05T22:15:00.002-06:00

Time change weekends cause trouble. They may not cause trouble for everyone, and they may not cause much trouble, but you can bet that somewhere, someone you know had trouble this past weekend. If you know me, I am that someone you know.

My trouble was minor, not worth mentioning, but I wouldn't have much to write about if I didn't mention it, so I am mentioning it.

I had planned to be in bed by 2 am, also known as 1 am after the time change, to take full advantage of the extra hour of sleep. I have to admit the each Fall I look forward to getting back the hour of sleep that was stolen from me at the Spring time change. I don't care what you say, it makes a difference.

It didn't work. If I try to tell you the details of why it didn't work, you will be confused. So let me summarize and confuse you anyway.

Saturday night, I checked my cell phone clock and it was a few minutes after 1 am, old time. Since the time on my cell phone does not change when I change time zones, I “knew” it wouldn't change at 2 am, so I changed it manually. My cell then changed at 2 am. For those keeping track, my cell phone was then two hours behind the time before the change and one hour behind the real time. Later, when I was getting ready to go to bed at 1 am new time, also known as 2 am old time, I noticed that my stove clock showed 3 am, or 2 am new time. I was confused. I looked at my computer, and it said 2:04. My cell said 1:04. By changing my cell phone when it did not need to be changed, I cheated myself out of getting back my stolen hour of sleep.

See, trouble. To you it may not have been big trouble, but I didn't like it, so it was big trouble. There was more.

Unlike me, Bobby, a friend, knew his cell changed time automatically, so he didn't change it. He simply set the cell alarm for church. The alarm went off, he got up, and he got to church for early worship at 7:30 am. Early worship was earlier than planned. No one was there. He called a friend and was told it was really 6:30 am. His phone had not changed. He was not happy, and if this was not a story about Sunday morning, I would put some &^%$ here. He changed his phone's time and went back home until the right time to be at church.

Later that day, he went to work on time and he was an hour late. Sometime after 6:30 am, or 7:30, whenever it was he reset his cell, his cell finally changed to account for the extra hour. Only now, since he had already reset it, it was two hours behind.

Again, trouble. I lost my hour sleep. He lost both an hour of sleep and an hour of work. I vote we leave our clocks where they are from now on. Life would be simpler, and I could enjoy the extra hour I gained, but missed, for the rest of my life.

Fun In The Rain

2009-11-02T18:11:00.000-06:00

Let me say up front that I did not think it was fun. I did not like sitting in the rain. I do not like being wet. I like even less being wet and cold. I was sitting in the rain because I was at a football game, and it was raining. There are few reasons I will sit in the rain, and they are becoming fewer each year, but football still makes the list, so I stuck it out.

I had planned well enough that I had rain gear. By planned, I mean that I always carry rain gear in my truck, and I had enough sense to grab the jacket as I got out. I grabbed it because the forecast called for rain after the game, so I knew it would get there during the game. That foresight meant that I stayed relatively dry. Of course , I was relatively dry in the way a recently dead man is relatively alive when compared to a 1000 year old corpse.

By mentioning dead men, I can now consider this my Halloween blog.

It is also safe to assume that the marching band was not happy to be soaking wet, particularly since they did not have rain gear as part of their uniform. They sat in the rain, covered in whatever plastic they could find, then at halftime they pealed off the plastic and marched and played in the rain, and after they marched, they left the game to get dry. None of that sounds fun, and if you asked them, they would have probably said it was not fun at all. I could tell from my brief exchanges with the band parents that they did not consider it fun.

However, in the midst of the rain, mud and soaked uniforms, there were three kids having a great time as they left the field and the stadium. Admittedly, part of their good mood was no doubt because they were leaving the field and the stadium. On the other hand, that was not what they were laughing about.

As they left the field and walked in front of the stands toward the gate, two guys carrying tubas were blowing into their tubas and not getting a sound. That was because they had covers over the bell of their tubas, the bell being the where the sound escapes, and the covers were soaking wet. Not only were the rain soaked covers trapping the sound, they were also trapping the air. The more air they blew into the tubas, the more the covers protruded, until one looked like half a balloon. Apparently, they thought this very funny, and they, along with a girl carrying a smaller, unidentified instrument, were laughing, poking and motioning at it for about 20 yards, until they were out of sight.

Granted, this did not seem all that funny to me. I was wet, and the football game had not restarted. I was not there to have fun. I was there to watch football. What was entertaining was that these kids were so entertained by so little in spite of being so otherwise miserable.

They took rain and turned it into something to laugh about. I took rain and got wet.

The Five Dollar Shopping Rule: A Disclaimer

2009-10-29T17:33:00.000-05:00

Because of the potential for abuse, I must issue a disclaimer about the Five Dollar Shopping Rule. As you may recall, this rule stipulates that an item may only be purchased if the cost per use is $5 or less. Note, it does not say you have to buy an item that fits that criteria, or you should buy it, or, “I am a handy rule to use in arguments with your husband.”

I say husband instead of wife, or even spouse, because I have not heard a man say anything about using it against, to argue with, or even in a discussions with a wife. This may be an unfair observation, since many wives would like their husbands to buy themselves some new, more stylish clothes, and would raise little objections to such a purchase. It also may be, and I admit that this is the most likely reason, that as soon as most men realized I was writing about shopping, and the title, “Shopping,” may have given it away, they quit reading and have no idea what the Five Dollar Shopping Rule is. It is unlikely that they would be using a rule they know nothing about. Their loss.

As I write this, I also realize that I need to quit writing about shopping. It is not very manly. That is, unless I tell you about my purchase of a boat, a car, a motorcycle, etc. That would be okay. However, since I sprang the Five Dollar Shopping Rule on an unsuspecting public, I have an obligation to provide complete disclosure and supplemental cautions.

In the interest of public service, I add the following stipulations to The Rule, as it will forthwith be known:

At no time shall the total cost of all items on or touching your body exceed the gross domestic product of Uruguay, or a months salary, whichever is smaller. I understand that the GDP of Uruguay appears to be a totally random and irrelevant measure. It is. But I have been wanting to use GDP in a sentence for several days now.

The Rule is to be used only for self-justification. At no point should you use it in any logical discussion or argument and expect it to have any effect on any other person, including your spouse, who has already made up his or her stupid little mind about the extravagance of the purchase. Such a use will lead to a poor outcome, and preclude the full use of the rule for a better purpose.

Exception to the above stipulation: if you use it with any other person, use it before the purchase. Reasons for purchase before the purchase always sound better than reasons for the purchase after the purchase. It also allows you to say, “But you said buying it made sense,” if an objection is raised after the fact. In case you were wondering, this stipulation is the better purpose referred to above.

I have also been informed that The Rule does not apply to Special Occasion Dresses. This seems like a questionable exclusion to me, and one that could too easily be abused in an internal conversation. However, since we are talking about self-justification, I suppose one rule, or exception to a rule, is as good as another.

Shopping

2009-10-26T17:34:00.003-05:00

Shopping is not one of my favorite pastimes. Buying, on the other hand, seems to rank right up there. In fact, it is gaining ground. I am doing a lot of it lately.

The first step in buying is, of course, shopping, so for me to buy, I have to find a way past my reluctance to shop. I do this by convincing myself I need something. If I need something, or at least pretend I need something, shopping becomes a means to an end, and perfectly acceptable. Shopping for something specific is the same as getting. Getting is another word for buying, so by going after something specific, I turn shopping into buying.

Trouble is, once I get in a store and start buying, I am often buying stuff that I did not plan to buy.

Most recently, I decided I needed a sport coat for work. I say, “I decided,” because in reality, I could have also decided that I have enough sport coats. Which means I did not really have a need, but a want. However, a want is not a good excuse for buying, so I called it a need. For a guy, needing clothes for work is always a good excuse to buy. I refuse to comment on a woman’s excuse to shop. That would just get me in trouble. Besides, I don’t think they need one.

While out and in the stores getting, I noticed that there were a lot of sales for this time of year. It seems a lot of retailers are elevating Poor Sales Last Month to a national holiday to give themselves an excuse for a sale. That is fine with me. Any sale on sport coats is a good thing if you are looking for a sport coat. Sales on other stuff are nothing but temptations. I gave in to temptation.

Don’t get me wrong. I limited my buying to work clothes. Mostly. Two new shirts, a few new pairs of pants, an overcoat and a pocket square or two. Oh, and a new shaving kit case. I considered that work related since I once traveled a lot. That reasoning seemed perfectly logical at the time.

To further justify my purchases, I will share a rule I have about buying clothes. Actually, it is a rule I stole from someone, but it is a good one, so it was worth stealing. I never buy anything unless it will cost me no more than $5.00 per use. A $50 shirt I would wear 10 or more times, justified. A $25 bow tie I would wear four times, rejected. Thank you.

I mention that rule because it is the main way I justified the overcoat. For years I have looked at overcoats but passed on buying one. I knew I could make do without one during the few really cold days we have here. The difference this time was that I decided I would wear it more often than during those few really cold days. By deciding to wear it more often, catching a sale where it was 60% off, and using my new $5.00 per time worn rule, I was able to justify it.

With the right decision and a good rule, you too can justify any purchase.

Bumper Cars

2009-10-22T17:55:00.005-05:00

I wish I drove a bumper car. I wish everyone did.

That thought came to me while I was sitting in an intersection behind a car whose driver had stopped a car length from the car in front of her. About the same distance I needed to go to be out of an intersection. If I had been in a bumper car, I could have given her a nudge.

I suppose I could have honked my horn, but that seems so rude, unlike a friendly little nudge. You know, just enough of a bump to jar her to her senses. I mean gently get her attention. I'm sure she would have taken it in the spirit it was intended. You can decide for yourself the spirit in which it would have been intended.

Take a moment and imagine a world where we all drove bumper cars. Your setting in traffic with just a foot or two more before you can make your turn. A little bump, and your there. Or those times when you are parallel parked and some not-nice-to-say-type-person has parked too close to you. A little nudge in the back, a little bump up front, and your out. All without any pesky hit and run charges.

Or what about those individuals who park right on the line. You pull up to what looks like a great parking spot, universally defined as close to the store, and you have enough room to squeeze in, but not enough room to open your door. With bumper cars, just use a hard, sideways push, and you have a usable parking space. And it would save your car from those irritating parking lot dings in your door.

There are one or two minor issues that may pop up. Road rage could become a little more aggressive. A few temporarily insane and unreasonable folks might try to bump their perceived nemesis right off the road. I suppose that could be dangerous, even in bumper cars, but I have a solution. If they do it once, limit them to a motorcycle. Twice, a Mini. No bumpers.

In the long run, the change to bumper cars would improve vehicular safety. Not only would cars be built to absorb higher impact collisions, but the irritation factor, at least for me, would be way down. That in and of itself would decrease aggressive driving. Not that I have ever been guilty of aggressive driving. Except during my diving test. That did not work out so well.

Besides that, no issues. Except for ugly cars. Bumper cars are not pretty. For me, that is not an issue. I will drive a car until it dies. A 100,000 miles? Just getting started. 150,000? Pa-shaw. I had four cars over that in my driveway at one time. But I understand that some of you may have a problem with ugly cars. I am sympathetic. Get over it.

As for me, I will give up a pretty car any day for the chance to really bulldoze all of those irrational and irresponsible people off the road. I mean improve vehicular safety. I am just that kind of civic minded guy.

More For More

2009-10-19T18:24:00.002-05:00

I have recently noticed that the big value size is no longer necessarily the best value. Whereas (bet you can't remember the last time you saw “whereas” used in anything other than a legal document) it used to be that if you purchased the larger size of almost anything you got more for your money, now you may get less.

I first noticed this when I was buying baking soda. Something about the relative price on the big box verses the price of the little box didn't look right, so I pulled out by trusty phone, used my trusty calculator that is on my trusty phone, and surprise, the big box was more per ounce than the small box. That was not supposed to happen.

In the world where I grew up (which is becoming less and less like the world where I currently live), if you bought a larger package, you got more stuff for each dollar you spent. For example, you would get a price break if you bought, say 1000 toothpicks instead of 100 (and who couldn't use a price break on 1000 toothpicks). If you bought a hundred toothpicks, you might have paid two cents apiece for them, but if you bought 1000, that price per toothpick might have dropped to, let's say, one cent apiece. (These numbers are made up because I have no idea what toothpicks cost. If you know how much toothpicks cost, feel free to let me know. I will ignore you because I really don't care how much toothpicks cost, but feel free to tell me.) And the price break made sense. It takes less packaging to put a lot of product, toothpicks or other stuff, into one box verses a little into many boxes. It takes fewer people to move one big box than it takes to move 20 small ones. Those efficiencies make big box products less expensive to sell, so the manufacturer could change you less and still make as much profit. You bought in bulk and you got a deal.

(Warning: You are about to read something that sounds much like a math textbook. Ugh. But if you love chocolate, I promise it will be worth your time. You will thank me.)

Buy big and save may have been true at one time, but it isn't now, at least not always. Now you are just as likely to be charged a premium for the convenience of buying more. For example, take milk chocolate bars at a famous big discount store (I often do, thank you). The six pack of regular sized bars is $3.18. With the total weight coming in at 9.3 ounces for all six bars, the cost per ounce is 34.2 cents (I swear, as sad as it is, I really do think about these things). However, if you buy the eight mini bar “Pack A Snack!”, you pay $1.00 for 3.92 ounces, for a cost per ounce of 25.5 cents. That is a savings of (insert trumpet fanfare here) of over 25%!

Now, I wouldn't ordinarily be so excited about savings, but for chocolate this is huge. (Follow me closely here. This is where reading the math textbook above pays off.) Since making this discovery, I have decided to consume chocolate based on cost per ounce rather than by the actual amount. (I think you see where I am going with this.) Therefore, whereas (slipped “whereas” in there again) prior to this discovery I could only eat one bar per day (give or take a bar), I can, based on the 25% lessor cost of the Snack Pack size, eat the equivalent of one and a quarter bar. That is a whole fourth of a bar more! Now you see it. Now you see why I am so excited.

I know. Pretty amazing, and you are wondering how you can thank me. Let me tell you. Every time you buy the smaller package of anything because it will save you money, feel free to write me a check for half of the amount you save. Just half. I am not greedy. To make it easy for you, go ahead and estimate the total savings for the year, and send that to me. I'll trust your calculations.

Of course, chocolate is excluded from these calculations. We all understand that chocolate is subject to special handling.

A Letter To The Church Gym

2009-10-15T18:46:00.001-05:00

Dear Church Gym Where I Workout,

I workout at your gym because you have everything I need for my workouts. You have decent weight machines, much better than I have at home (since I have none at home). You have an indoor running track where I can stay just as dry when it rains and I don’t run as on the sunny days that I also don’t run. You have a clean facility (I have a somewhat clean apartment).

In addition to that, your fees are very reasonable. They are more than reasonable. They cheap, or at least the cheapest in town.

It is because of those low fees that I put up with some minor inconveniences. For example, you open rather late, at 9 am, and close rather early, at 7:30 pm. For someone who has been know to workout at 5:30 am (okay, I did it once) or 10 pm, that has taken some getting used to. Also, you are not open on Sundays. Now, I realize you think you have some greater mission than keeping me fit, but that Sunday ban on my workout limits my flexibility a bit. For example, I can’t vegetate, watching football all day on Saturday, and then expect to make up for it with a Sunday workout. That forces me to be a little more disciplined than I really like. And even though I usually need to go to the gym to workout only three days every two weeks (that sounds so much better than one and one half times per week), I like my gym to be open when I want it open.

But I have learned to cope. I plan ahead. I don’t like to, but I do. So all of that is fine. What is not fine is the parking situation on Wednesday nights.

Let me make it clear that I understand that you have some other activities in your building, activities that every once in a while draw quite a crowd. Things like bible study. You may even look on your Wednesday night bible classes as somewhat important. Okay. I get it. But it is frustrating on the two Wednesday nights a month I show up to workout that I have to park all of the way on the other side of the parking lot.

Try to look at it from my point of view for a second. I have a set routine that I perform at your gym, and it is a hard routine. I work hard so that I can burn calories and stay fit (and so I can eat more than I really need to eat). Calories I burn walking across the parking lot are not available for working out, and I sure don’t want to burn more than I need to. Not only that, but if it is crowded (anyone else using the machines I want to use), I need to look like I am working really hard. Feeding my ego at the gym is not a reason to go, but it is a nice bonus. I don’t believe it is asking too much that I have a parking spot close to the gym so that I will have a full complement of energy and calories to burn. Ego support is exhausting.

However, I don’t want to be unreasonable about it (okay, I might want to be unreasonable about it, but I don’t want to look unreasonable). I understand that it could be a real hassle and inconvenience for others if you were to set aside a number of the closer parking spots just for gym patrons. That would be too much to ask.

So I have an alternative suggestion for you. It is simple, it is straight forward, and it addresses the issue to my satisfaction.

Assign me a personal parking spot and I will be totally content.

Thank you for taking care of this issue.

Sincerely, Mark

Being Important

2009-10-12T18:12:00.004-05:00

I now know how to be the most important person in the room. It is very easy; in fact it is embarrassingly simple. Be the only person in the room.

I wish I could say that I made this discovery through careful research and experimentation, but I admit that I discovered it quite by accident. I went to eat at a restaurant bar and I was the only person there. Except for the bartender.

On one hand, this was surprising. Football on the big screen TV is usually enough to gather a good-sized crowd in any bar. On the other hand, I hadn’t been to this restaurant bar in a while because the service has been so bad. The last time I was there, I had to continually flag down random waiters or bartenders for tea or roll refills (more about the rolls later).

You may wonder, if the service was so bad, why I would go back. Simple. My stomach overrules my good sense.

The last five times I went I told myself I would not go back. But later, the food, particularly the rolls, told me otherwise. Those wheat rolls with whipped cinnamon butter trump my past experiences. I eat a minimum of four. Any less and I feel I have mistreated my stomach. (My gluttony is not gluttony; it is honor and respect for my stomach).

The food would pull me back if the rolls did not. My favorite is a grilled, marinated chicken breast, covered in sautéed mushrooms and mozzarella cheese (yes, health food), and a baked sweet potato with cinnamon butter (of course). It also comes with four or five fried mushrooms with horseradish sauce, just to make sure the sweet potato doesn’t fool you into thinking anything about this meal is healthy.

To be completely fair (as opposed to partially fair), the service in the restaurant side is usually very good. It is only the bar side where I am ignored, so I usually visit the restaurant side when I need to satisfy my cravings, unless there is a football game I really want to see on the big screen. (For the record, I have a high and inflexible standard for determining if it is a game I really want to see. It must college football. Or professional football. Or high school. At times I will watch the other football, soccer. But that is it. No exceptions. Except for baseball during the playoffs or the World Series.)

But last night, since I was the only one in the bar, service was wonderful. I felt very important. I walked in and took my choice of seats (since they were all open, it was quite a difficult decision). The bartender pulled herself away from eating her Funions (she did offer me one) and took my drink order. She immediately brought me a huge glass of tea and took my order. She brought my rolls quickly and kept my tea full. It was great. Then, just like that, I lost my importance (in her eyes, not mine).

My loss of importance was sudden, but not unpredictable. It happened at precisely the moment three other people walked through the door. It didn’t help that the bartender knew one of the three. She lost her focus. It was no longer on solely on me.

It was a tough transition. After going through the grieving process, I collected myself and finished my meal, but it just wasn’t the same. She was no longer at my beck and call. I had to wait for my roll refill while she took the other table’s order. But I persevered and made it through with little to no psychological damage. At least none that has become apparent, but you know how signs of psychological trauma can be. They remain hidden for years and then rear their ugly heads.

I am hopeful. I think I can make it through this loss of importance and come out a better person for it. And one of these days, perchance when I least expect it, I will happen upon that special time and circumstance where I will, once again, be the most important person in the room. All it takes is an empty bar.

Bad Dressing

2009-10-08T19:10:00.002-05:00

Being a man, I am highly aware of clothing and accessories. The coordination of colors and textures comes natural for me, and I enjoy the challenge of making a dull ensemble pop with just the right accessory. Okay, if you’re not going to buy that, at least give me the benefit of agreeing that I have the fashion sense to judge what is appropriate or not. Fine. I wear clothes. Sometimes I notice that other people are wearing clothes. I’m fairly certain I would notice if they were not.

Therefore, I am somewhat of an expert. As a somewhat expert, it is my duty to share my knowledge and insights. It is your duty to pause, reflect, and come to your own conclusions (which will, of course, agree with mine).

I am sure you have noticed the proliferation of leather motorcycle gear (we real men like to call motorcycles bikes, but since you wouldn’t know we were talking about a motorcycle if we said “bike” out of the blue, we start out saying “motorcycle,” then switch to “bike”). Leather bike gear is not a problem for me. Black leather jacket, cool. Leather chaps, fine by me. Do rag, whatever floats your boat.

When I recently spotted a leather clad, bad attitude dude taking up space in a quick-stop market, I immediately knew the kind of bike he was riding. A black Harley Hog. It was written all over him. Literally. He was embroidered with H-A-R-L-E-Y. But it was still raw biker style. Turns out he was waiting for his woman (leather clad dudes say “woman” as well as “bike”), and she was leather clad as well. Then they went out to get on their bike, the black Harley Hog.

No, wait. A black Harley Hog is what they should have been riding. Instead they got on a burgundy, touring, three-wheeler. It was like a touring motorcycle with training wheels. Yes, like you would see your 54-year old accountant riding. In his tie and black rimmed glasses. The wimp accessory totally ruined the biker outfits.

While the biker garb gave biker dude an image he didn’t live up to, I was totally confused by the nurse’s aid in camouflage. This was not your regular green or brown camo. It was pink camo. There is not one situation I can think of where pink camo will help you hide (unless I have lived my life blissfully unaware of the Great Northern Pink Forest), and I can’t think of any situation where it would make you stand out, at least not in a good way.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that my aversion to the pink camo was not so much because it was pink, but because it was a shade of pink favored by a certain stomach soothing pepto medicine. That medicine and I had a run-in years ago. It did not sooth the stomach, the stomach was not happy, and I saw more pink than I wanted to. Enough said.

Adding to my pink fashion dilemma, the NFL decided it would be a good idea to support Breast Cancer Awareness Month by wearing pink cleats, pink gloves, pink sweat bands, and various other items with a touch, or an abundance, of pink. Great cause. But please, keep the pink on the field in the form of painted pink ribbons, and off of the uniform. Once again, I have to admit that my reaction was mostly to the shade of pink. It was, at least on my TV, way too close to the shade of pink of that famous pink medicine. Nauseatingly close. If I had wanted to get sick watching football, I would run a tape of the Lions’ defense.

Then there is the guy at work that wears nothing but khakis with a blue shirt. The same thing, day in and day out. Boring.

Oh, wait, that is me. I’ll fix that. I’ll wear black pants every day. That should do it.

Another fashion crisis solved.

Bad Dressing

2009-10-08T19:10:00.000-05:00

Then there is the guy at work that wears nothing but khakis with a blue shirt. The same thing, day in and day out. Boring.

Oh, wait, that is me. I’ll fix that. I’ll wear black pants every day. That should do it.

Another fashion crisis solved.

Marketing Genius At Work

2009-10-05T19:02:00.001-05:00

You will want make a note of the day you read this. You will want it etched in your memory. You may want to print a copy. One day you will say, “I first read about this in a little ditty I read on (insert date here).” Or you might not.

I am proud to say I have the solution to sagging auto sales, at least to the sagging sales of the cars bought for show. More specifically, for any vehicle with spinners on its wheels. You see, one of the problems with spinners (you know, those hubcaps that spin, even when the vehicle is standing, waiting for a light to turn) is that when the vehicle is parked, they do not spin, so they can't be drawing attention. This is an injustice that needs to be righted. I have the solution to this problem.

My solution (prepare yourself); spin the car. I can hear the questions now. I have answers (I wouldn't be much of a genius if I didn't have answers).

With each vehicle sold, the dealer would throw in a rotating platform like you see at car dealerships, spotlights and all. The platform would be installed it in the front yard of the buyer, and when the spinners aren't spinning to draw attention, the car will be spinning to draw attention. Simple. Most ingenious ideas are.

But wait! There's more!

For the truly discriminating buyer of spinner equipped vehicles (I think there is some irony there, but I'm not going to stop to analyze it), dealers can offer an upgrade, a true money maker for them. They can make the rotating platform available as an installed option. With such a rotating platform installed, the driver of the lucky vehicle could pull into any parking lot, making sure to take two parking spaces (they do this anyway), hydraulically extend the Twister's legs (yeah, I think that is a cool name, too), and set it to spinning anywhere they want to draw attention. Of course, that will be everywhere.

There will be a few issues. For instance, the extra weight attached to the vehicle will pull gas mileage down slightly, probably to about three miles per gallon. However, since the Featured Auto (any vehicle with a Twister installed deserves a prestigious name as well) will be drawing more attention setting still than when it is moving, there will be no real reason to drive it. Problem solved.

Another issue may be the few injuries (but really, too few to mention) to unaware pedestrians stopping in the path of the Featured Auto's spin, but they should be minor. Or only affect the young or the feeble. I mean, its not like the thing will be turning any faster than a mile an hour or so. Any able bodied person should be able to dive out of the way. Except for the High Velocity Twister. This Special Edition Twister (see, still thinking like a marketing genius) will be an expensive option available only for those who want it (and have enough spare cash to pay for it). Much of the added cost will go toward an insurance policy for any accidents.

But wait! There's still more!

Some will not be able to afford a Twister, so I have a very affordable solution: the Maxi Spinner. It spins when on the road. It spins when stopped. And yes, it spins when parked. Thanks to a small motor and rechargeable batteries, this sucker keeps on spinning for up to two hours after you park your car. What's more, the batteries recharge with the spinning as you drive. (I really might have to patent this one.) With the Super Maxi Spinner, you also get blinking lights to draw even more attention.

Yep, a real marketing genius at work. Just remember, you saw it here first.

A Night At The Orchestra

2009-10-01T17:54:00.001-05:00

Yes, I went to hear Orchestra Kentucky in concert. (My, doesn't that make me sound very erudite; not sure what that means, but it makes it sound like I am very educated). It was a mistake.

Not a mistake in the sense that it was a bad decision, but a mistake in the sense that I was wrong. I was wrong about the music they were going to be playing. From the advertising, which I apparently did not read closely enough, I had thought they were going to be playing show tunes and that Ms. Janine Turner of TV fame (Northern Exposure and Strong Medicine, to name a few) would be singing them. She sang two. She and her daughter sang one song composed by her daughter. The rest of the evening was classical music.

Don't get me wrong. I like some classical music, and this concert had several pieces that I enjoyed. All in all, it was a good evening. It just was not what I was expecting (I could probably say that about life in general). However, I must admit that my mind did wander a bit. The orchestra did not help.

Let me rephrase that. The orchestra did help. In fact, the orchestra was the cause of my wandering mind. It was not their playing that caused my mind to wander. That was very good (if you accepted that comment without question, you are assuming way too much about my musical judgment). It was their extracurricular activities that pushed me toward a wandering mindset.

I first noticed the bouncing violinist. (Note: These are not the technical names for these positions. Positions is not the right word either. I think it is Chair, but that sounds so stiff). She played the violin with her whole body, leaning forward, pulling back, twisting her torso and moving her legs. How she kept her bow to the strings, I do not know. The woman beside her barely moved, and probably wouldn't have made any movement at all if she could have coaxed music from her violin without it. They were extremes, and the calm one made the frantic one all the more noticeable because they were Chaired next to each other (notice how I slipped that Chair term in without you hardly noticing).

The bouncing violinist was not the only distraction in this 52 piece orchestra. If you got bored with the music, you could always watch the musicians. Apparently, I got bored.

I wasn't the only one. The forlorn French horn player on the far left was a bit board at one point. First, she stifled a yawn, then she fought to keep her eyes open. Fortunately, her horn was needed before she slumped in her chair and nodded off. That woke her up.

The bobbing cellist didn't have that problem. He was nodding, but it was to the music, and it was a very enthusiastic side to side as well as up and down nod. A close second in the head bobbing was the skipping flutist. She had a side to side head bob that reminded me of a little girl skipping along, singing a happy tune to herself. Of course that was when she was not playing. The flute would be very difficult to play bobbing side to side. The bobbing cellist won the prize for the most movement while seated and playing.

I say seated, because the percussion players have no choice but to move, and they stand. They are often distracting. But then, if you grow up playing a drum and such, you probably don't really mind distracting others.

My favorite was the dramatic pianist. She was very good. She was also very emotive. Passages she could have probably played in her sleep, she looked the very soul of concentration and effort. The passages most would find challenging, she played with a calm, nothing-to-it flair. It was all part of the show.

And a good show it was. It was not the show I expected, and probably not the show the conductor thought he was directing. But it was entertaining. In a distracting sort of way.

I Can't Compete

2009-09-28T17:28:00.002-05:00

I found out tonight that I can't compete. Perhaps in some things I can compete (I have to keep hope alive), but when it comes to the attention of a twenty-seven year old guy, I can't compete with a cute, twenty-four year old waitress. (Something about that just doesn't sound right. Nothing about that is surprising.) Let me clarify. I was not competing for his attention. I did not want to compete for his attention. I would not compete for his attention. I was talking with him. However, for some reason, or reasons, every time this cute waitress came up, he dropped the conversation, sometimes in mid-sentence. The mid-sentence drop happened most often when she, for instance, put her head on his shoulder. It was a very effective attention getter.

No matter that we were having a very interesting conversation. No matter that he was very talkative. No matter that he was extremely friendly. She had his attention anytime she wanted it. Not that it was much of a hindrance to the conversation, and not that it bothered me. She soon had to go back to her waitressing duties, and it was too interesting a conversation for an interruption to put things far off track, so, like I said, it didn't really bother me.

When we weren't distracted, I found out he was an ex-student, ex-Marine, ex-student again, who was taking a break from school for an extended tour of the country. By extended, he meant he was not sure when it would end. By tour, he meant six months here, 12 months there. Current stop, Bowling Green. Next stop, if he doesn't change his mind, Las Vegas. He was thinking it would be cool to live there for a while, and his lease will be up in another six months, so why not. He also needs some time to figure out what he wants to major in when he becomes a student again.

He has had at least three declared majors: climatology, conservation, and law enforcement. When in law enforcement, he was considering both police work and the boarder patrol. He figured the boarder patrol could make good use of his infantry training, but then thought better of it, primarily because he thought it could make good use of his infantry training. He might be undecided (and distracted), but he knows he is not crazy about infantry life.

Between the interruptions (the interruptions that didn't bother me), we discussed sports, gambling, sports, his work, gambling, cruises, Bowling Green, sports, gambling on cruses, how his infantry training did not translate well to civilian life, and how he met the cute waitress (the one that I hardly noticed interrupting our conversation). We found some common ground. He is losing his hair, and so am I. (Don't even ask how this subject came up. I have no idea.) I think I sold him on the idea that once a head reaches a certain level of baldness (yet to be determined, and my baldness meter seems to recalibrate as I lose more hair), you should shave it and grow facial hair. Okay, he is not fully convinced, but he is thinking about it. I think my argument was hurt by yet another interruption by the waitress. I'm sure it was.

In fact (not that I even noticed), our conversation about his experiences, my theory on shaved heads, his travels, my work and his future plans couldn't compete with the cute waitress' concerns about having to sweep the floor. Perfectly understandable.

Since everyone I am meeting these days seems to be in food service, it was not surprising that he is earning his spending money as a waiter. He may be one of the few waiters in Bowling Green that has not waited on me. Give me a few days and that will probably change. But it just won't feel right unless that waitress comes by to interrupt us in mid-order.

But it won't bother me.

Man Points II

2009-09-24T18:42:00.002-05:00

The day started early, on top of Lookout Mountain. This is where the pro shop for Lookout Mountain Hang Gliding is located, and it was my check-in point for a few lessons and a tandem glide (positive man points), which ended up being canceled (negative man points). After meeting my instructor, my fellow students, and signing our lives away (the liability release specifically allowed the instructor to tie our hands and feet and push us over a 150 foot cliff), we hopped in our cars and headed down the hill, following our instructor, Gordon, to the training hills. This is where it got dangerous, but it wasn't the hills, it was the drive.

Gordon flew down the hill (in his white pickup, not a glider), pushing 60 miles per hour on a curvy two lane, with four cars of students struggling to keep up. I am proud to say that I careened right along with him, with the others falling behind (obvious man points). Of course, we, Gordon and I, had to slow down at the bottom of the mountain for the others to catch up (it gives me a warm, smug feeling just to say it), then we continued on to the training hills for ground school.

Ground school lasted about an hour, and included a flat ground run with a 45 pound wing on our shoulders. The condensed version: be safe, relax, and fly. Simple. We then headed for our first attempt at a launch off of the bunny hill (very difficult to get man points off of a “bunny hill”).

The first student to take a training run down the hill was Jeanette. She strapped herself in, yelled clear, and started down the hill. She jumped. You’re not supposed to jump. She face planted. You’re not supposed to face plant. She got up, uninjured but somewhat embarrassed. I thought, “Hey, maybe I can get some man points for this.” This was good. I was next.

I strapped in, yelled clear and started down the hill. As I picked up speed, I felt the wing lift from my shoulders. Then I felt it pull on my harness. A few more steps, and I was in the air. I was flying (man points). Six inches (cancel the man points). Then I was on the ground. At least I didn’t face plant. I am proud to say I slid in on my belly.

Of the eight students, three got significant flight time. This did nothing good for my man point standing. What is worse, I had no chance to redeem myself. The wind picked up and we had to call it a day after just one attempt.

I am certain I would have done much better on my second attempt. I probably would have set a new, longest bunny hill flight record. (I would have dropped “bunny hill” from any subsequent retelling of the story.)

Next up was my real chance at man points, my 2000 foot tandem flight. Sure, I would be strapped in next to an instructor, and yes, I would be towed up behind an ultra light and wouldn’t have to actually jump off a cliff, but you wouldn’t have to know that. However, it was canceled. The weather turned bad, and we couldn’t glide.

I was so disappointed. After training and lunch, I spent much of the afternoon at the top of the mountain, looking down. It was a long way down. A very long way. Down. Sitting and looking over a ledge made be a bit queasy, but I assure you I was disappointed.

Now, some of you may think I was not really disappointed, or that I might have a fear of heights. You are wrong. I do not have a fear of heights. I have a healthy appreciation of my inability to fly.

Now I need to reschedule my tandem flight. I paid for it, and I am going to do it. Let’s see, my schedule is looking pretty good for October. Yep, October 2022 will be my new target. I can’t wait.

Man Points

2009-09-21T18:17:00.003-05:00

She was getting ready to throw, and I knew I had to catch. This was a serious matter. If I missed, the consequences were huge. True, no one would be die, but if I misjudged or fumbled it would be a mark against my manhood and deductions of man points.

It's not like no one would have noticed. There were others who would have seen my inadequacy. There were at least 12 people in my line of site. After all, I was in restaurant bar, and she was throwing me my silverware from about 15 feet, from one side of the island bar to the other. I told you this was serious stuff.

I am happy to say I managed the reception with skill and elegance. I caught the knife and two forks, rolled in a napkin, with no major embarrassment. (As long as you don't count realizing later that all I had to do was turn around and pick them up from a table five feet from me. I am not going to count it.)

I am sad to say that was the most exciting thing that happened to me that day, in spite of driving east of Chattanooga to rafting the upper Ocoee River. (Unless you count the prime rib I had that night. Very good. But it was only 12 ounces, so no man points.)

Don't get me wrong, the rafting trip was fun, I got wet, and I was almost thrown from the boat. But I wasn't. No one was, at least no one in my raft. And let's be honest here, unless the rapids are wild enough to throw someone overboard (as long as that someone is you and not me), they are not very rapid, even if they do call them class-4. How can I possibly say I was a better rafter than you if I didn't do better than you by staying in the boat when you didn't? That means zero man points.

It was probably just as well. My draw of raft mates was not the best for getting man points. It was a forty-something guy and his sixty-something dad. Now, it would have been okay if both the young guy and his dad fell out, better if the guide got tossed as well (not likely, but a guy can dream), and I had been the sole surviver. It would have meant nothing if the dad fell out by himself. As it was, no one fell out, so I did not gain any bragging rights, and no points. In a sense, it was a draw.

Worse, it was a draw where I had a lot to lose and not much to gain. If everyone but the guide had fallen out, given the small group size that would not have been much of a win. However, if I had fallen out and the dad had stayed in, that would have been a huge blow to my manhood, and points would have been deducted.

But, like I said, no one fell out. Now, a girl in a sister raft got smacked in the head with the handle end of a paddle, and probably has a nice shiner today, but that is such few danger points that it hardly counts at all. (No, that is not being cold hearted. It is a shiner. She is fine. She can brag to her guy friends about how dangerous her weekend was.)

Oh sure, the guides tried to make it sound dangerous. We received instruction on what to do outside the raft. My raft was usually one of the first ones through so that we could set up beyond the rapids to help any tossed rafters (we were chosen primarily because I was on board, I am sure). But hey, we didn't get to rescue anyone, and no one got hurt (except for the paddle blow), so I didn't get any man points there either.

If only I had gotten the paddle to the face. Then I would have had something to talk about. And that would have been worth at least a few man points. But I didn't. What rotten luck.

Da Vinci Surgical Robot

2009-09-17T18:18:00.001-05:00

This was so cool (cool is the new word for hot, which itself has been out of cool use for almost as long as cool has been square). The hospital recently installed the da Vinci Surgical Robot, and I got a chance to test drive it. Even better (for mankind), there were no human subjects involved.

The da Vinci is a not so much a robot as a set of remote arms and fingers. Tiny arms and fingers that can work in a very small area of a body, and can get to that small area through three or four small incisions. It makes surgery much less traumatic (you don't have to move as much stuff around), much more precise, and, therefore, the patient gets better results with less pain and a quicker recovery time. It is most often used for prostrate surgery, but there are studies going on to expand its use to other surgeries. Besides that, and far more important to me, it is a really cool machine to play with.

There is a control panel that sets off to the side, and a separate base with four arms coming out of it. Three arms are for surgical tools, and one is for the camera that allows the surgeon to see what he is doing with the other three arms. It also has a TV monitor (told you it was cool).

What makes it so unique is that it is so natural to use. I sat down at the controls, looked through the camera lens, and within seconds picked up a dime from among a forest of rubber, finger-like cones, which were supposed to be like body tissue, and put it back in another spot among the cones. I also took a rubber band off of one of those rubber cones and placed it on a different one. Cool (I think I said that before). The binocular-like camera viewer gave me depth perception, and the matching of the movement of the da Vinci arms with my finger and wrist movements made it easy. I was pretty much a natural at it.

Of course, I am sure my success at picking up and moving a dime one inch had little to do with the design of the machine and everything to do with my remarkable hand coordination (no, I don't think that C in typing was in any way a measure of my ability to use my hands). It is totally beside the point that everyone else who sat down at the da Vinci controls were able to do the same thing. I am just good. They were lucky.

Men are lucky that such an advanced tool was designed for the very purpose of removing the prostrate (assuming the prostrate needs to be removed; otherwise, that would not be lucky). There is an opinion being bantered about that this advance in prostrate surgery was accomplished primarily because bio-medical engineering is a male dominated profession. Well, excuse me. Can you think of a better incentive for those guys?

“Dr. Joe, you have your choice. You can work on this prostrate surgery robot that will give you the chance to avoid being ripped open and your sexual function destroyed, or you can work on this other project for the good of mankind.” A no brainer.

Regardless of how it came about, it is appropriate that this machine is used mostly for a man issue. Women just would not appreciate having such a cool machine inside their body, nipping, cutting, stitching and the like. Now that I have said that, I'm not sure I like that idea, but if you have to have it done, you might as well have it done by a cool machine. One you can brag about.

“Yep, had that sucker yanked outta there with that Duh Venchee robot. Didn't even need the doc there. I could'a done it myself. I should'a done it myself. Do you know how much that doc is gonna charge me to play a video game inside my gut?”

It is very impressive. Just goes to show you what can be accomplished with a few hundred million dollars and the right incentive.