The Gospel According To Daniel

Survey Says

2011-06-15T17:45:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid I was prone to not turn in my homework. Truth is that it was a challenge to get me to do my homework, not turning it in was just part of the process. I was and continue to be a goofball. I wouldn't turn in my homework and then I would get in trouble. And I thought that unfair.

My logic was that I shouldn't get in trouble for something I didn't do.

I'm less about study and more about logic.

So imagine my reaction when I read in the online version of one of my daily newspapers the following:

"When Wives Sleep Poorly, Marriages Suffer"

Uh..... duh.

If mommy ain't happy, daddy's not happy.

The article specifically says; "When a marriage is happy, men sleep less. But when women sleep less, the marriage is not apt to be so happy."

Our marriage must be one of incredible bliss. I get 7-8 hours a night and she's going for an Olympic record.

And that's not fair to say about her. All of our kids would gladly miss most of the day if they could. We just have a bunch of sleepers in the house.

When my oldest son was a teenager he once slept to 5:00, PM. He completely missed the daylight.

So my wife is incredibly happy and I'm just happy to be here. With the kind of reasoning this study provides it is clear that I need to sleep less and encourage my wife to sleep more.

Maybe the reason that there is more happiness in the marriage is because if she' sleeping longer there is less interaction and less of a chance of the guy saying something stupid and inappropriate. Or write about the subject in a blog.

It also means that if my wife was in a coma I'd more than likely be translated.

Does a study like this qualify for duh?

I look around and I see guys doing stupid things all of the time and I just file it away in the little gray cells to not do that stupid thing. I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed but I'm certainly not stuck on stupid. I have a theory that over 40% of homeless men are just good guys that said or did something stupid to/at/for their wives and then walked out of the house after the argument.

Without their keys. We walk a fine line as men.

As for the study that men are happier when they sleep less and women aren't happy if they don't get more sleep I have to report that the test included only 32 couples. I don't know how many couples there are in the world but the potential, if every man, woman, and child were in a relationship is over three billion. 32 couples is equivelent to only, well not very many couples compared to three billion couples. There was a +/- error of say 2.5 billion.

My own warped theory is that her happiness and mine are totally unrelated to sleep. I think it's simpler than that.

For instance, she's happier in the morning when I've had the courtesy to turn on the light and lift the seat on the toilet rather than blindly take a potty break at 3am.

She's happy that I'm employed and actually get up and go to my job.

It's possible, but not probable, that I finished a project that I had been working on for say 3-5 years. What women wouldn't be?

Maybe I decided to save some of my 10,000 words for the day and actually used a couple of hundred on her when I got home.

Maybe she's happy because telemarketers or the random child didn't call her and wake her up from blissful sleep?

Or maybe the last quote at the end of the article hit the nail on the head.

"Couples that have more positive interactions during the day may be engaging in other activities in bed at night."

Duh.

The Flu: A 12-Step Process

2010-11-30T21:58:00.001-08:00

The Flu.

I don't know of anyone who wouldn't rather have a good back hair wax than the flu.

We've been hit in our house with not a shot of the flu but a volley of it. Started with reports of food poisoning and moved speedily (at last count) to over a dozen members of our family and friends. While I have had the time for the past two days to lay around the house and do absolutely nothing, other than confirm that daytime TV totally sucks, I did reflect on the various stages of the flu along with some personal observations.

Stage I - Complacency ~ This is the stage of pure euphoria that you have prior to getting the flu. It's basically your life. Complacency, at least for a guy, has many components; forgetting to wash your hands after using the bathroom, drinking your milk straight from the carton, wearing the same pair of jeans for a week, drying with the same towel for a month, eating a protein rich diet. But you did get your annual flu shot.
Stage II – Hints of Things to Come ~ In our case it was just a comment about how someone was sick "the other day" from "food poisoning". We all thought about how horrible he must have felt. Food poisoning, what a way to go. The CDC will soon be on the job.
Stage III – It's in the House ~ The problem with smart people is that they don't put puzzles together very well. Morning comes and one of the baby's in the house for the holidays has thrown-up. No let's just say it, PUKED during the night. But nothing major, it's part of having babies, they puke in the night at random times. And on unsuspecting family.
Stage IV – This Parties Not Big Enough ~ Let's admit it, if you're going to get a lot of people sick you need a lot of people. Have a family dinner, invite all of your children and their children. Make sure that there is a lot of love going around, kiss that baby, let them eat off your plate, share a fishy kiss, hug and kiss everyone, within reason. And don't forget to go to the store and infect the masses, why should your family have all the fun?
Stage V – The Watson Stage ~ Sherlock Holmes would put the puzzle together and exclaim, "I've got it Watson" or something intelligent. The Watson Stage is where Sherlock would have already put it together and minimized the impact. We're more like Watson, we still haven't connected the dots. At church we get notice of our fallen comrades, grandpa, two sons, one son-in-law. All sick and unable to attend. Let's see, 1+1+2+1 equals we're dumb as dirt.
Stage VI – Spreading the Joy ~ Another family gathering, more hugs, loves, kisses, kids eating other kids food, adults sharing food with kids. It's an epidemic in hibernation.
Stage VII – Joy in Mudville ~ If you are the host of the party it's the highlight of the night when the party is over. It took hours but finally, everyone returned to their own homes. And we three settled down for a long winter night. Who knew?
Stage VIII – Say Hello to My Little Friend ~ It hit the wife first. She comes downstairs with a bowl in her hand, I thought that making cookies this late was a little quirky but HEY, I'm not arguing with fresh baked cookies. She announces that she is puking and that as an added gift this particular strain of the flu is choosing two external paths to wreak its havoc upon her body. I'm a guy so the fact that she is going to sleep in the guest room means I'll still be rested for work in the morning. I did offer to go to the store and buy 7-Up and Saltine crackers but was politely turned down.
Stage IX – My Eyes Are Open Now ~ By 11:15pm the cloud of death hanging over my house woke me up and told me it was my time to visit the bathroom. The victim of Stage VIII had politely asked me to use the downstairs bathroom and I relocated myself in a somewhat hurried manner to that room. I will admit that I now fully realized what was about to happen. It's like knowing the end of a murder mystery long before anyone else does. No matter how much you try to create an alternate ending in your head it doesn't change the outcome. I realized that the wife and I were both down. In retrospect I don't know if popping my head into my son's room and telling him that his mother and I were sick was just in case he had compassion or a forewarning. What I do know is that a half hour later I could hear him making noises in his room that sounded like the tune I'd been singing earlier. It was now official, this was a serial flu bug.
Stage X – The Negotiation ~ Now everyone in our house has the flu. Weakness had begun to set in and I was beginning to make deals with the big man upstairs. They say that there are no atheists in foxholes. I can tell you that there aren't any atheists with the flu either. The whole time you are kneeling down and praying to the porcelain prince you are also promising to do things that you would never do in your right mind. I promised him that I would pray more often, be nicer to my family, start eating right, watch Oprah, actually listen to my wife, finish projects around the house and lose the weight that I need to lose. I also personally committed to ending world hunger, find a cure for cancer and quit shooting, in the butt (with an air-soft gun), the defenseless squirrel that continues to live in my porch roof despite my efforts to evict him. My ace was to become friends with my wife's ex-husband but I'm saving that prayer for when or if my wife wants me to go to the opera with her.
Stage XI – The Aftermath ~ This is a strange period of time. I remember calling my boss and telling him I wouldn't be at work. That's about it. The Aftermath is a good time. During the Aftermath you aren't puking, not eating, and drinking water is to a minimum. Having the flu is like being a leper. You only have to tell one person and your social calendar frees up completely. No visitor's also means no one is going to see your messy house, therefore, no cleaning. Also, no dishwasher running, no washer/dryer in use, no vacuuming, and no showers. If you don't take a shower you're not changing clothes, underwear, brushing your hair, etc. You have little contact with society and know what it's like to be a zombie. You sleep away most of your day and nothing, and I mean nothing. You're entire life is based on your proximity to the bathroom. We got to the point where my son called me on his cell phone to ask if we had juice in the fridge. HE WAS UPSTAIRS! And closer to the fridge. But slowly, over a 48-hour period, we all have started to make a comeback. Which leads to:
Stage XII – Complacency ~ This is the stage of pure euphoria that you have after you've survived the flu. This is where you go back to all of your bad habits that you promised God you would leave behind. It's basically your life; forgetting to wash your hands after using the bathroom, drinking your milk straight from the carton, wearing the same pair of jeans for a week, drying with the same towel for a month, eating a protein rich diet.

And, remembering that you got your annual flu shot.

The Greatest Invention Since…

2010-11-17T21:31:00.001-08:00

Ever since I was a young boy I have heard people make reference to a new invention as "The greatest invention since sliced bread". Obviously the invention in 1928 of a mechanical machine to slice bread was a big deal to people in the 20^th century. What took them so long to invent a machine with such a simple use is beyond me but I also can spend 2 hours staring at the TV wondering if I want to turn it on and watch it. Before the invention of this machine people, (gasp), had to slice bread with a bread knife one slice at a time. The inhumanity of it all!

History shows that Otto Frederick Rohwedder, originally of Des Moines, Iowa introduced a machine to slice bread on July 7, 1928, a date which also happened to be his 48^th birthday. He first came up with the idea in 1912 but apparently just sat in his workshop for the next 16 years trying to find a faster, more efficient way to slice the bread for his daily peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Now Otto, Ot to his friends, wasn't a rocket scientist, primarily because they hadn't invented rockets yet, but he was from Iowa. Now Iowa is a major wheat producing state and I can only assume that there was a plethora of unsliced bread sitting on the shelf at the local general store just begging for this invention. I have a picture in my mind of unruly crowds in the streets of Des Moines protesting the governments inaction in coming up with a better way to cut a slice of bread off of the end of the loaf. Especially since slicing bread required that they make an effort.

Slicing bread wasn't new, the concept of the entire loaf of bread sliced at one time and prepackaged was. My struggle with sliced bread as the greatest invention since 1928 is that it is also a slap in the face to a lot of inventors before and after 1928. If the invention of the automatic bread slicer was the highpoint of inventing then inventing before and after 1928 must have been demoralizing.

Alexander Graham Bell invents the phone, Thomas Edison and his 1,063 patents, the building of the first a-bomb, Al Gore inventing the internet, they all pale in comparison to the invention of mechanically sliced bread.

Mr. Edison, "We have harnessed the power of electricity and directed its flow into this contraption of glass and fiber and have produced artificial light. The world will never be the same."

Assistant, "Unless we could find a way to slice a whole loaf of bread in one go. Now that would be something."

Edison, "Damn you!"

To be fair, Otto did try to multi-task in producing the first bread slicer. Up until 1928 bread wasn't available in a package either. So he had some pressure on him to produce. Not only did he have to slice bread in one go but also come up with the idea of a package for it. As mentioned, Otto came up with the idea in 1912 but apparently just thought about it for the next four years until 1916 when he actually decided to design it. I understand that as sometimes it would take my kids that long to clean up their room after I tell them to.

By 1916 Otto had a factory and a plan and he was really thinking he had something. Sadly and typical of the early 1900's his factory in Illinois caught fire in 1917 and burned to the ground. I think a cow started the fire. Of course the blueprints and his prototype bread slicer were now ashes and molten metal. The thought of starting over, World War I, and the fact that he was making his sandwiches out of hoagie rolls now put the dream of sliced bread out of his mind. In 1926 something happened that would change Otto's place in history.

Someone had previously invented toast but in 1926 Toastmaster invented the pop-up toaster. In 1927, seizing upon an opportunity and using his life savings, Otto pulled himself up by the jock strap, girded his loins, fresh courage took, and invented, patented, and introduced the first mechanical bread slicer and wrapper. It was such a hit that by 1930 Wonder Bread began selling pre-packaged sliced bread and all the bakers in the world copied them. Sliced bread was such a big deal that the sale of toasters skyrocketed. All because Otto's machine allowed for a standard size of bread. How visionary. I'm in awe.

Let's pause out of respect for Otto.

Of course, during the depression and before TV people were amused by the simplest things.

The industrial revolution, based on the invention of the mechanical slicer, peaked in 1928. Now, every new invention is compared to the invention of mechanical sliced bread. Everything invented before sliced bread barely garners recognition. Things that were the best invention prior to sliced bread include; fire, the wheel, dynamite, the light bulb, the flush toilet, waiting in line, two-seat outhouses, locomotives, airplanes, ships, and running water, just to name a few, don't have the appeal to the public of mechanically sliced bread in a plastic bag. And since 1928, TV, cell phones, rocket ships, computers, jet airplanes, Slinky's, the internet, Spam, Twinkies, and the remote control, have all been disappointing failures in comparison.

In Iowa Otto Rohwedder became something of a celebrity. Who can resist the man who invented the mass slicing of bread? But the attention of an adoring public and the paparazzi over his invention eventually drove Otto to take up residence in Michigan where people believed that the best invention before and since sliced bread was something called the automobile. Otto died in 1960 in Concord, Michigan without so much as a mention in the local paper.

I read that his coffin was in the shape of a loaf of bread with a big plastic bag around it and a giant twisty tie.

R.I.P. Otto, we shall never forget you.

50 Ways To Kill Your Lover

2010-11-14T18:52:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while my wife and I get into "bizarre" conversations that have nothing to do with reality but delve into the "what if" pretty deeply. Most of the subjects that we cover are speculative and harmless.

We've discussed what we would do if we were to win the lottery. The amounts that we win increase with each conversation. Of course you would have to play the lottery to win it, which is what makes it bizarre. But rest assured that if we ever do win the lottery, even though we don't play it, that members of our family will be well taken care of.

As long as they subject themselves to a periodic drug test.

We'll also own a lot of cars. My wife will have an old truck, a Porsche, and SUV and some odd makes. Mine will be all British, mostly MG's and Jag's.

If we played the lottery. But we don't.

I was driving I-90 by myself recently and I recalled a conversation that my little granddaughter and I had regarding my wife. Katii and I were discussing how much she loved me and we were imitating some Sandra Bullock dialogue from an exchange with Benjamin Bratt in Miss Congeneality. She didn't know it was Sandra Bullock but I did. You know it well:

Me: "You love me?"

Katii: "Yes."

Me: "You think I'm handsome?"

Katii: "Yes." (with great dramatic intensity)

Me: "You want to marry me?" (pouring the sugar on)

Katii: "Yes!"

Me: "Well you can't! I'm married to Grandma." (Bursting her bubble).

And then I added, "unless her brake lines get cut and she dies in a horrible accident."

Katii then rushes upstairs to our bedroom and announces to Grandma that she is going to marry Papa when her brake lines are cut.

Which is why my wife and I had this bizarre conversation about how we would kill each other, an event that I would more than likely experience if I tried to change sides of the bed, her if she continues to try to pass off ground turkey as "tasty and healthy".

The problem with people that kill their spouse is that they get selfish and kill them in a moment of passion. The problem with passion is that it makes logical people do illogical things.

Not following?

Let me give you an example. It all comes down to motive. It my wife wants to get away with murder she needs to convince me to cancel my insurance policy. That way she would have nothing to gain if I'm dead. See, no motive, no suspicion.

And if I want to get rid of her I would have to continue to ignore her and not listen. If I suddenly started to listen to her that would throw suspicion on me.

"I don't know officer, he just started spending extraordinary amounts of time with her." Yeah, dead give away.

How they died is another mistake often made by a killer spouse. My wife can't die of drowning or from a high place. In fact, she's pretty well exempt from being murdered as she has a very healthy fear of water, including the kitchen sink, and anyone that knows her is aware that anything above a step stool is an extreme height. Falling off the edge of a cliff or having a malfunctioning parachute when she's skydiving will immediately throw suspicion on me.

My murder has fewer limitations upon it.

Here are a number of scenarios in which I could die an accidental death and not throw suspicion upon my wife. Death by:

Skydiving
Bungee Jumping
Car Accident
Power Tools
Excessive TV Viewing
At work late
At work early
Cut brake lines
Overdose by Almond Joy
Choking on my food
Popcorn overdose
Falling off of ladders/roofs/stairs/scaffolds/bunk beds, etc.

You get it. I don't have many ways that I can die and arouse suspicion.

I'm not saying that there aren't conditions that wouldn't bring suspicion, like:

Dying in my sleep between 6:30am to 9:30pm, seven days a week.
While driving my MG (none of them run)
Ironing my shirts and getting electrocuted
Death by cleaning chemicals
While vacuuming
While completing a project (I'm told that I don't)
Choking on peas

The wife and I have had this discussion not because we're not currently planning each others death, it seems to be a healthy dialogue. In a bizarre, sick, and psycho way.

So.........

Kill him while you cook Brooke

Hit her with the grill Bill

Four-Letter Words Coming Out of My Mouth

2010-11-01T20:58:00.001-07:00

Nearly three weeks ago I drove my wife out of our house. Literally, in our car.

I've seen her in the past couple of weeks, just not at my house. The hottie has been 280 miles away helping out around the house as my eldest son brought a new child into the world. Okay, he drove his wife to the hospital, other than that his assistance ended at conception.

I'm usually not a fan of inducing labor but considering the last child was born in their car, I can understand it. Besides, it was plain luck that my son just happened to be in the right place at the right time to catch the baby and they can't afford another car right now.

While my wife has been gone, I found some four-letter words in my speech that I haven't used since my mom would wash my mouth out with soap for saying such four-letter words. Four-letter words like: wash, iron, cook, fold, load, clean, and vacuum. I know that clean and vacuum aren't four-letter words but they make me want to say some others much worse.

I'm doing it all wrong too. I just finished folding clothes in the family room. Standing, in my underwear, folding underwear, watching Top Gear. My wife would at least have a robe on. And it's not that I'm doing this in my underwear, I know that I'm not folding things right. The towels don't look right, the cloth napkins don't have fold marks in the right place and my underwear shows the remnants of the skid marks.

My wife would never fold clothes like me. She's a pro.

The truth is I might have let a few things go over the past couple of weeks with regards to the cleanliness of the house. I'm losing the battle. I tried to leave the toilet seat up a few times but I felt so guilty that after a couple of minutes I ran back upstairs and put both the seat and the lid down. I've vacuumed the family room a number of times but it tends to be where I live at night and I've been losing the battle against the wasps that have built a nest in the wall of my house. A vacuum, by the way, is a handy little tool that can also be used to suck a wasp to death.

I've ironed a shirt or two, and not just the parts of the shirt that are going to show. I ironed the entire shirt. I've sewed on buttons, cooked dinner, breakfast, kind of made the bed, definitely put a pillow case on two pillows for the grandson to use, poured chocolate milk out of the jug into the glass, loaded the dishwasher a gazillion times, unloaded it a zillion, which means that it's full right now.

Now I've committed the unpardonable sin.

I actually did the laundry.

Which I am forbidden to do.

Because… I tend to turn the whites into colors.

One little mistake and I live with it for life.

The good news is that everything came out the right color. The bad news, as previously mentioned, is that I have no concept of how to fold clothes or where the towels go.

And I have one stray sock without a partner, white, ankle length.

As for cooking, I can cook. But I miss chili Tuesday, her meatloaf, our passion for brussel sprouts, trying to force me to eat Romaine lettuce because it's healthier and besides, iceberg doesn't have any nutritional value or taste. She says.

I feel bad leaving the house in the morning and I haven't loaded the dishwasher.

I'm a baaaaaad man!

But mostly I just miss her. When she's here the world is right.

And the skid marks don't show.

Sperm Count

2010-10-06T21:38:00.001-07:00

Based on my thorough internet Google search (first site that came up) "the United States entered 2010 with a population of more than 308.4 million" people, this "according to a U.S. Census Bureau estimate." More specifically the report placed the estimate at 308,400,408. They're a very exacting group.

That means that currently residing on this earth are 308,400,408 former sperm. 308,400,408 winner swimmers.

The world population is projected at 6,875,944,032, the world population clock is constantly running so it's much more at the moment you're reading this.

I bring this up because I was sitting in a co-workers office today, politely waiting for him to take care of my every technological need. On his TV was the Maury Povich show, the subject, surprisingly, was something like "are you my baby's father". Maury was certainly enjoying the lighthearted exchange of dialogue, as was the clinic that performed the paternity test, turns out that this guy was possibly the father of three kids by three different girls. And he, the potential pop, was laughing at one of the girls accusing him of being the dad. Later in the show, one of the mom's started shouting at her son calling him "a slut". My mother has called me a few names in my life but never that.

With a US population somewhere in excess of 308 million people I was wondering what percentage of the population is willing to go onto Maury Povich or the show of one of his brethren, and air their dirty laundry.

Let's say there is an average of 10 TV shows that sensationalize this kind of stuff, they each tape 5 shows a week, 48 weeks a year, and there are an average of 3 dysfunctional families on each show. Now I am also assuming that the earliest age that you get national media for being dysfunctional is 12 and that they live until say 84. That would 518,400 dysfunctional families over a 72 year span. That's 0.00016% of the US population that on average is willing to air their laundry to everyone with cable.

Now I'm not crazy, and maybe my attitude is related to my getting older, but…. I have trouble farting out loud let alone showing everyone the skid marks in my underwear. I mean we all have them but it doesn't mean that we want to see them.

And I am also not saying that my family is not dysfunctional, for instance, my mom's stepbrother used to be her stepsister. I know, you don't have a response for that. There isn't one. I never found out which bathroom she/him/shim used. That alone is got to be confusing.

Which brings me to sperm count. The average sperm count in a healthy male, except for my mom's stepbrother, is supposed to be 15 million per milliliter. That means that upon conception 14,999,999 sperm entered a swim meet with high hopes and lost. Registration for that event must have taken awhile. And that is only if they conceive on the first try. I don't even want to estimate the collateral sperm loss of trying to get pregnant.

So, as I was sitting there watching Maury Povich, viewing this not-very-entertaining-airing-of-their-dirty-family-laundry to millions of viewers, I was thinking of the 14,999,999 sperm that were in the race and lost. And I looked at the kid on the TV and thought, "This is the sperm that got through?"

Which is now the same question that I'm going to ask myself when I have my annual birthday self-analysis.

Dead Skunk (Possum) In The Middle Of The Road

2010-09-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

I drove home from work the other day and drove over a dead possum. I didn't hit the poor beast and cause his death, that was left to some other driver. More than likely some teenage-guy-in-a-rice-burner-moving-too-fast-late-at-night-trying-to-get-home-before-he-misses-his-curfew-and-gets-grounded.

And I'm not sure, but I believe that the lowly possum will not be found on any endangered species list. Around my neighborhood possums are the predominant wild animal, way ahead of the raccoon.

And possum's are the ultimate fun animal, because they are always playing... possum.

Possums, not one of God's cuter creatures.

And driving over this possum reminded me of my childhood. Growing up I had only heard of possum's. Skunks, well, we knew plenty about skunks. I missed more school days because of skunks than I ever lost for being sick. We never got sprayed but the smell that they carry with them permeates throughout the house, even more once they get their hairs raised. I knew a couple of kids at school that carried their smell with them too.

From 4th grade through 9th grade we had encounters on at least seven occasions with Pepé Le Pew and his family. The most memorable one was when my step dad removed the paneling from the master bedroom and found a skunk condo in the wall of the house. The whole fam damily gathered around to watch the entire Le Pew family parade into our house late that night. The invention of cable TV was anti climatic in comparison to watching a family of skunks living in our walls. It was only later that I found out that not everyone had skunks in their walls.

Well he is right about being too attractive.

Once one fell into the garbage can outside the back porch, an empty one. My Mom shot that one dead with a .22. The man of the house was at work and I wasn't yet a man. Mom wasn't afraid of a little skunk. (Except for the time she thought that a black and white balloon that had lost its floatability was a skunk. Even the cops she called were hesitant to be men at that moment.)

Who can forget the skunk that ate the rat poison and fell asleep in the kitchen utensil drawer. The trip from the kitchen to the front yard with the skunk in the drawer took longer than hauling a Saturn 5 rocket from the Assembly Building to the launch pad. (It takes a long time.) The poor thing never did wake up. It might have had something to do with the .22 diameter slug rolling around in the area that was supposed to be holding its brain.

"Who's the little stinker?"

And skunks stink. You don't have to get sprayed to get contaminated. We couldn't afford tomato juice to clean the smell off, it was mostly baths and waiting it out. We were generally avoided those first few days back at school.

Possums are not cute, neither are skunks. Possums are pretty one dimensional. They play possum. Obnoxious little creatures, I found one in the hatchback of one of my cars, yes, a non-running car, and it was not happy when I decided it had played enough. They're grumpy when you find out they're playing possum.

We had a neighbor that liked the bottle. He'd come home late at night, driving drunk, and find his way into the driveway. Some nights he'd take out the mailbox, some nights a light pole, and other times the garden. He came home one night around 3am and upon getting inside his house made it as far as his easy chair. He told us that it was the most uncomfortable night of sleep that he'd ever experienced. Once he sobered up in the morning he found that he'd been sharing the easy chair with a possum.

Hi, I'm Bob and I'll be sharing your bed, I mean chair, tonight.

Not only is drinking and driving a bad thing but drinking and sleeping can be hazardous too.

And I've never hit and killed an animal with a vehicle... until the week before this past Labor Day.

We, the hottie and I, were in Spokane with visiting one of our children and hanging out with Bud & Myrtle Shingledorfer, close personal friends of ours.

I was driving a U-Haul van that I had rented to haul off some garbage and recycling for my son. An hour before, I had signed away my life to U-Haul, ignoring their pleas to add insurance at their ridiculous rates. I was just going to the dump. What can happen on the way to the dump?

15 minutes after I missed my important turn to the dump I found myself on a quiet country road in NE Washington. So quiet that wild animals roamed freely without a care in the world.

And there was no sign. You know, the sign that shows the deer leaping in the air.

And then a flash of brown and all of a sudden Bambi shoots in front of the van. Bambi is dead on impact and I'm the bad guy.

And the dead possum reminded me of skunks and a song.

SING IT WITH ME!

"Crossin' the highway late last night

He shoulda looked left and he shoulda looked right

He didn't see the station wagon car

The skunk got squashed and there you are!

You got yer

Dead skunk in the middle of the road

Dead skunk in the middle of the road

You got yer dead skunk in the middle of the road

Stinkin' to high Heaven!"

Thanks for bringing back the memories Loudon.

Meet The Shingledorfers!

2010-08-29T20:57:00.001-07:00

The wife and I are on vacation. We're in the warm, tropical sunshine of Spokane Washington, spending a week, spending time with the grandkids and their parents.

We are hoping to relax, but with two toddlers in the house I don't think we are expecting to relax.

We, that is, the wife and I, have a dream. It's not a big dream, but we are at the point of thinking about our retirement plans and our dreams are to move to a small town in Eastern Washington called Ritzville, population 1,736. About 45 miles west of Spokane. I know, what in the world does Ritzville have to offer us. There are no chain grocery stores, no big box stores, there are a couple of hotels, a Zip's Drive-In Restaurant, a McDonalds, and farmers. There is a movie theater, local pharmacy, a golf course, small airport, and farmers.

Contrary to popular rumor Ritzville has nothing to do with Ritz crackers even though they farm wheat. Other than farmer's, Ritzville owes its current small town status to the fact that the I-90 runs right past it on the south and anyone going from Seattle to Spokane, or other more interesting places will find that it is the fastest route east or west. No freeway and the town is probably dead.

And yet, we are even more interested in moving there after today.

We went to church in Ritzville.

Incognito.

You know, without revealing our true identities.

We didn't mean to misrepresent ourselves, or at least it didn't start out that way. In every marriage there are roles. My wife's role is the level headed, down to earth, hottie. Mine is the bizarre, warped, goofball. I come up with these bizarre roles and she brings me down to earth by revealing my true identity.

Here's the scenario. We leave Spokane at 8:45am hoping to make the first meeting, which, according to the internet starts at 10:00am. They have just added to the building, it's a branch, and our goal is to check out the local LDS church and make sure that we aren't moving into a congregation with, well, freaks and weirdo's, and rednecks.

Halfway to Ritzville I hatch a plan to conceal our identities. I suggest the fictional "Buck and Elma Shingledorfer". I don't know how I came up with the names, I just pulled them out of the air. And then we reconsidered. "Buck" is one of those names that can lead to a mistake and my wife didn't want to be called "Elma".

We were good with "Shingledorfer", that's a good name. And since my wife's grandmother had wanted her to be named Myrtle she became Myrtle and I became "Bud". Bud and Myrtle Shingledorfer.

The amazing thing is that she, Kim, agreed to be Myrtle and went along with the plan, as long as I did the introductions. She does admit that she was having trouble remembering how to say "Shingledorfer".

We arrived at the church a few minutes early, which means that we showed up just in time to hear the final speaker. Not only was it their first time in the newly remodeled building, but they had taken a vote of the congregation and moved the starting time to 9:00am. We were an hour late.

First part of the plan foiled.

We walked into the Assembly Room, I guess that is the name for a combination chapel, multi-purpose room. After sitting down I noticed that a number of people were staring at us. Pretty soon this older, gray-haired brother gets up and walks purposely towards us. He extends his hand to shake and then the lies begin. I stand and take the lead.

"Good morning, I'm Bud Shingledorfer and this is my wife Myrtle."

I can't believe that Myrtle, I mean Kim, didn't bust out laughing right then. We both played our roles with a straight face.

And the poor guy that we introduced ourselves to, his wife comes up and I did it again. "Hi, we're Bud and Myrtle Shingledorfer."

We're in deep now.

And the funny thing is that they don't even try to repeat our name. Brother G, I'm leaving his last name out, finds out that we are interested in moving to Ritzville in the future and when he finds out that we're thinking of building a house he takes me outside to show me some land that he's got available right near the church. Turns out that he is the founding member of the branch, and the senior High Councilor for the stake. We're in our early 50's, who names their kids Bud and Myrtle in the late 50's.

We walk back into the church and Myrtle is almost running toward me. Turns out Sunday School is starting and she doesn't want to have to introduce herself as she couldn't pronounce or remember "Shingledorfer" was our new last name. She was good on the "Myrtle" part.

We had a great time! No one was bizarre, rednecked, hick, dressed weird, and displaying multiple personalities, etc. About halfway through Sunday School Myrtle turns to me and feeling guilty announces that we are leaving right after Sunday School. She can't hold up the scam any longer. It turns out that we like these people. Big city meets small town and the small town kicks the big city tushy.

And so in Ritzville, Washington, the mysterious visitors, Bud & Myrtle Shingledorfer, have left the building. One of us is feeling guilty. One of us is proud of Myrtle for pulling off an Oscar winning performance.

And one day, the mysterious Bud and Myrtle Shingledorfer will return in our true identities to officially meet the faithful saints of the Ritzville Branch.

Until then, this is Bud signing off.

Bye ya all.

There’s A Nap For That!

2010-08-20T05:06:00.001-07:00

I have been busy for the past few months, involved in a project at work that has not only deprived me of most of my summer but also my beauty sleep.

I am not much of a sleeper, never have been. I don't mind going to bed, I would rather just live in a world where I can stay awake all of the time. Sleep is way over rated, that is unless you are just downright, dog tired.

My mother says that I've been this way all of my life. I used to get up for school without an alarm, even in high school. I never slept in on Saturday or Sunday. Not even during the summer. My venture into all-nighters consisted of staying up until I was tired and then I went to bed. 7-8 hours has been all I've needed, I get up at the same time nearly every day of my life. 5:25am finds me staring at the clock until 5:30 so that I can see how fast it takes me to turn the alarm off and not tick off the person on the other side of the bed.

There was a period of time when I slept for outrageous amounts of time. About 14 years ago I found myself sleeping for 16 hours at a time. Not that I wanted to. I would just wake up, call into work sick, go back to bed for another 8 hours. I finally went back to my doctor to sort that situation out. Turns out that I was going to a doctor who used his clinic as a place to teach new doctors. I was getting a new doctor each year that never got the diagnosis right. There is a reason that they call it a "practice".

On one occasion I went to see this doctor, or his resident, because I had fell on the ice a number of months earlier and busted some part of my elbow. The pieces of bone that broke off just kind of floated around inside my skin. Whenever I leaned on that elbow it hurt like the dickens. I told the doctor about it and she, I prefer woman doctors, suggested that I not lean on that elbow.

Wow! Why didn't I think of that! That was certainly worth the $15.00 co-pay.

Sleep apnea turned out to be my 16-hour sleep issue. A little additional weight, okay, a lot of additional weight, I started snoring at 84 decibels, so bad that my wife left the room. I was issued a CPAP machine which I have used faithfully since they gave it to me. If you've seen these machines they involve noise that reminds you of Darth Vader breathing. It's a little obnoxious to wear each night but it has spiced up our sex life.

Cue the heavy breathing…. "Leia, come to the dark side." And that is when I get hit by the remote control.

My point to all this is that sleep is way overrated.

And then there are naps.

I love a good nap. Naps are simultaneously energy lifts and time wasting. How beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards.

You've heard "there's and app for that"? Well, I have a nap for that.

Just finished mowing and edging the yard? There's a nap for that. Mine's in the hammock.

Driving by yourself down the freeway on a road trip and start to drive in every lane but yours. There's a nap for that. A nice 30 minute stop at a rest area.

11-12 hour day at work, coming home dog tired? There's a nap for that. Kick back in the recliner, position the pillow just right, mute the TV, next thing you know, you're in a coma for a good hour and ready to take on dinner. Besides, it's very attractive to the wife to see you napping in the family room, drool flowing out the side of your mouth, just having slayed the dragon.

Tired of playing with the grandkids? Other than playing dead, which doesn't work because my grandkids give wet willy's, a tired grandkiddy is a great reason to take a nap. They need one and you get one. There's a nap for that.

Is your flight longer than an hour? There's a nap for that! Window seats are perfect and there is no interruption worth it. For instance, the peanuts and soda.

Work beating you down, long day already and a long day ahead? There's a nap for that! 15 minutes after lunch with my feet up on the desk or the car seat reclined.

And then there is the king of all naps. Sunday. Yes, there's a nap for that!

As I mentioned earlier, I'm up every day by 5:30 and Sunday is no exception. By the time my Sunday responsibilities end I am ready to check out. I come home from church, grab something to eat, turn on the TV, mute it, and then go catatonic for about 3 hours. The house could be burning down and I wouldn't care. Phone rings, I don't care. Knock on my door, no one's home.

The greatest thing about a nap is that it is free and you can do it almost anywhere, although I don't recommend taking one during sex. It isn't very complimentary to your spouse.

After? There's a nap for that!

Durable Goods

2010-05-23T19:06:00.000-07:00

Washing dishes, or dish washing, was created shortly after primitive man invented utensils. Up to that point man foraged for berries, hunted for meat, or threw a line in the water to catch fish. He didn't need dishes, he had hands. Primitive man, once he discovered fire, created BBQ's and rotisserie's. My personal belief is that the desire to come up with fire to cook was due to someones dislike of sushi and tartar.

Dishes were a pretty neat invention, plates, cups, forks, and spoons. Pretty soon we had pots, pans, Cutco and Ginsu knives, and George Foreman grills. Later, God invented Ron Popeil and life got really exciting. "Set it and forget it" became the rallying cry. It was pretty expensive to throw those items out so the natural course was for someone to invent dish washing. More than likely it was a parent that grounded a child and needed something to occupy them. No video games yet.

It used to be, and still is for some societies, that in order to wash your clothes you would beat them against a rock down at the river or lake. Somehow, despite the fact that banging clothes randomly against a rock reduced the durability of the material, the clothes got cleaned.

That didn't translate over very well to washing dishes. Banging dishes against rocks had an immediate result; you needed to replace dishes more frequently. Besides, Corelle hadn't been invented yet.

We have been living as primitive man in our house. While I've been out hunting and foraging, figuratively, my wife has been thrust into working in conditions similar to pioneers.

Our dishwasher died a couple of weeks ago, the one we plug in. Since then we've been forced to wash our dishes by hand. It's been a real bummer, especially for my wife. But all is not lost, I finally found the time to buy and install a new dishwasher today.

I fondly remember my first dishwasher. Her name was Mom. I remember her assistant's, my sisters. I just don't remember washing dishes until I turned 18. We were one of those traditional families where the girls did the work in the house and the boys did work outside. Looking back it felt more like slavery.

The first mechanical dishwasher we owned was one of those models where you rolled it from one side of the kitchen to the sink, hooked up a hose to the faucet, plugged it into the wall, turned it on and walked away. Make the wrong connection on the faucet and there was water everywhere. We eventually moved up to built-in pot scrubbing models, complete with a miniature garbage disposal; just shove the dishes in, add detergent and walk away. It even took on the drying of dishes.

Yet still, I am required to rinse my dishes. Right after I scrub the food bugger's off. I still haven't come to terms with the idea that I have to wash my dishes before I wash my dishes.

When I lived in England I never knew anyone with a dishwasher. And washing dishes was a different process than here on this side of the "pond". You washed your dishes, set them out to dry, completely skipping the rinse process. That is until you needed the dish. You rinsed the dish just before using it. Hmm, nothing wrong with that.

I paid a lot more for the new dishwasher than I wanted to. I'm so cheap that anything more $100 to me is an extravagance. The process for buying a durable good, something that is supposed to last more than 10 years, is intense. You get on the Internet and read reviews, pick up magazines, go online to Consumer Reports and check out the ratings.

In the end you walk into the big-box-hardware store, avoid the really cheap and really expensive dishwashers and find something in the middle. By the time you make your purchase the entire decision has come down to what matches your kitchen and how much is in your checking account. All those hours of research for nothing. And yet it works. Just like my ex-stepdads process for buying a car. If he liked the dashboard he'd buy the car.

Installing is fairly straightforward. Remove the old by disconnecting the water line, the drain, and unplug it, and unscrew it from the counter. As they say in car manuals, installation of the new dishwasher is the reverse of removal.

Not really. A dishwasher is connected to water and a drain and that means at least one trip to the hardware store. I got lucky, found the part that I needed in the first bin I looked at, it fit when I got home, did my reverse of removal installation, and we're christening it tonight. My wife loaded the first dish. It was a Kodak moment.

The best part is that now we can turn off the BBQ, start using our pots and pans again, and live off of something other than Hot Pockets and microwave popcorn.

We should be good for another 10 years. Which is good, I can't do dishpan hands.

I Fought The Squirrel (And The Squirrel Won)

2010-04-12T08:47:00.000-07:00

The problem with your life flashing before your eyes is usually the duration of the movie. For example, if you jump out of an airplane at say, 10,000 feet up, and, your chute and reserve chute doesn't open, you have a minute or two to experience a short film about your life. When you fall off a ladder from about 8 feet up you barely get to see the opening credits.

This is how most people picture squirrels, cute and furry.

The title of this short film of my life could be: "Gravity: It Still Hurts." I'm thinking it's an Oscar worthy performance.

Now, there are two stories going around about my little fall last Saturday. One full of truth, one full of perception. Mine has the truth, my wife's has the perception of truth. I'm not saying she's wrong, I'm just saying that perception is different from truth.

This story also has a disclaimer. I have been known to and have taught to my children and grandchildren, the power of deception, or "faking it". I can fake being asleep, tripping, falling down stairs, and I can even fake interest when you are talking to me. You know that glazed over look that you get when your children are talking to you about something, and it goes on, and on, and on, and... well, you know the look. I can fake it so well that I don't have that look. They still think I'm listening. Perception is the key to faking it. Faking it is also closely associated with "crying wolf".

Saturday morning, I had just finished an assignment cleaning the Church building. I rode my bike into the driveway and thought that I should deal with a little unfinished business on the house.

It is true that had I finished my rebuilding of the porch completely that none of this would have happened. I freely admit that my putting off, finishing closing off, the eves of the rebuilt porch might have been a mistake. And I also confess that had I finished off the eves a really big squirrel would not have taken up residence in our roof. I confess!

But I didn't. Besides, I'm a man, it's springtime, and I had a ladder. Now, I've been climbing ladders since about 1968. My stepdad was a roofer by trade, I learned to climb ladders and move around freely on a roof with ease. Prior to Saturday I've never fallen off a roof or a ladder my entire life.

I placed my ladder on the side of the house, raised it to the proper height, moved it to just the right position and angle so as to secure it properly and ensure my safety. I had the materials that I needed to close off the access holes. What else did I need (besides insurance)?

I needed defensive armor. As I went up the ladder the first time it occured to me that the little rodent might be home. It occured to me that if there was a confrontation with the squirrel that I was defenseless and I would lose. I pictured myself running around the yard trying to tear a squirrel off of my face as it clawed and chewed it's way to my brain.

I went back down the ladder and gathered my weapons. A five foot long wooden pole and a garbage can lid from a galvanized can. The pole I would use to prode the openings, think of it as a doorbell for the squirrel, the garbage can lid to protect my face and body if it turned out to be a flying squirrel or one with rabies.

This is the point where I'm pretty sure that any neighbor that was looking into my yard was running for their video camera and having their wife sign into YouTube. None of my actions to this point looked safe or sane. Only bad could happen. I was oblivious. Kind of like the time my son and his buddy decided to pour kerosene down a pipe and light it. When it didn't light, or so they assumed, they blew down the pipe like they were blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. We didn't know they were playing with kerosene until later when we asked why their eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair were singed or gone.

Fully prepared to evict our little, but good sized, friend, I climbed the ladder. Balancing myself on the ladder I raised the sheild in my left hand to a defensive position, with the pole I started to probe the access hole on the right. Nothing. I moved to the access hole on the left. Nothing. The likelyhood of the squirrel being in the middle of the eves was slim. It was a small hole and I could see the wood that I had installed as a fire block. I thought it prudent to check anyway.

Now I don't know what goes through the mind of a squirrel when they get startled awake but I do know what I was thinking just a nano second prior to probing his little hiney with the pole. No one's home. Having not found him in the two previous openings I was totally surprised when he came out of the third one. And to say that he was a little angry might be an understatement.

This is what I saw, not so cute and furry! They are evil!

Did I mention that I had balanced myself on the ladder? Now when I say balance I mean I was standing on it. You may remember two paragraphs up that in my left hand I held a garbage can lid and in my right a pole. My hands were a little busy when that squirrel got angry, and, that is when God reminded me about gravity.

I did a little dance on the steps of the ladder, still trying to put my sheild up, dropped the pole, and let gravity do the rest. I only fell about eight feet but luckily I met the backyard fence at about four feet above the ground. Unluckily I met the top of the fence with the side of my body. Luckily, I had only another four feet to fall. Unluckily, the ground was landscaped with river rock.

Who's da squirrel! I'm sure my squirrel was dancing with delight.

I don't recall what happened to the squirrel. I do recall getting up off the ground in a lot of pain and limping to the front door of the house. The last thing that I wanted to do was have the chainsaw carrying psycho who lives next door try and jump my fence and think I needed mouth to mouth resuscitation.

In the seventy feet to my front door I was also thinking of having a good cry. I was hurting.

I opened the door to the house and kind of fell in, past the wife (who wanted to know what the noise was all about), down the stairs and into the family room, where I fell onto the floor into a fetal position. I remember telling my wife that I had fallen off the ladder.

And this is where truth meets perception. Based on my earlier confession of "faking it" a few times in my life, she assumed that I might have been joking about falling off the ladder. She said, and this was her peception, that I kind of had a half smile on my face. And she might have been right. During my seventy foot walk back inside the house I did have a moment to think about how this was going to play out in the tabloids. "Man Get's His A** Kicked By Squirrel", film at eleven.

My arm hurt, my side hurt, my back hurt. The wife asks what broke my fall. I told her I was lucky, the fence and the ground broke my fall. My right wrist was already starting to swell, I had a nice fence rash on my right bicep. She asked me if I hurt anywhere else, I said I think so and raised my shirt to show the start of the bruising on my right side. She encouraged me to go to emergency care which I declined.

I recovered enough to go back out and finish the job I'd started. The squirrel, who I'm sure is going to have nightmares about this, was gone. I boarded up his temporary residence and put everything away.

Within an hour I was limited on what I could actually do. While my arm and my side were only slightly bruised my wrist continued to swell. I was going on injured reserve for the day.

There is a positive ending to this story. The sprain of my wrist caused me a great amount of pain whenever I put pressure on it. A little later in the day I shared the story of my squirrel encounter with my youngest (22 year old) son, who hates squirrels. I asked him to mow the lawn since it was hard for me to push the mower and he agreed to immediately. Couple of hours later, with no prodding, he came outside and mowed the lawn.

Next week I'm thinking about spraining my ankle.

Bumbles Bounce, But So Do Grandchildren

2010-04-06T21:02:00.001-07:00

I feel that I need to set the record straight regarding an event that took place over seven years ago. Different versions of the event have been bantered about by some parties and I think that I should tell the story behind the event as it really happened. Once and for all the truth, as truth does, will come out.

I did not "throw" my grandson out the second floor window of our house on the morning of Sunday, July 14^th, 2002, as has been told in various venues and pulpits.

Okay, he did drop out of the window and fall twelve feet. But it wasn't my fault.

Here is the story behind the lies that have been told regarding this incident.

On July 13, 2002, one of my four granddaughter's was born. The "Girlie". Sugar and spice, everything nice. Since Mom was still in the hospital and Grandma chose to stay the night with her, I was asked to tend to the needs of my 21-month old grandson, the "Chanman". All boy, with a bit of slugs and snails, and puppy dog tails. We had a sleepover.

The other characters in this little play were my three sons, ages 19, 16, and 14. For most of this event they were asleep. Not that unusual, they were always sleeping.

Many of you have had the same type of morning that I had on July 14^th. Lazy Sunday, coming off of a very natural high, the birth of a child. I got to cut the cord. First time, big thrill. A little girl to spoil.

The Chanman and I were having the only kind of fun that a Papa and his grandson could have. We slept in, woke up and watched cartoons, goofing off, there was tickling involved, lots of laughter. There was a point when everyone, that is, everyone that was awake, got hungry. I informed the Chanman that I was going to the kitchen to fix us some breakfast. Later in the day we were going to the hospital to see the Girlie, after that we were going to my companies picnic at Wild Waves, the local water park.

I went to the kitchen, started working on something to eat that the kid would eat. After a few minutes I heard him calling my name. Since I was at a point that I could break away from cooking I went in to see what he wanted. He was hiding. Well, at least that is what I thought he was doing. His voice was faint, he must be in the closet?

Nope.

Under the bed?

Wrong.

That is when I noticed that the window screen was gone. Our bed was situated next to the window.

There is a moment in time, the moment in a good or a bad situation, where you suddenly "get it". For some it's the moment between the proposal and the realization that it's a proposal. For others, the glow in her face, the moment that realize that you're going to be a father.

For me, it was the moment that I realized that he'd gone out the window, from 12' up. And he was calling my name. "Papa, Papa!"

It is just a theory but I'm betting that you have never in your life seen a man move so fast and scream so loud, simultaneously in your lifetime. I screamed so loud that I woke up the three boys who were sleeping. I flew down the stairs, ripped open the front door and bolted out of the house into the front yard. I rushed into the side yard and there he was, toddling toward me, wearing only a diaper, crying, holding out his arms to me. I grabbed him, held him close and brought him into the house.

I don't know how long I held him, comforting him. I do know this. I had never before, and never since, felt as bad as I did at that moment.

We had plans to go up and meet his little sister. I left the Chanman in the care of his uncles while I went to take a shower. After all, it was a miracle. He had some dirt on his diaper, he completely missed the lava rock landscaping that I had installed to keep the weeds away. The best I could figure was that the screen had dropped down, set at an angle, and then he bounced off of it into the grass.

It was while I was in the shower that I had another moment.

Internal injuries.

I moved quickly from the shower to getting dressed and took him to the hospital. I called my wife in advance and explained what was going on. I was taking him to the emergency room, he appeared fine, I wanted to be sure. I can only imagine her trying to explain this to my daughter, that I had nearly killed her firstborn.

After we went to the emergency room and found that he was fine and needed no medical attention, I needed plenty, we went up to the maternity ward and the Chanman met his new sister. My daughter asked if I wanted to hold my new granddaughter.

I suggested that I needed to tell her a little story first and then see if she still wanted me to hold the Girlie.

The Chanman says that angels saved him. I've never discouraged him from thinking that. It was a miracle. And I didn't kill him, even by accident

But I know never to tempt fate.

I moved the bed from the window the same day.

A Contest? Why Not.

2010-04-01T20:24:00.001-07:00

I am not big on contests. But then again, I'm not that big anymore.

Someone suggested that I have a contest regarding how much weight I've lost since October 3^rd of last year.

Why not. It might be a silly contest but I'm willing to sponsor silly.

Whoever can guess my weight on April 19^th (my next doctor's appointment), to the nearest 10^th of a pound, wins. In the event of a tie, you also need to provide a guess the number for my A1C. The range is from 4.0 to 6.0.

For the winner? An autographed copy of my book "The Gospel According To Daniel: As Far As I'm Translated Correctly", a paperback first edition, that is a collection of my first 39 blogs (a Christmas gift from my family, edited by and the idea for the book provided by my son Tristan). And since some of you will think that that is not reason enough to enter the contest, I'll throw in a $20 Subway gift card.

There's going to have to be some rules. Some of you know me personally, some of you know how much weight I've lost. It wouldn't be fair to let you guess, since, well, you know, you know. Therefore, if you know, don't let me disqualify you. And another rule. If you do know, don't share in comments or e-mail with someone else. I'm not a violent person but if you ruin the one and only contest that I will ever sponsor, well, let's just say that I'm going to hunt you down and give you a nuclear noogie.

Send your guess to my e-mail to: haynsy@comcast.net

Deadline for submission: Midnight, April 11^th.

Good Luck!

But I Don't Look Fat!

2010-03-25T21:13:00.000-07:00

I don't know what kind of fan I am but, I love to watch NBC's The Biggest Loser. Would it be fair to say that I'm not a dedicated fan, because, I don't watch the entire two hours. That is way too long for me to watch a show about a bunch of people who have spent most of their life eating and sitting on the couch. If I wanted to see that show I'd install a mirror on the wall opposite my easy chair. I watch only for the weigh-in.

My life, since I was in high school, might be best described in my second favorite phrase; "You look like you've been through a famine, I looked like I caused it." I am the "I".

My favorite quotation is "How beautiful it is to do nothing, and then rest afterwards." I guess that that motto created the environment for the famine quote.

I weighed 160lbs when I graduated from high school. Height, 5'10". My pant size was 31". Shirt size, 15 and a 1/2.

I ran six miles a day, just for fun. I didn't grow up on video games, TV, and computers, primarily because there was only TV and that was just a few channels. The only good show on TV was JP Patches, so getting hooked on TV was no big deal. I worked as a salesman for a big and tall mens' clothing store. I was too small to fit the clothes.

Fast forward, October 3, 2010. It's a Saturday. I didn't intend to get to this position in life but I have.

51 years old, 5'11" tall, weight, 297lbs., 44" waist, shirt size 19". I'm not working in the big and tall store anymore, I'm the customer. And I've heard all the justifications for nearly 30 years.

"You don't look that big" or "You have a big frame", "You carry it well". The only thing that anybody said that was true was that I look good regardless of my weight. Which was true.

I'm humble too.

But 297 is so close to 300 that I really started thinking that I was 300. But I looked good.

And at 6am, early on that Saturday, October 3rd, I thought about my grandmother, the only one that I grew up knowing. She died in August of 1981, complications from diabetes. She was 61. Her doctor's told her what to do all her life to control her diabetes.

For the past two years my doctor, a brilliant doctor named Rachael Gonzalez, has been treating me as "pre-diabetic". Which means I'm just one step away from having Type II Diabetes. My "A1C", one of the most important numbers that you can know, was 5.9. 6.0 would make me a diabetic. I was on blood pressure medicine, diabetic medication, I have sleep apnea (I snored at 84 decibals!) and I have used a CPAP machine for about 13 years. But at 297lbs. people said I looked good.

Liars.

Saturday, October 3rd I woke up and realized that I was my grandma. Well, not literally. That would be a silly thought. I couldn't pull off the blue hair. No, I was 51 and she died at 61. I woke up and realized that I was going to die in 10 years.

And I love my wife, and my children, and my grandchildren. I want to know my great-grandchildren. Maybe even their children. But guy's with my lifestyle don't live to do that.

Of course, I could end up as a flaming ball of fire on the freeway on any given day.

But I can't control that. Saturday, October 3rd I decided that I can do something about me.

I've tried over the years. Every fad diet, countless exercise machines, ephedra, the Atkins Diet, and the South Beach Diet. I've lost 25lbs, gained 50. Lost the 50, gained 60.

I woke up and realized that I was dead in 10 years, if I was lucky to live that long.

So I got up and did something about it. I went for a walk around the block. It was a long block. 3.7 miles to be exact. And I started doing that every day but Sunday.

A few days later I was watching Dr. Oz on TV. I really like his message and his straight talk. He laid out the five things that you can do to shorten your life. Interesting topic. I might have been guilty of doing a few of the things that would shorten my life.

Rather than take up smoking and make it five-for-five I decided to continue walking. And I have since October 3rd.

It’s different this time. I want to live a long, long, long, time. I just don’t want to die.

I’m thinking 125… years.

And since October 3rd I've lost...

But Can You Get Cable? aka Part 2

2010-03-14T21:19:00.001-07:00

My first real job out of high school, ("real job" meaning that it had benefits), was a sales job in a big & tall men's clothing store. At the time I weighed 160 lbs and was 5' 10" tall. Size 10 ½ shoe size. I remember applying for the job and asking the manager if I needed to be big and tall to get the job. I didn't, and I got the job. For the next year and a half I sold shirts and suits to some very tall and some very big men.

It was during that formative year and a half that I learned something very important that I have carried with me through life… I hate shopping.

When I go shopping I am going for one of two reasons; I either know what I want or I'm being less selfish, meaning my wife is with me. I'm slowly converting over to internet shopping but I've got limits to what I'll buy over the internet. For instance, shopping for car parts for my MG, internet, groceries, the local store, t-shirts, cheaper at Wal-Mart, movies and music, depends on what's burning a hole in which pocket.

I don't know if I am supposed to reveal this little tidbit of information, but occasionally the Victoria's Secret catalog arrives in our mailbox. I don't spend a lot of time gazing through the catalog but it is a slow walk from the mail box to the house when it arrives. Which brings us to the question?

What does any of this have to do with my 25^th Wedding Anniversary? I mean this is Part 2.

When we left for the B&B outside of Leavenworth, Washington, one of the items that I had to load into the car was a bag from Victoria's Secret. I didn't dare look but as I mentioned, I might have occasionally perused the pages of the catalog, and, I have an active imagination. I was pretty sure that things were not going to be left to my imagination later that evening. I was expecting to get "lucky".

Let's be clear on one thing. My wife is hot, but I had no idea what she would be revealing to me that night. I carefully loaded the little bag of secrets into the car, unloaded it into our room at the B&B, and I never peeked, not once. I didn't want to spoil the surprise. She "slipped" into the bathroom to "freshen up". And then she came out and pleaded with me to open the bag from Vicki.

Strange turn of events.

It was my wife's present to me. She figured that I wouldn't peek in the bag so it was a safe hiding space.

And if I hadn't thought she was sexy before, she certainly kicked it up a notch.

SHE BOUGHT ME A KINDLE!

Last week I went to the Supermall to buy new dress shoes. Remember, I hate shopping, but I hate shopping for shoes more than anything. My trip took me to the Nordstrom Rack. Shoes that people didn't want, closeouts, discontinued, etc, etc. There are two prices on the shoes; regular price and the Rack sale price. And I have a question about shoes.

DO PEOPLE REALLY PAY THE REGULAR PRICE FOR SHOES?

The regular price for some of these shoes was in the low to mid $200 range. Seriously! I'm just covering my feet, what is so special about the materials that make up my shoes? Why is it that of all the clothing that is not made by slave labor and children in developing countries it had to be shoes?

Three paragraphs ago I mentioned that my wife bought me a Kindle. And they're pretty much the same, price. I thought about the differences for awhile, and I compared shoes and the Kindle.

For instance.

The Kindle can wirelessly deliver me a book. The shoes can cover my feet.

With the Kindle I can make the font smaller or bigger, depends on my needs. Shoes, they cover my feet.

My Kindle can stay charged for up to 7 days before recharging. My shoes… cover my feet. I should be fair and say that they do cover the top, bottom, front, and sides of my feet. Still, they cover my feet.

I can make notes on my Kindle, set bookmarks on my Kindle, my Kindle can hold up to 1,500 books, play music in the background, and I can change the reading orientation. I can make notes on my shoes, which would make them look silly, I can make marks with shoes, and if I change the orientation of my shoes I can apply for a handicap sticker.

A Kindle has thousands of free books available, classic books that would cost me thousands of dollars to buy. The download is free. My shoes just cover my feet. And I have to keep them shined.

I'm questioning the value associated with shoes. I will confess something, they not only cover my feet but they do provide some level of comfort. But are they worth $200 plus? I'm not there yet. I'm sure it's a girl thing.

And I want to publicly tell my wife that she did a good thing by buying me the Kindle. You've got me figured out. There is something I haven't figured out though.

When do I get to see what was in the bag originally? My imagination is running wild.

Shoes (and Shirts?) Not Required.

2010-03-07T18:38:00.001-08:00

My wife and I celebrated 25 years of marriage on February 14^th, you know, Valentine's Day. I'll have to take credit for that one. She said no twice before she said yes once. I thought that I was going to save money by getting married on Valentine's Day, just like the guy who gets married on Christmas, or their wife's birthday. Two events, one gift.

Bad logic. Especially on Valentine's Day. Not only do you have to provide a gift for both Valentine's Day and your anniversary, but a double helping of flowers is expected. Everything is expensive on Valentine's Day. It does not save you money, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. It's the best pickup line ever.

January was difficult. I was distracted by a stressful situation at work and a family medical emergency for one of my nieces. During the family situation I learned that I have the patience for my grandchildren but not necessarily my grand-nieces. But all, despite a medical airlift to the University of Washington Medical Center, turned out for the good. We thought we were preparing for a funeral, we ended up getting a medical miracle turnaround.

And then I remembered that my anniversary was just a couple of weeks away, my 25^TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY!

So I had been a little distracted. And that excuse wouldn't fly with my little buttercup. What to do? I do some of my best work under pressure, or, should I say, I do good work under pressure.

I live in the Northwest and the economy sucks. How hard could it be to create a romantic, never to be forgotten, celebration, at the last minute. And I have to say that I have known for months what I wanted to do, I just forgot a few things.

It was our 25^th so stopping by the roadside and buying a dozen roses for $5 wasn't going to cut it.
Hotels and Bed & Breakfast establishments should be reserved months in advance.
Valentine's Day in 2010 falls on a Sunday.
Valentine's Day in 2010 falls on a Sunday.

No, I don't stutter. It seems like there are plenty of open hotel rooms on February 14^th, 2010, just not February 13^th, 2010, which is the better day to get the hotel room if you want to have a great Valentine's Day or get lucky. Everybody in the State of Washington had reservations for February 13^th. It got so bad that when I would click on the "Check Availability" button on the websites for the B&B's that I wanted to take my sugar pie/honey bun to, and the link took me to a site that just laughed at me.

Nothing in Port Townsend, think "An Officer and a Gentlemen". Nothing in Friday Harbor, think "Free Willy". Something in Victoria, Canada, but it turns out their money is worth something these days. Nothing in the little town of Seaside, Oregon, there was, but mostly at one-star locations. And the Town of Leavenworth, Washington, that little German themed town nestled in the Cascade Mountains, 2 hours east of our house? Well, it had no vacancies, was two mountain passes away, and she hates going over one pass to get to the grandkids, two passes is pushing it.

Five days to go, I had nothing. Our (her) plans were to evict the two remaining children from the house between noon and 5pm on Valentine's Day and celebrate 25 years in the comfort of our own home. Yeah, I'm a romantic guy. And then it happened. I made a phone call, in desperation, to the Samuel Beecher House B&B just outside of Leavenworth. Howard Hughes stayed there once, the Queen of Romania stayed here in the 1920's, it looked good on the website. I took a chance, dialed the phone, asked that silly question, you know, the one where you start the conversation by asking the person on the other end of the phone to not laugh when you ask your question. So I did.

Me: "What's the chance that you have an opening February 13^th despite the fact that your website says that nothing is available"

Them: "YOU"RE IN LUCK, WE JUST HAD A CANCELLATION FOR FEBRUARY 13^TH."

Half an hour later I had the reservation. One hour later I was looking at the 5-day weather forecast, 2 hours later I was weaving my deception, I was moving forward.

She knew we were going somewhere, but didn't know where. Dress warm was what I told her, but not too warm.

On the way North on the freeway I was humming the theme for the Olympics. I'm pretty sure that she thought we were going to Canada. Then we turned East, Highway 2 and Stevens Pass. Now she is suspecting Leavenworth, but I assure her that we are not going to stay in Leavenworth, which was true, we were going to Peshastin.

We stopped in Leavenworth, shopped, the first of my sacrifices, we had an old time photo taken, we had bratwurst for lunch. We then moved on to Peshastin.

And I couldn't find the place. I had memorized the location from an aerial photo. What a maroon!

And then she said, pointing in the distance… "That's a cool house." And I recognized the B&B from the web photos.

What happened for the next 18 hours is really none of your business. What I can tell you is that I provided flowers, chocolates, cookies, a nice dinner in Leavenworth, movies, and romance. I actually put that line in to show up the other men that might read this blog.

And she gave me something that showed me that she really is the only woman that knows me….

In part two.

My Nancy Side

2010-01-04T17:50:00.001-08:00

Now that 2009 is over, I can reveal how I spent some of my Christmas vacation; butt in easy chair, staring at the new widescreen TV, watching Jimmy Stewart in "It's a Wonderful Life", and crying at the end. Same way I end every year of my life.

It's true, I cry when I watch "It's a Wonderful Life"… and "Shenandoah", and "The Shop Around The Corner" and "You Can't Take It With You". I don't cry when I watch "Harvey", not because it's not sad at times, but, because you have to suspend reality when watching it. For crying out loud, it's a grown man talking to a rabbit. How sad can that be, unless, well, you're a grown man that talks to rabbits. Then I don't mean to offend. Cry away.

I've been a Nancy girl and whimpering crybaby since about 1973, when I was about 14 years old. "It's a Wonderful Life" was on broadcast TV, we didn't have cable at the time, (I didn't even know what cable was). We had an antenna on our roof and we could tune in channels 4, 5, 7, 9, and 11. A couple of years later we got channel 13.

I found that I had tear ducts the minute Uncle Billy lost that eight grand to mean old Mr. Potter, and, like the Grand Coulee Dam, those tear ducts were connected to spillways. Tears are not the thing at age 14 that you want to show in public, especially in front of your family. I held it together when George Bailey came home after searching frantically, even retracing Uncle Billy's steps, trying to find the missing money. When George grabs his kid when he first returns home and then starts shaking as he holds him close, I thought I had total control of my emotions. At the end of the movie, when we find that George is the richest man in Bedford Falls, well, I was glad that my parents kept the room dark. I would sit in the darkness, tears welling up inside, trying to hold them back, faking a cold to hide my whimpering. "Atta a boy Clarence." I had found my girlie side.

During future screenings, just before George arrived back home for the final scene, I would get up and leave the room, but not entirely. I may be the only person who used to watch the last scene of the movie, every year, sulking behind the doorway of the living room. Never let them see you with emotions. It's worked so far.

Then I discovered "Shenandoah". Thanks Jimmy. Spends the whole movie looking for "Boy", then, finally give up as tragedy meets him at every turn. Again, last scene, at the church, family singing the hymn. There's Daniel, hiding around the corner, watching as "Boy" comes hobbling in to meet with his family. Sorry, did I just spoil the movie for you? Hasn't stopped me from crying like a little Nancy boy every time I see it, and that is a few dozen times. I'm so into these movies that I own the DVD's.

It does seem that it's gotten worse since I had children. When your kid is born and the doctor turns to the nurse and says, "I like to see tears from the Dad", it's the first time in my life that I remember crying in a public forum, except for the few times when I've taken a hit to the private parts, where crying, any guy will tell you, is justified.

I'm prone to a little depression during the holidays. Not because it's the only time of the year that that my personal debt clock seems to pass the National Debt Clock, well, maybe a little bit of that. I think it's because Christmas should be more like "It's a Wonderful Life". Finding out that being rich has nothing to do with money.

But when it comes to the holidays, and for that matter, any time you start to feel like your presence in this world means nothing, put "It's a Wonderful Life" into the DVD player, turn it up loud, and, through George Bailey, find out how important you are to family, and friends.

"Merry Christmas you old building and loan."

I've Acheived Perfection

2009-12-18T22:27:00.001-08:00

Over the past two months I have been very diligent in getting off of my fat butt and doing something to make it, well, less fat.

Everyday, except for Sunday, I get up around 5am and hit the streets, walking 3.7 miles each morning. At the same time I have tried to cut back on my food intake by eliminating some of my "live to eat" mentality and have started to replace it with "eat to live". Thanksgiving and Christmas excepted. I'm using smaller plates, completely avoiding pop, fast food, and chocolate. The personal benefit to all this is that I have lost approximately 25 pounds of ugly fat. Admittedly , I've never actually seen beautiful fat.

When I was a kid, and TV was still limited to 4-5 channels (7 if you sat on the roof moving the antenna around for your dad), Jack LaLanne, one of the first, and certainly to my generation, the most famous of the fitness guru's. Jack is still at it of course, although, he currently is recovering from heart valve surgery, I guess dying would tarnish his image. Still, heart valve surgery at 95 years old is pretty good. Jack is the guy that gave me the advice, through one of his most recent infomercials, to eat only whole foods. And I'm yelling at the TV, "Jack! I am eating whole foods! I ate the whole pizza, the whole chicken, the whole box of donuts!" Okay, I know that's not what he meant."

I've never been much of a prepared foods guy in the first place. I like pizza, but over the years I've discovered after a few bites that the first bite and the second bit pretty much taste the same. Boxed macaroni and cheese pretty much taste like the box, my wife's macaroni and cheese tastes better than anything I've ever had in my childhood or since. Fast food, okay, McDonald's French fry's are the best, but again, if there not hot, I don't have any passion.

Growing up we were poor. I knew it for sure when in the 7^th grade I had a friend over a sleepover. When we were eating dinner he asked me if there were "seconds". I looked at him, incredulously, and asked him what "seconds" were. Since that time I have made up for the lack of seconds in my life.

Which brings me to perfection.

During the past couple of months I have rediscovered a childhood food that may be the most perfect food on the planet. Not for everyone maybe, but for me, "Perfection". I'm talking about the most perfect food in the world, the Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich or PB&J.

I feel sorry for people who are allergic to peanuts. You don't get the opportunity to enjoy and savor the culinary delight that is the Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich. And it's best with crunchy peanut butter and Welch's grape jelly although replacing the peanut butter with creamy or the jelly with the jam of your choice doesn't ruin the sandwich in the same way that cloves can ruin a nice ham.

Think about it, can you imagine something so simple, something lacking imagination like two pieces of bread with peanut butter and jelly slapped on each side and then slapped together, that can bring memories of your childhood back so quickly. The PB&J is the sandwich that mom really does make better, because she "makes it with love". And PB&J doesn't require a lot of thought. If you're in the store and need to get the ingredients for a PB&J all you have to have on your list is three items: bread, peanut butter, and jelly. If you can't make a PB&J then you're not a human. If I had the chance to be on Iron Chef America I would pray for the ingredient to be peanut butter, and jelly. I'd make one PB&J , share it with my competition and then spend the remaining 55 minutes discussing our childhood.

What other sandwich, for that matter, what other food on this entire Earth, is primarily based on a condiment? I've never heard of anyone getting excited about a mayo & mustard sandwich. Peanut butter is a condiment, an ingredient, like a spice, with most other foods. Other than the PB&J, peanut butter works great in Peanut Butter Cookies, but name me another condiment that can bring such joy to your taste buds. Peanut butter and jelly is the food equivalent of Abbott & Costello, Burns & Allen, Starsky & Hutch. You can eliminate the jelly and just have peanut butter but, why?

And controversy? Crunchy versus creamy, jelly versus jam? You could get into a fist fight over the options. I was in the grocery store the other day trying to find a certain type of lettuce so that I could make a salad, the produce manager and I got into this very deep conversation about the best foods. We ended up agreeing that PB&J was quite possibly the best food ever. I know that I gave up on the lettuce, went right over and got some bread, got in my truck, went home and had a PB&J. And why is it that Welch's Grape Jelly is the best grape jelly on the planet. You don't get this kind of passion with ham & cheese.

I think that this is the type of "whole" food that Jack LaLanne was talking about. If I was an Israelite while Moses was wandering around the desert for 40 years it would have been okay, as long as "manna" was a PB&J.

In my quest to be perfect I'm going to suggest that making a PB&J is the one area that I have achieved this perfection.

And here's my recipe: two slices of whole wheat bread, Jif Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter, Welch's Grape Jelly. Slather peanut butter on one side, jelly on the other. Join the two pieces of bread together, peanut butter to jelly, cause it's really messy the other way. Cut in half or diagonal, I prefer whole. Open mouth, insert sandwich, bite, chew, savor, swallow, repeat. Die and go to heaven. There's not much else to life.

Revenge Is Sweet

2009-11-22T19:10:00.001-08:00

This past Saturday, the wife and I managed to get three of our four children over to the house for a visit. Of course, with two of the four kids living in the house you would assume that getting the three over would be a cake walk since we only had to convince one to visit, but it's not. After a child leaves the nest, even if they come back to stay, as our two youngest boys are doing, they have this feeling that their life is their own. They don't have the same enthusiasm for coming over for a family dinner like they did at age 10, when life revolved around them. We now find that we are competing with game conferences, time away with friends, and other priorities.

For child number one it's getting all six of her kids in the car(s), and getting them to behave as they undertake the long journey to Papa's and Grandma's house. That half an hour, 16 mile drive must be hell for them. The grandkids are usually on their best behavior and why wouldn't they be, coming to our house is like winning a trip to a place called "Funland".

I don't know what your memory of your grandparents is like but mine, to be honest, sucked. I met my father's parents three times, (which is exactly how many times I met my father), and my mom's dad three times. Loved my grandmother on my father's side, as did everyone, tolerated grandpa, he was a strict southern man, mostly an unkind man, with occasional outbursts of complacency. Adored my mom's dad, but the miles were too great to have the relationship I wanted to. As for my grandmother I grew up around… well she didn't have the best life, 8 husband's in her 61 years, and she was never married to Grandpa. She battled every ailment known to man and womankind. Going to visit Grandma's was like going to see the World's Biggest Ball of String… exciting the first time but seeing it week after week, year after year. "Kid's, get in the car, we're going to visit GRANDMA!" "Wow, I can't wait." (Cue Funeral Dirge)

Our house, on the other hand, is the place to be and it's better than McDonald's, the zoo, or Disneyland. The wife and I are in a lifelong contest to be loved and adored more than any of the other grandparent's in their lives. We are not beyond slowly poisoning the others to death, if necessary. We are united in our goal to be number one and beyond. We want other people's kids to wish we were their grandparents. We're ruthless, ruthless parents.

But we are not without a motive for our enthusiastic approach to being grandparents. And we think, no we know, that the reasons for our actions are very justifiable.

We're enacting revenge upon our children for their behavior when we were raising them. What better way to do that then to be grandparents? And now, I've decided to break the vow of silence that all grandparents take and share some of our innermost secrets with their parents.

We love you. Hold that thought now…. got it? We'll come back to it.

Okay, what does 7-11, Baskin & Robbins, Mrs. Fields, the grocery store, Halloween, and our house have in common? You got it, SUGAR! Our number one goal in life is to see how much sugar we can pump into your children at least one hour before we return them to you. And they follow us like Lemmings! The definition of "Papa" is really "Free Slurpee's for Life!" Ice cream? You're not having a good time if you don't have at least 2 helpings, "would you like some chocolate sauce on that, oh look, caramel too!" Rules, we have them, but once you, their parents, walk in the door, most of them get suspended. Usually, it's when your mom says no to dessert because you didn't eat your dinner. Then we jump in and say, "but at Grandma's house" you always get dessert, especially when you don't eat your dinner. Perfectly behaved children are swinging from the chandelier as soon as you walk in the door. What's my favorite thing to hear the grandkids say? "Papa said we could."

Hey kids! Remember that time you sassed your mom, say that one time when you were 13-16 years old? Yea, we've got sugar revenge for that. Bedtime for your kids is what, 8pm? Papa says you haven't lived if you don't try to stay up all night watching TV and playing video games. Don't forget the sugar! "What, they're tired, I don't know why Sweetie, they didn't hardly do anything."

I'm surprised that my grandkids don't get Diabetes just giving me a kiss.

Are you still holding that "We Love You" thought?

You're childhood actions are responsible for our actions, because, we all know that for every action there is an opposite reaction.

And you, as their parents, can't do anything about it, oh, I'm not saying you can't or won't try. But if you enact revenge on us and ever ban them from coming over, we do have the final say, because, and pay attention, etch this little bit of wisdom into your minds.

We babysit for free and at the last minute.

Revenge is sweet.

In An Insane World…

2009-11-17T20:36:00.001-08:00

The company that I pay a hefty portion of my salary to, to insure my auto, home, and riding lawn mower, are running a series of commercials here in our neck of the woods to salute how different people in the Pacific Northwet are. One commercial focuses on "socks and sandals guy", a reference to those who wear socks and sandals at the same time, another is about the "blue tarp camper", acknowledging the die-hard campers who are out every weekend in the outdoors, even if they sit miserably around a very sad campfire, soaked to the skin, but under a blue tarp (because that makes it worth it). The idea is to salute their customers, like myself, and that they can be as different as we are. Sure, and one day you're going to come to your senses and refund all of the money that I've paid you over the years, just to be different. I'm not holding my breath on this one.

But I digress.

This is about levels of insanity and how our early childhood shapes who we are. Because, we are all a little insane, and while the quote "In an insane world, the sane appear insane" has a measure of truth to it, the trick seems to be to keep your level of insanity at a point that is tolerable for most of the civilized world, if not your neighborhood. For instance, if you find yourself running down the street naked, yelling "I'm a hamster, I'm a hamster", you have more than likely crossed the line from mostly sane to barking lunatic. I'm not saying that it's the worst thing you could do, but, I'm not saying it isn't.

I'm not a student of the human psyche, I think that I'm more on the psycho side. For instance, I used to be a Democrat, then a Reagan Conservative and now I'm just voting for the candidate that took the better picture in the voters pamphlet. I'm also not saying it's bad to be a Democrat, it's just that the reason I was one is because of everyone crying when I was five-years old. See, here is where the insanity comes in. When I was five John F. Kennedy died. And I remember watching the funeral on TV and everyone around me was crying. Of course, at the time I had three siblings, all under the age of four, and crying was their national pastime. But I remained a loyal Democrat because of that experience. Until I was old enough to vote.

The issue of aliens has been on my mind since I was four-years old. I remember laying in my bed at night, we lived in an area south of Seattle, and watching from my bed, the different searchlights that were advertising the new mall that had been built. I didn't know they were advertising the mall when I was young, I found that out later in life. But I was afraid of the "aliens" that the searchlights were trying to find in the night sky, maybe too much Buck Rogers. I remember that my mother assured me that there was no such thing as aliens. Based on this experience with the lights, and my mother's reassuring response, I determined that my mother lied to me. Because my mother said that there were no aliens I believed her. Imagine the emotional scars that I carry now, especially when I would watch the TV commercial, put out by the government each year that said; "If you are an alien living in the United States, you are required to register with the Department of Naturalization". If, as my mother said, there were no aliens whch would the government ask them to register? I'm going with the government on this one.

I think that it's crazy to put so much love and devotion into a pet as some people do. I've tried, but the truth is that there is a certain point when the vet tells me how much it'll cost to treat "Spot", that I start weighing the cost of the treatment with the cost of putting the dog down. More than $5 difference and that little doggy "Goes to Heaven"! I've had my share of pets and I believe that they can be very smart and fun to be around. However, I tend to choose my friends using the same reasoning that I have for choosing my pets. For instance, I don't tend to create a real emotional bond with an animal that in addition to fetching the newspaper, chasing the neighborhood cats, and giving me "doggy kisses", also barks at the air and eats its own puke and poop. I feel the same way about people. My motto is: "Never Take Advice From Someone More Screwed Up Than Yourself". Which explains why I don't have a close relationship with my brothers and sisters. And to be fair to them, they don't eat their own puke and poop. Barking at the air… well, insanity runs rampant in my family tree.

Marriage is a different type of insanity. Dating is when you go out into the world and actively try to find someone that is warped enough to say "I Do", which is really saying "I'm willing to have your babies", which is supposed to indicate that you're compatible with each other, even if it means you're total opposites. And marriage might be the ultimate insanity. I now understand that my search for a wife was really about trying to find someone that wasn't like me at all, I didn't need the competition. If you marry someone just like you it's tempting to go with every fashion suggestion that the other suggests. Next thing you know, matching shirts on the Christmas card, letting her eat off of your plate, one type of ice cream in the house, and kettle corn instead of real popcorn. Marriage is God's way system of checks and balances on your life.

Disclaimer: None of the above makes any sense and any sense that it does make isn't intentional. The events described are not fictitious and, in fact, are true, and bear resemblances to people living and dead. And please, don't forget to tip your waiter.

They Say It Happens In Threes…

2009-11-07T20:17:00.001-08:00

I know that some people would say that my most recent post could be compared to the story of the "boy that cried WOLF". I say, whatever conclusion that you made while reading is not my fault. You shouldn't jump to conclusions. Besides, this was the second time that some of you fell for my little writing deception. I don't feel for you, BOO HOO!

So, I'll give it to you straight. We've had another death in our house. I haven't even told my wife about it yet.

And I'm worried because "they", whoever "they" are, say that stuff like this comes in threes.

My favorite power drill died today. A few weeks ago it was my wide screen TV, now it's my power drill. What's next? My chop saw, my IPod, say it won't be my computer.

And yes, Ladies, I know what you're thinking. How could you be so upset over a power tool? Well, this particular drill has been around longer than my relationship with the wife. And yes, it is just a tool, but I'm a guy and so simple that if it was left up to me I'd drive a Jag and live in a grass hut like Gilligan. And yes, I'm more Mary Ann than Ginger.

Take an informal poll among your guy friends and they'll tell you. They'll tell you that they are very loyal to their tools. Sure, I have two more drills in my power tool arsenal, a Black & Decker corded unit that holds my Sears Quick Lock drill chuck and a Black & Decker cordless 18v that came as part of a kit. Okay, I admit that I use them occasionally, small jobs, and quick jobs, for the little things. But my old drill was like the Lone Rangers horse Silver, reliable. Our relationship was like Timmy and Lassie, peanut butter and jelly, Batman & Robin, butter on popcorn, Gilligan and the Skipper, Siegfried & Roy, okay, not Siegfried & Roy. But we were close.

Right now it's at the bottom of a waste basket at my church, where, appropriately it died, drilling through the mortar between bricks, just so I could hang a white board. And yes, they make noises when they die. Grinding, friction, and sparks. Lots of sparks!

Oh, the inhumanity.

And no, it wasn't the prettiest girl at the dance, but it could dance! It never ran out of power like the cordless, unless of course, I unplugged it. Sure it wasn't as smooth and light as the B&D corded, but, I ALWAYS GOT FROM IT WHAT I ASKED FOR. It never gave up. And in the end it just quit. Froze up harder than Walt Disney in his cryogenics Popsicle suit. I held it gently while I pulled the plug out of the outlet one last time. My fingers caressed the cord, bandaged with electrical tape in order to cover the many cuts, nicks and slices that it experienced over its long, long life.

This, my friends, is what they refer to as "durable goods". I loved it. There, I said it. I loved it more than any tool I have ever owned. Certainly more than any hammer, more than the dozens of screwdrivers that have been a part of my toolboxes over the years, more than any single socket or ratchet set I have ever owned.

Now, I have to choose a new favorite tool. Very difficult, very trying times. I'll have to spend some times with my individual tools, get to know them, see what they're made of, and put them through a few challenges. And in the end I'll have a new favorite tool. In a few days I'll wander out to the garage and get back in the game. You can't hurry things like this.

But it won't be the same. I'll never use a drill again without thinking about my ol' Skil, I'll use my other drills but they'll never replace this drill.

And a part of it is still with me, the chuck key works with my Black & Decker corded.

Do you think I can get bereavement leave from work for this?

I think I need counseling.

The Passing of an Old Friend

2009-10-18T17:45:00.001-07:00

Fridays are usually happy days. For some it is the end of a (long) work week, for others camping is on their minds. Some go fishing, others engage in sports, or the like. This Friday was not a typical one, for I lost a dear friend.

It has been one of the strangest relationships that I have ever been in. To say this friend has influenced my life is one of the great understatements of life. I've had mentors in my life but this friend has been more than that. An entertainer at times, a teacher, a friend who has broke the bad news to me when others couldn't find the words. My friend's talents have kept me captivated when it told stories, animated at times, colorful when the occasion called for it, but sometimes my friend gave it to me in black & white.

I'm sad but this isn't unexpected. Three years ago there were warning signs, the light seemed to dim. You could tell that he'd lost his balance in life and we had to call in for emergency assistance. A week away with some specialists fixed the problem that plagued him but he came back to us with the warning that another incident could be fatal. And so it was this last Friday. One last day, one last time to share his stories, to teach us from the vast library of wisdom that he had stored and one last day to make me laugh. And it was sudden, I returned home to get the bad news from one of my sons. My old friend was gone.

I was stunned. I sat down in my chair and reminisced about the "good ol' days" that we had. And then, once the shock and the permanency of the moment had sunk in I began to call the rest of the family and inform them. My son in Spokane and I talked about the first time that they'd met. My youngest son was away for the weekend, his brother called and informed him of the loss. I think that being the youngest it was harder for him to believe. He was still a teenager when our friend experienced trouble the first time. Everything lives forever to a teenager.

My wife was surprised, even somewhat shocked, she has a friend with similar characteristics, but younger. From a long distance she comforted me as best as she could. But deep down I knew that she didn't really understand my hurt, my anger, my frustration. Women never seem to in these situations.

And now the question is what to do?

So, a few days later I am trying to deal with the death of my old friend, my friend who has meant so much to me. And I wonder if I will ever recover from this tragedy.

And I know that I will. I believe that the sun will come out tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, the next day.

But the big question is still out there.

Should I go with a 73" DLP Rear Projection or a 63" LCD Widescreen?

And what do I do with the old TV?

Decisions.

I Can See My House From Up Here!

2009-10-01T22:12:00.001-07:00

By nature I am a minimal risk taker. I've only been in one fight in my life, around 12 years old, unless you want to count the past 25 years of marriage. Food, I tend to stick to my "usual" on a menu. Clothing; comfortable and unfashionable. I've only worked for two companies in the past 27 years, 22 with my current employer.

And then every few years I do something a little daring. Something for a thrill, and lately, something as a stress buster.

In the spring of 1984 I took off in a small Cessna airplane, as a passenger, and fell out of the plane… at 2,400 feet up. Over the next month I did that three times. It wasn't luck that I lived, each time I got out of the plane I had a parachute on and each time it opened up. I learned important lessons from those experiences. For instance, if your chute doesn't open at 2,400 feet in the air the trip to the ground is only about 17 seconds. If your chute does open you are about 2 minutes from the ground. If you chute doesn't open you are going to die or become your families favorite vegetable. Live, Die, or Vegetable.

But in 1984 I had very little responsibility. No wife, no children, no job that was so important that my life was going to end without any one of them. But over the years I got married, we had kids, I got better at my job, we bought a house, a car, things became important. And even though I had read Dale Carnegies "How to Stop Worrying and Start Living", eventually the stress got to me.

In 2002 the wife and I went to see David Gates of Bread in concert in Las Vegas. While there I rode two roller coasters (not the ones on top of the Stratosphere, New York, New York and Speed), in between the roller coaster rides I bungee jumped from 170 feet. Okay, same three options, you live, you die or, or you get the nickname "Brussell Sprout" from the family. Oh yeah, and don't eat Chicken Fried Steak for breakfast before being shot out of two roller coasters and jumping from a construction crane with rubber bands around my ankles, because the end result is upchucking all over my wife 3 hours before our flight home. But the incredible side effect, from the bungee jump, was that I was totally relaxed. My stress was gone and I felt really relaxed and peaceful. I could have tried skydiving without a chute after that and not have been bothered by the impending conclusion of the jump. Death! Ha! I laugh in thy face!

Seven years later, 6 more grandkids, another child married, a few restraining orders between some family members, my potential nervous breakdown, my company merging for the second time in five years, four bosses, three surgeries, kids moving out, kids moving back in and out and in again, people getting divorces and people thinking about getting divorces, the Seahawks lose the Superbowl, my 9-month old granddaughter nearly dies, health scares, weight gain, weight loss, and then weight gain again. Okay, the stress has been a little unmanageable.

Friday, September 25^th, right around 2pm, my son Preston and I went to the Puyallup Fair, one of the top ten fairs in the country. This fair has everything, big name concerts, big name vendors, the Earthquake Burger, Fisher Scones, Krusty Pups, Elephant Ears, Corn-on-the-Cob, exhibits, 4-H displays, street performers, outrageous prices, and the like. Oh yeah, and did I mention they have carnival rides?

The Big Sling is the reason that I went. For 50 dollars American, per couple (my son and I counted as a couple), you get loaded into a two-person seat, a bar is lowered down over you and they secure the bar with an old seat belt from a 1974 Pinto. Then they lean you back, pull on these already really tight springs and then with a "here you go" launch you about a 185 feet into the air. Think of it as a reverse bungee jump. I went from joking to HOLY CRAP!!!! in less than a second. By the time we had flipped around in the air and saw my house, your house and the International Space Station, I was into Wooooooooooooooo Hoooooooooooooooo mode. There was a moment in the ride that I announced, to the world it turned out, that my butt cheeks had clenched together. Did I mention that the ride was caught on camera? The entire ride is posted on YouTube. Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=re03ucE_zKI I'm the good looking one.

My stress had been seriously reduced. But not enough. Turns out that the Extreme Scream was 2 for the price of 1. Five minutes later we were strapped to the outside of a 185 foot tower, this time the safety equipment latch was a seat belt from a 1977 AMC Pacer Wagon. From my viewpoint on the ground I thought that this ride would be exhilarating. AND THEN THEY SHOT US INTO THE AIR LIKE WE WERE HUMAN ROCKETS! Gone was the relative safety of the ground. I experienced g-forces in the magnitude of 10 to 100, and then we went weightless, playfully being dropped and shot up and down like we were a baby on Papa's knee. Then the ride slowed down and began a slow climb to the top of the tower. In between yelling at my son I HATE YOU! a number of times, there was a click as the chair locked into place. 185 feet in the air. About that time my son pointed out that you could see all the way to the top of the hill, to the mall. And that's when some sicko on the ground pushed a button that dropped my seat ¾ of the way to the ground or about 140 feet. After the ride was over my stress, or shall I say the remaining stress, was completely gone.

So, for now my stress in gone and life is good. I'm going for long walks on the beach, listening to the sounds of children playing, happy just to be me.

And I can't wait until the Spring Fair in Puyallup to ride or get shot out of the Big Sling again.

How I’m Spending My Summer (Vacation?)

2009-08-30T21:39:00.001-07:00

I was notified today that if I don't start writing my blog again I'm going to lose my legions, I mean my hordes of, excuse me, my fan.

And it's not my fault that I haven't been writing. It's just that over the past month something really strange has appeared in the sky here in Washington and we, as in the general public, have been mesmerized by this strange and bright object, our bodies have been warmed by the heat it puts out and our skin tones have changed from Mr. Clean white to shades of tan. They tell me it's called the Sun and that all life depends upon it. I've heard that it appears on a regular basis in places like Hawaii, Arizona, Texas, and California. If you live in any of these places it's really easy to tell a tourist from the Great Northwet because when the sun comes out we walk around staring blindly at the sky like we've just seen a UFO.

Okay, when you last visited the blog we were singing the praises of my middle granddaughter Girlie who had just turned 7-years old. However, her birthday is over and I've been continuously reminded by her how embarrassing my blog was. She's like old news now.

So I thought I would share with you some the exciting events that have made up my summer.

First, shortly after my granddaughters birthday, I had one of those experiences that happen only once every ten years. And I'm 50 years old. You would think after an experience like this one that I would have gotten at least dinner and a movie. Yes, I had the every ten-year probe of my body, specifically my bottom. I know, it's kind of gross, but everyone has to go through it about 4-5 times in a lifetime. Let me say this from the experience, if aliens ever do come and take me for a ride in their spaceship I'm going to whip out my ID that says I've been anally probed recently by someone much more qualified than them.

One would think that the full physical alone would have made for a more than exciting summer but no, something else medically trumped that experience. Since I'm 50 and slightly overweight, you know, 10 – 100 pounds, the doctor thought that it would be prudent to run a stress test on me. Unless you're a guy you have no idea how excited I was to find out that it was a Nuclear Stress Test! You don't' exactly glow in the dark but you do glow under the camera. C'mon, they inject you with low level radiation! How cool is that?

The outcome of the tests did reveal a problem that had been previously undetected and, luckily, was caught early. You guessed it, I actually have a heart. I know, I was surprised by the news myself. I had to get some smelling salts for my wife when she found out. She had some inkling that I had one but had previously surmised that mine was made of stone.

The other big news for our family is that we have added a new member to our already growing clan. No, we haven't had another grandchild, I've added another car to my stable. Let me take a moment and tell you how much I love Craigslist! It was a simple posting, "MG for Sale". It turned out to be an exact match for the car that I already had in my newly remodeled garage, a 1972 MG Midget. Problem with the car in the garage is that it has a cancer (rust) problem that was going to be costly to repair. Now I'm just putting the new parts that I own on the new car that I've bought. Of course, one of the reasons that you buy an MG, or any British car for that matter, is so that everyone can make fun of the car. Now, my grandson Chandler is the first to tell you that MG stands for "Morris Garages", while his mother used to say that it meant "Mostly Garbage". She doesn't' get to ride in the car for a while. I've been working diligently on the car in between roofing my house, rebuilding my porch, going to insignificant family events such as weddings and family reunions, and fulfilling my responsibilities at church. And now we, I mean I, hope to have the car running on the road in the next week or two.

And now, summer is over, at least in Washington. We're going to have one of our typical "Indian Summers", whatever that means.

Now that I've repented and started writing again I promise that I'll write more often and share with you some of my warped views of the world.

I mean, we haven't even touched upon the health care issues that seem to be the talk of the town, maybe one day we should have that little discussion.

So, if you've missed me, go ahead and leave a comment, you don't have to log into comment and no silly word phrase required. You can even leave comments anonymously.

Of Girls And Girlies

2009-07-13T17:49:00.001-07:00

Today is my Girlie's birthday. Now I know what you're thinkin', he's going to write a real sweet blog about his smokin' hot wife. Wrong, this is about one of my six other girls, the main girls in my life.

Let's see, we have Summer, who is sometimes known as Sum, Gummer, Princess, and pain in the... well, that's all girls. Then there is Jessica, I think I call her sweetie more than her own name, she's my daughter-in- love, married to oldest boy Westin or Binkie as he has been known in the past or when we want to embarrass him. First on the granddaughter list is Clairese or "Red" as I call her, a beautiful and sweet 13 year old redhead who rumor has it loves her Papa. Next in line is Kaisa, Katii, Pinky, or as I love to call her, "Girlie". Abigail or Grabby is next on the list, she's a sweet, little two year old who just takes your heart every time you get near her. Last is Binkie and Jessica's little bundle of joy, Heidi. I'm still working on her nickname.

I have three sons and four grandsons but we'll leave them out of this right now, with a side note on the Chanman later in the blog.

But let's talk about the Girlie. She came into the world screaming and kicking and for a good part of her first four years continued to do so. In the first few years of her life we took more family pictures of her screaming or kicking rather than smiling and looking cute. She came out ornery and stubborn and stayed that way for a long time. As her life has played out, she has turned into a sweet and somewhat innocent little bundle of sugar and spice and everything nice. And if I may say so DANG CUTE!

When she was born there were only two men present in the room, the doctor and me, the Papa. Being invited in to watch your grandchild being born is more than a little intimidating. What really put the pressure on me was when the doctor turned to me right after he did that whole baby delivery thing, he flipped the scissors around to me and asked if I was ready to cut the cord. Well, I did have a Sports Illustrated article that I wanted to finish in the hallway but he insisted. "It's tough like a garden hose" the doctor counseled, "rarely does anyone cut it all the way through the first try. I girded up my loins, fresh courage took and cut that cord in one shot. I have rarely felt more manly than then.

Of course, the next day I made a visit up to the hospital to see the child when she didn't look like a lizard. It's so nice of the hospital to give them their first bath. The main purpose being to make them cute so the parents will take them home. I recall that I was detained prior to going to the hospital because I hadn't pushed, thrown, allowed, my 21 month old grandson a chance to fall out of the second story window yet. After spending an hour in the emergency room to check for internal injuries to him and to get myself a tranquilizer, we wandered up to the second floor to see this new bundle of joy.

Well, to tell you the truth cutting the cord was about the most fun her and I had for the first three to four years. That child had learned some physical moves and screams in the pre-existence that I didn't know were available. And bad hair days? She's had more than a few. I didn't think that she would ever have a good hair day.

What was really frustrating was the rejection. I've been rejected more times than I care to by women over the course of my life but my own granddaughter! Did she not know that I was going to be her endless source of candy, Slurpees, dresses, and chocolate? She knew she was going to bed if she had to come to our bedroom to "watch TV with Papa". Wink, Wink, Nudge, Nudge. The poor little thing would have to be pried from underneath my body as I was usually comatose. She usually came out all sweaty, dripping wet from head to toe.

Our relationship changed one day. I don't know what she did to me but I didn't like it.

"They", whoever "they" are, say that you should only punish a child by placing them in timeout for one minute for each year of age. To me that's like paroling Charles Manson after sixth months for good behavior. The Gospel According To Daniel says that you will sit there until you apologize for the wrong, and then give me a kiss and a hug to show no hard feelings, or in other words, you will rot and decompose in timeout unless you do those three things.

And she refused.

I sat her down in my chair, held her against her will, possible kidnapping, and then spent the next hour and a half listening to her scream with the occasional kick. The Chanman, her older brother and the aforementioned "child who fell from the second floor" was walking around flaying his arms about and repeating over and over again, "Alls ya gotta do is say you're sorry!" I have to give the girl credit, she went an entire hour and a half before she quietly whispered in my ear, "Papa, I'm sorry."

Then she gave me a hug and a kiss and I placed her down on the floor, gave her a playful slap on the bottom and said, "Get out of here you monkey." You know what she said? "I want to sit with you".

And one day she's going to be a rock or pop star. And I think she can do it.

Just don't forget to give your ol' Papa a kiss and a hug.

Happy Birthday Girlie.

Fatherhood: The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

2009-06-20T20:24:00.001-07:00

Someone once said that anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a daddy.

Well I say that whoever said that is wrong. Not just anyone can be a father. You have to be of the male persuasion. That is true regardless of the operation that my mother's stepsister "Ruby" had in the 1970's that turned her into her stepbrother "Rudy". So roughly 50% of the world's population can be a father and the other 50% have the potential to be mothers. These are good odds if you actually want to be a father or a mother. In addition, when I say being a father or a mother I really mean having someone to tag team with for the rest of your life as you raise your pride and joy(s), because parenting is similar to a cage match in pro-wrestling.

A little bit of background, I didn't know my father was alive until I was twelve, spent two weeks with him after high school graduation in 1976, and then two more times before he died in 1996. He was more of a sperm donor with visitation rights that he never exercised. My stepdad was better but only because he lived in our house. The examples of fatherhood that I experienced before 18 were less than stellar.

Okay, put the hankies down and quit feeling sorry for me.

At age 18, everything in my life changed, and it wasn't just my underwear. My conversion to the LDS faith changed my perspective when it came to fathers and that in turn changed my life. I have been surrounded by examples of fatherhood in the LDS Church, good and bad.

Grant Tracy was one of these good. Grant taught me to trust your children unless you had a reason not to. He showed me that by example when he didn't kill me and then hide my body when I kept his 17-year-old daughter out until 5:30am just before Stake Conference (pre-baptism) in May of 1977. Besides, he'd been down to my apartment and felt that the hood of her car was still warm. Many people thank their mothers for giving them life; I thank Grant for sparing mine. Thanks Grant, and I'm not saying it was her fault, I'm just blaming her.

Patience I learned from Bob Forrest. A teddy bear of a man with four daughters and one son. Sons are easy. One pre-teen and three teenage girls in one house, all with raging hormones, would be enough to make any grown man turn into a drooling idiot. Bob was a loving husband but he was also a great father who had earned the love and respect of his children with his example.

Bishop Kent Heaps and his family took me in for a year so that I could save money to go on a mission. Even though I'm still a work in progress at 50 years old he might have taught me the most. Late night discussions, powerful prayers, and his testimony, influenced a then 19-year-old boy and showed me how to be a husband and father. He was a living example to me every day. I may be one of the few people ever to get a Bishop's interview at 2am with the Bishop dressed in his pajamas.

I'm not sure what kind of father I've become; it really depends on the day or moment that you ask my kids. I was blessed with four children, one girl, and three boys. The first two came by way of a sperm donor, my wife brought them into the marriage, and together we had two boys. Whatever the mix, we are one family in this journey called life.

My kids love me but they don't necessarily like me all the time. I believe that's a fair assessment and I've learned to expect that as a father. To paraphrase Mr. Dickens "It's been the best of times, It's been the worst of times." I like to think it has mostly been the best of times. For without me there would never have been a King of Nintendo, no grape spitting contests for Family Home Evening, and I've definitely been around to say, "pull my finger". There would have been no frightened boyfriends, no one to flirt with their girlfriends, and no one to carry them from the car after a long trip while they fake that they're asleep. I've stayed up until one in the morning on a Sunday night to help complete the class project that they had two weeks to complete and procrastinated.

I was there when my little leaguer made a triple play (caught the popup, out, touched first base, base runner off bag out, throw to home, runner stealing home out), I cried like a baby in the MTC when my oldest boy went on his mission and I helped them buy their cars. I took my two oldest kids to their first rock concerts, agonized over the losses of friends and girlfriends, and I have fumed over new boyfriends. I have changed diapers over the years that bring a new meaning to the words "dirty bomb".

Fathers, as part of the parenting team, are one part of a human shield of protection around children. Slowly, as they grow older, we drop our shields a little and let them raise theirs to protect the new generation. Being a father is a bit like being Superman. Not that you're expected to leap tall buildings or stop speeding bullets, but they want you to. It's tiring, but we put on the cape everyday.

And yes, sometimes we're grumpy, short with you, heartless, cold, unfeeling, and it seems like we just don't care. However, we think of our kids during every step of their journey, even as we slowly melt into the background as they live their own life...

And wait for them to have our grandchildren so we can get our revenge.

The Gospel According To Styx?

2009-06-17T21:06:00.001-07:00

Latter Day Saints are prophesied to be a peculiar people and I am certainly proof of that. Just as sure as I have a testimony of the Gospel, I also know that I'm not particularly normal either. My view of life on this earth leans toward the bizarre, which I think is a gift. I can't explain how I know it's a gift, I just know. Maybe it's self awareness.

Which brings up a question? There are people out there that look normal but sometimes when they open their mouth and start talking to me I start to think that I'm looking pretty good with my own brand of peculiar. Don't tell me that you don't know who I'm talking about, you certainly go out of your way to avoid them in the chapel, the hallway, and when you're leaving the building. These people are the reason that Caller ID was invented.

The other day I heard a familiar voice in the lobby and despite my best efforts I ended up having a conversation with her. Now I am peculiar but I am also polite. It's part of the gift that I have. I can be totally disinterested, but look interested. It's up to you to decide which I am.

Anyway, after exchanging pleasantries, she asked me a question about a common friend, specifically she wanted to know if he was alive as she heard he had recently passed away, you know, died. Well, after the initial shock of the question came and went, I did everything I could within my powers to not fall onto the carpet laughing. Then, I politely and forcefully confirmed that he was alive and well and living in Texas. As soon as I got home I did Facebook the poor devil to have him confirm his aliveness or deadness. He's alive, even though his Facebook page makes him look like a pasty ghost.

See, she was peculiar, just not in a good way.

I currently serve as a Membership Clerk (pronounced "Clark" if you're in Canada) and every Sunday I'm in the building prior to our block time doing clerky or clarky type things. Not that my brand of peculiar makes me more spiritual than anyone else, like say a High Priests Group Leader, but, I like to listen to the talks in the Ward that meets prior to ours. I turn up the lobby speaker and sort of eavesdrop on what's going on in their meeting. I hear some really great talks. And then an occasional "peculiar" jewel.

A little over a year ago as I was listening to their Fast & Testimony meeting, (one of our Bishopric members was hanging out in the office with me), we overheard one of their members compare President Hinckley (Prophet of the LDS Church at the time) to Dumbledore from the Harry Potter Books. I think that her words were "We have a Dumbledore that we can look to in President Hinckley.". The two of us looked at each other like "Did you just hear what I did?" Strange and peculiar! I was waiting for "and I know that Dumbledore is a true wizard". I memorized the name of that member in case it ever comes across my Caller ID.

Which brings us to Styx, the rock band.

During my short time at BYU-Provo, when it was just called BYU, I resided in the 104^th Ward. We were so peculiar that we called ourselves the 104^th Ward Generics. I remember going to Priesthood meeting and participating in the weekly lesson. Going to a BYU Student Ward Priesthood Class and calling that a lesson or discussion is being polite. Fifty members of the Melchizedek Priesthood, all returned missionaries, and a dozen or so Aaronic Priesthood holders in their first year of school, preparing for a mission. Fifty guys who had spent two years immersed in studying, teaching, and sharing the gospel in such remote places as Finland, Germany, and Australia, to such local spots as Portland, Oregon or Maine. They all had something to say, with their particular view of the principle and Priesthood Meeting was where the soapbox was available to stand upon. Of course, each RM had a served under a mission president that was going to be the next apostle or General Authority. It was literally controlled chaos with the teacher controlling the answers.

Our instructor, shall we call him Brother Dave for this post, was a great teacher, but he compared every gospel principle he taught to the rock band Styx. He never reached the point of playing their music for the lessons but every single concept and principle coming out of the manual could be compared to a Styx song or album. I loved the guy but wondered what kind of mission rules he followed.

Years later, I was listening to Styx and began to think that he might have been on to something. I thought about Styx, their music, and the Gospel.

This might be a stretch but could the hidden message in "Too Much Time On My Hands" be a subliminal message to those who don't fulfill their callings or even refuse to serve? Is "The Best of Times" a reference to serving a mission or eternal marriage? Does "Show Me The Way" really encourage us to choose our spiritual leaders as our examples? "Renegade" certainly is a song about the consequences of bad choices. The song "Music Time" has to be about Primary music, right?

Yeah right, I believe that like I believe that the Ward Clerks run the Ward (even though we're secretly plotting to do so).

Honestly, if Brother Dave ever called my house I'm pretty sure that I'm monitoring the Caller ID and passing on rekindling that friendship. I've pondered over the years about his lessons sprinkled with the music and lyrics of Styx and have come to the conclusion that Styx is really best left to the stranger and peculiar people in the church and the homeless guy that sleeps out under the Bishop's office window. And I feel the same about Dumbledore, Yoda, The Force, Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo. It's a nice try but I'm not getting on my knees anytime soon to gain a testimony of Harry Potter, Star Wars, and Twilight.

I know that they aren't true and it won't take studying, pondering and prayer to confirm that.

My own beliefs? I'm firm in my testimony of the Restored Gospel, and my peculiar side is still working on a testimony of Santa, but I do believe in reindeer that fly.

On Dasher, on Dancer, on Harry, on Hermione ....

She’s Gone.

2009-06-14T20:41:00.001-07:00

Last Friday I came home from work and found her gone.

No note, no explanation, just an empty house. I saw it coming but still I was unprepared for it. My wife of nearly 25 years left me. I've got to admit I had a few questions, right after I got over the initial shock. She warned me earlier last week that she was going to leave, she wasn't sure when, but she was leaving.

I can't say that I'm surprised though, all the warning signs were there. The kids have flew the nest, she's been coming home later, and it seems that there were more things left undone around the house. As of late there have been more and more suspicious phone calls, always picked up on the first ring. There were times that I walked into a room when she was on the phone and there was always that uncomfortable feeling that I wasn't welcome. I've picked up the extension phone and overheard her talking with other guys, laughing at the things they say, hearing her tell them she loved them. And I didn't do anything, no confrontations about these other relationships.

But to be fair she's freely admitted being involved in a number of relationships outside of our marriage and although it was hard at first to find out that I'm not number one I was getting used to it, she always came home to me. But now, it's been three days and I'm walking around the house racking my brain and trying to see what I could have done better, what would have made me number one.

What if I finished my projects faster, been more considerate of how they affected her morale, was it walking around with my shoes on in the house, or sitting in front of the TV for hour upon hour? Did I drink straight from the milk carton one too many times, did I take her for granted, what if I just said "I love you" one more time than I did? I don't know, I just did the best that I knew how. Where is the owner's manual on being a husband?

And what does this freedom bring to me? No one to answer to for my actions, I can work as late as I want, eat what I want to eat, when I want to. I don't have a partner to be my conscience anymore. I can leave my clothes lying around when I'm done with them, clean the kitchen on my schedule, put a plate into the dishwasher without washing it first. I've already started leaving the toilet seat up. I bought a gallon of milk and have drank half of it without even using a glass.

It's the little things that I miss the most, the way she laughed at my jokes, ironed my shirts, tried to pull a joke on me but gave up the punch line too early, and seemed to have a knack for finishing my sentences. Twenty five years of what I thought was happiness gone.

I am so beside myself.

It's been three days and I'm an emotional train wreck.

Good thing she comes home tomorrow night from Spokane where she's visiting her other loves, grandkids number 7 and 8. Grandkids 1 through 6 miss hearing her tell them that she loves them every day on the phone or when she visits their house close by.

As for me, I've got to remember to put the toilet seat down when I go to work.

Spanish As A Second Language

2009-06-06T20:41:00.001-07:00

The fall of 1973 was my first year in high school where I went to a 3 year high school. The three preceding years were spent in junior high where I learned three of life's more important lessons; never mouth off to someone in the 8^th or 9^th grade, how to remove yourself from a institutional size garbage can if you do mouth off to a 8^th or 9^th grader, and, how to get from a classroom on the west side of the school, to your locker, to a classroom on the east side of the school, in under 5 minutes.

High school presented bigger challenges; 13 acres, longer distances to cover to change classes and to make it all fun we still had the same 5 minutes to do it in. It was easy to be in shape and skinny in high school. The registrations office seemed to find great humor in taking my 7 classes and scheduling them as if I was a ping pong ball. West, then east, west again, east again, west, well, you get the point. This alone motivated me to skip school a few times.

I took a language class, Beginning German, in my sophomore year at Thomas Jefferson High School. It seemed like the thing to do and the teacher was a favorite of mine, Mr. Mesler.

My problem was I didn't learn anything in Beginning German and my class grade didn't really represent the effort that I put out. I really deserved an "F" instead of the "D" that I got. And it's not that I didn't want to learn a language, I did. But I was pretty attached to English not so much as a first language but as an only language. I think I knew early in life that there was a way around having to speak a second language and that way was to not travel to a place where they didn't speak English. And it worked for a number of years. I have never traveled to a state or country that doesn't speak English and I have been out of the country. Now, Wales, a lovely little country on the West side of Great Britain, does have a second language, Welsh, but they also know English so I was covered.

This brings us to Spanish. It seems that I should have taken Spanish in high school instead of German. Why? Because German deli's are not as plentiful as Mexican restaurants where I live! And German deli owners, and this is just a guess, are real sensitive about losing two big wars in the last 100 years to us, and, less they be thought of as anything but patriotic, always have their menu's in English. Mexican food is just more popular. When was the last time someone said, "let's go to German?"

Mexican restaurants don't have the issue of their country losing two major wars to the Allies which appears to be the motivation behind having their menu's printed in Spanish. And that is my problem, at least one of them. I read the menu, read the description, and then order. And for the most part it all comes to the table looking like everything else I or anyone else in our party orders. Burro De Casa looks like Fajita's, which look like Enchiladas, which look like Burritos. It's all about the color of the sauce that it comes with.

Now, I used to think that Cinco de Mayo meant "The one day we party and not take a siesta." I remember sitting at the dinner table ten years ago on Cinco de Mayo and telling my children that it was easy to remember when Cinco de Mayo was because it was always on the 5^th of May. My 11 year looked at me and said, "Dad, that's what Cinco de Mayo means." I thought back to 3^rd grade Spanish on Public Television and realized that school was doing that boy good! On the other hand it took me 33 years to figure that one out!

Los Margaritas , the name of our favorite hangout, is really just English for "How much free chips and salsa can you eat before you gorge yourself on our regular menu!"

My alternate take on the Mexican menu is that printing the menu in Spanish is just a polite way of telling you how your digestive system is going to act once you leave the restaurant. I mean Taco Soup is just Taco Soup. But Chile Relleno translates to "bad gas is in your future". Mucho Flaco Burrito means "Gather the Blue Flame Club, we're having an Olympics." Fajita's that sizzle on your plate mean "SBD, silent but deadly, but only once your under the covers in bed and you're wanting to get frisky with the wife". Carne Asada is just another way of saying "we'll be driving home with the windows down kids!". I have a definition for "Pollo a la Parrilla" but this blog has some standards that even I don't like to test.

My last concern about Spanish as a Second Language is the hot plate. All Mexican food is served on a hot plate. It's a fact. And no matter how many times we are told by our server that the plate is hot, I mean for crying out loud people, he's wearing welding gloves to carry the plates, we never believe him. "HOT PLATE!", he/she announces as the food is delivered. And we still reach up and grab the plate and say, "Ouch, that is hot!". HOT PLATE in Spanish translates to "We just pulled this plate from a 2,400 degree kiln, you're going to get 3^rd degree burns".

Spanish lessons, we could all use them.

Adiós! (Translated "Come back next week for the Nopalitos con Carne de Puerco")

Don’t Mess With My MoBo!

2009-05-30T20:52:00.001-07:00

After a three week absence I have finally returned to the blogging world. It has nothing to do with ideas to blog on. Some of you might suspect that Hottie and I have slipped away to a romantic getaway, turning up the passions on our fire and lust for each other and ignoring modern technology completely.

Nope.

The truth is I've been working long hours and those that I didn't work have been spent doing yard work and trying to fix my computer.

Can we talk?

First, this post has nothing to do with working long hours (I don't mind), or yard work (I really like it), this is about my computer and my MoBo. What you say, there still must be something wrong with your computer because when you hit the "J" key it types a "B"? Don't you mean MoJo? Nope, "MoBo" it turns out, is the computer geek term for "Motherboard". Don't believe me, Google it. If you have a computer you have a MoBo. How important is a MoBo you ask? Every computer has a MoBo, just like, hmmm, every person on earth has a mother. And just because every mother on earth is not perfect, you know, maybe bad, it turns out that not all MoBo's are good either. It turns out my MoBo has been playing the part of Joan Crawford in "Mommie Dearest" and the rest of the computer has been playing her children.

I don't know why it's called a "Motherboard" instead of a "Fatherboard" either. "FoBo" sounds stupid as an acronym. Maybe the geeks who created the motherboard designed it after their hardworking mother who sacrificed her life to make a better life for her child, always giving, never taking or complaining. Why not the father? It's hard to design something based on a guy who sits on the couch all day, eating, drinking, watching TV, and farting. Probably doesn't wear pants at home and scratches himself in some embarrassing places. Leave him a list of things to do and you'll be lucky if he can find the paper the list was written on. No, the MoBo has work to do, driving the kids to school, helping with homework, multitasking and doing all those unpleasant things mothers do. Just in computer speak.

Now when I want a new computer I find that it futile to just go out and buy one. Buying a new computer is like buying a new car, you have to justify why you need a new computer. My excuse this time was that my wife, who prior to inheriting my old pc was still using pen, paper, the telephone, and Kinko's to communicate and create calendars. Since my kids are out of the house she seemed like the natural heir to my old, yet not really outdated, pc. When I bought a brand new car (Ford Escort) in 1982 it was to replace my old AMC Pacer Wagon. The muffler had gone bad and it was a Pacer. In my head the new pc argument that I couldn't run Flight Simulator X on my current pc, sounded just like the argument that I needed a new car rather than replace the muffler. That was my argument, in my head. You don't usually win a lot of arguments outside of your head with the inside the head argument.

So I casually approached Hottie and suggested that she might like to have a computer of her own and that my computer was just the ticket. It would be tough but I would go out and build me a new computer to compensate for my loss. I really don't remember how we came to any agreement, more than likely I just went out and bought it after informing her of my intentions. I'm a jerk that way.

Which brings us back to the AMC Pacer and the Ford Escort. The Escort was a good car for a couple of years but I found myself looking back and pining for my old, reliable, ugly Pacer. Since I bought my new PC I have looked over my shoulder at my wife as she e-mails, blogs and reads blogs and pinned for my old pc. It was reliable, even predictable, it ran my programs (except for Flight X) with not even a whimper.

Not my new pc, it has been, pardon the expression, a REAL MOTHER!!! Won't turn on, won't turn off, has great graphics, doesn't recognize the graphics card, and runs slower than my old pc. I'm constantly pulling the case apart and trying to fix something. Two weeks ago it finally happened. Stupidly opened a file that someone sent me, turned out to be a virus. My son who was visiting decided to check out something on the internet, pushed the chair away and announced that he was going to use "Mom's pc because you have a weird message on your screen.

Can I get an "AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

It turns out that my MoBo was and has been a bad MoBo from the start. And I had to replace it.

So I have a few people and Corporations to thank as I've spent the past two nights putting my pc back together. They are listed in no particular order.

Microsoft – To the employee who came up with the idea of the "blue screen of death", thanks for creating it, I aged 10 years just last night frustrated every time that it showed up on my screen. I lost count at 52.
ASUS – God Bless every one of you that contributed to creating my new MoBo. I will love and respect MoBo Model # P5Q-E and treat her better than I treat my own mother.
ASUS – On the other hand the concept that everyone has hands the size of fairies is just plain wrong. You guys could also maybe rewrite the manual so that everyone that reads English can also understand it the way you guys use it.
InfoTech – How lucky was I that the guy that sold me the original motherboard sold me the new one. What I thought was cute was the way you kept talking all geek and techie even though I kept telling you with my inside voice that I got lost at "How may I help you?".
Hottie – You kept encouraging me, I think you were really concerned about my computer's condition. Or, it could be that you just wanted me to stay off of your computer as I entered every possible query into Google about the demise and the rise of my pc using yours.
JW – You know who you are, I doubt that the virus you sent me caused the problem, but as I mentioned before, I'm not saying it's your fault, I'm just saying I'm going to blame you.

And last….

EVGA – Don't know if you know but, the nForce 780i SLI Motherboard or Mainboard as you call it really SUCKS! Maybe if you had called it a "Motherboard" like everyone else it wouldn't have turned into the bad mama it did.

I’m A Ramblin’ Guy

2009-05-11T21:52:00.001-07:00

Winter is now behind us, Spring is nearly halfway through, and I'm finding it hard to stay awake long enough to post a blog. My problem is that I'm an early riser. Somewhere between 5:20 and 6:00am my internal clock goes off and it wasn't built with a snooze alarm. I show up for work around 6:30, 7am at the latest. I really hate the internal alarm clock on Saturday. 7am comes and I'm wide awake trying to find something to do around the house that isn't noisy so that I don't wake the sleepers in the house.

As for writing the blog I have a number of ideas that I believe have some validity but again, spending hours on a pc at work don't motivate me to come home and do the same. It was during one of my many trips to the men's room at work, a side effect of blood pressure medication that I'm on, that I had a moment of revelation.

Why not take a number of the random thoughts and put them on paper, or the screen. Fair warning, I'm not going to make much of an effort to censor my thoughts.

Our cat died the other day, last Friday to be exact. And we're sad around our house and no one wants to talk about it. It was sudden and unexpected. Well, not really. Truth is I took her to the vet and they put her down. She was old, maybe 16-18 years old. We had named her Drooler because she drooled. I was surprised at the options given me by the vet. Did I want to spend time with her before they put her down? Did I want her cremated and put in a special urn that I could display at my house? I'll tell you what I wanted, I wanted her to quit peeing and pooping all over my family room. Any compassion and love I felt for the cat went right out the window the first time I found that where I put my feet while sitting at the pc was her choice of a new litter box. Besides, there is a point that you have to make these tough decisions. I reassured my wife that if my mother-in-law showed the same symptoms that I would be happy to put her down too.
I was in a rather unusual conversation with someone the other day and at the end of the conversation I walked away and started thinking about sperm. The conversation had nothing to do with sperm; I just wondered after finishing the conversation about what would I be like if a different little swimmer of my dad's got to the egg instead of the one that did. I mean one little swimmer basically was in the swim meet of his life, odds of winning the race anywhere from 50 to 500 million to 1 and all of a sudden my dad's 23 chromosomes and my mom's 23 chromosomes collided and I'm here years later wondering what would have happened had a different sperm won. Nobel Prize, serial killer? Who knows?
I'm thinking about selling my truck. I have a 1996 Ford F150 that I have owned since 1999. It has been a good truck considering that except for regular oil changes I have done nothing for maintenance over the past 10 years. Yes, I replaced the u-joints a few years ago, new brakes, tires, minimal stuff but nothing major. Now my "Check Engine" light comes on and I'm feeling betrayed. And the guys at Ford, the engineers, they are sadistic evil men and women. Both of my oxygen sensors went bad. The engineers put the first sensor in an easily accessible area of the engine, easy to access, easy to replace. I was singing their praises! Then the slime sucking pig dogs placed the second one in a place right near the catalytic converter that was as easy to replace as say shoving a baby back into the birth canal. And that's what's got me thinking about selling the truck. I replaced the sensors and figured that I spend most of my time driving the bed of the truck around town so it might be time for a change. Besides, I don't have a dog anymore so what's the need for a truck.
Mothers Day. To honor mothers our church congregation decided to serve the women in our congregation cake and ice cream during the third hour of our meeting schedule. The men would cover the responsibilities that the women had for that hour. I was asked to do "Sharing Time" in Primary, 15 minutes with about 20-25 kids ages 7-11. Plus I had to conduct the meeting. Oh my gosh! I think that I would rather put my private parts in a vise and deal with the pain than do that again. If I had to do that more than three weeks in a row I might kill a few of them or at the very least myself. Kudos's to all of you that teach children and have compassion to do it week in and week out. I felt like I was herding cats.
I finally broke down and hired a company to take over the lawn fertilizing chores. What a great feeling to see someone else take care of those responsibilities. And I feel really good about the decision to fertilize. Until now. I don't know what I've been doing all of these years because it hasn't been fertilizing. Yes my grass is greener now, yes, the unwanted weeds are going away, but DANG! I didn't think that lawn would grow like it has been. Now I'm going to have to mow twice a week. Maybe there is something to that brown and rough look in a lawn.

So this is just some of what's going on in my head. Thinking out loud can be therapeutic.

You Can’t Make Me!

2009-04-26T19:13:00.001-07:00

I am a big fan of the TV show "Bones". For a guy who can hardly handle the smell of a nasty diaper it is a mystery to me how I can sit and watch an hour of TV where the real star of the show is the mangled, mutilated, and gross remains of some dead person who died under mysterious or sinister circumstances. I will admit that there are a few times that I have covered my eyes while they inject fluid into or remove some portion of the inner workings of some human. I might have to have my man card taken from me. I'm a wuss.

As for the show I think my appreciation or obsession with the show is a fondness and appreciation of well written, even entertaining dialog. And it applies to other shows besides Bones. Eureka on SciFi, Psych on USA, Moonlighting back in the 80's, all of these shows have witty dialog that makes me wish these characters were real.

But now I'm mad at the show Bones and I'm thinking of turning it off, blocking it with Parental Controls, leaving town whenever it's on, all to avoid the disgusting and immoral activities that are becoming more and more blatant with every episode. It's hard to notice among the storylines about whether there is a God or not, love the one you're with, murder, violence, etc, etc, etc. This is worse and someone needs to do something about it.

They're trying to push the metric system onto us.

It's been in the background the whole time, a cc of this, a millimeter of that, that third vertebrae is a centimeter out of place. I've politely ignored all of these attempts to drag me into a system of measurement accepted the world over. But the other day they finally got the best of me. It was an episode where someone had been run over by a particular SUV, the impact to the person occurred, wait for it, at 54 centimeters in height on the vehicle.

And that is when they had me. All of a sudden I found myself wishing that I knew what a centimeter was, I jumped up from the easy chair and yelled at the TV, "WHAT IS IT IN INCHES?" I thought for sure that Booth being the man's man that he was would ask Bones to speak in English.

"C'mon Bones," he would say, "what's that in English?" "Sorry," Bones would reply, "I meant 21 and a half inches." And then Booth and Bones would have some conversation where Bones would tell Booth that the metric system is used in most of the world and that it is only people in the U.S.A. that were holding onto such a barbaric system of measurement. Booth would reply with some very pro-American comment and then we would all feel the sexual tension escalate.

So I went to the Internet and Googled "How To Understand the Metric System". Now if you are a slow typist and you have your computer set up to "auto fill" your typing you will find that if you delay at all after you've typed in "How to…." that the first return on suggested sites is "How to Put On a Condom". So after my curiosity was satisfied, I wanted to know in case I had been putting it on wrong all these years, I finally typed in my original request and 8,760,000 results popped up on my screen. Carefully reading the site descriptions I initially chose wikiHow. That site only showed me tables in standard and metric. So far no success. The next site provided a practical approach, for instance;

"Learning metric really only requires a few reference points and a way to use them in everyday life. To help me use metric units, I have a Celsius thermometer, a kilogram scale, a liter water bottle, several meter sticks, and a metric odometer and speedometer on my bike."

I'll be honest that the only part of that paragraph I could understand was "water bottle", "speedometer", and "bike". I decided that I would have to get serious in my research and found a great site that provided information in a way that was both educational and entertaining. The "Facts on Farts" webpage had nothing to do with the metric system but was way more entertaining. For instance, researching how to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius is nowhere near as much fun to read about as "Why do Farts Make Noise?". I mean we all know why but reading why confirms our suspicions. What? You don't know. Facts on Farts does.

"The sounds are produced by vibrations of the anal opening. Sounds depend on the velocity of expulsion of the gas and the tightness of the sphincter muscles of the anus. Contrary to a popular misconception, fart noise is not generated by the flapping of the butt cheeks."

See, you smiled at that description. And even though it dispels the idea that fart noise is generated by the flapping of the butt cheeks we can still tell our children and grandchildren that it does. Besides, who doesn't like to say "sphincter". You can't have this kind of fun with the metric system.

Hottie, and I believe I speak for most wives, does not really care about the metric system. She does however have very strong opinions about farts. Women want to talk. Choose the wrong subject, like the metric system, totally kills the female conversation mood. Not farts. Recently I experienced a rather long burst of flatulence, low in tone, long in time, nasty as to smell. Hottie jumped all over me, not about the sound but the smell. "You could have warned me!" she exclaimed. "That's what the sound was for!" was my manly response.

See, conversation. I'm in touch with my wife's needs.

And I know the metric system is easier, units of ten is better than fractions, kilometers per hour sounds like you're really flying compared to mph, and freezing at 0 degrees Celsius makes more sense than 32 degrees Fahrenheit. And I'm going to convert one day.

As soon as the webpage is as entertaining as "Facts on Farts".

Global Warming… I Mean Climatic Change, Has Arrived

2009-04-06T19:19:00.001-07:00

I was recently taken to the wood shed by one of my readers; someone that I told was way too serious to read my blog, for calling "Global Warming", well… "Global Warming". I guess the proper term for ignoramuses like me is supposed to be "Climatic Change". The commenter said my ignorance is showing.

Well, EXCUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSE ME!

If you are here for intellectual stimulation then you took a wrong turn because here we are lots of things, but not intellectual. You are reading the words of a guy who got hit in the head with a fastball at age 12 while playing Little League. I've been hit by a car twice, skydived thrice, and bungee jumped from 170'. All's I'm saying is the score is Intellectual 0, Moron 1.

This brings me to the subject at hand.

Climatic Change.

My blog on Global Warming, I mean Climatic Change worked. I complained about the lack of GW/CC and now we are paying the price.

The Pacific Northwet is in a heat wave.

Okay, three days of lower to mid 70's is not exactly the blazing inferno of hell but we will take it, thank you very much.

Perry Como and Bobby Sherman were right. The bluest skies you've ever seen are in Seattle.

This is why I'm inside.

Because, it's Opening Day for major league baseball and that alone can warm the heart. Right now the score is: Seattle 4, Minnesota 1. Ken Griffffey Jr. blasts a home run his first regular season game since returning home to the Mariners. All is right with the world right now. But it's only the 7^th inning. The world can go bad with one pitch.

I spent two days looking at the sun and I don't want to burn out my retinas by overindulging in sun worshipping. It is way too early to lose my tan, I mean rustover. If I go outside I might start to take it for granted. I want to experience opposites but I don't want to get carried away.

Baseball is on TV and it's in high-def.

I know, I know, we may never see it again, the sun. Don't worry, history has shown that it will appear again, I just want to transition to it.

This is baseball. There are some priorities in life and baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and mom are those priorities and what made this country great.

Even if mom doesn't like baseball.

And my loyalties; the Seattle Mariners… and anyone that plays the New York Yankees.

The End Of Civilization As We (Most Of Us) Knew It

2009-04-02T15:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my wife came up to me and told me that my oldest son, who lives in Spokane, got into a car accident in their “new to them” used car. The accident was due to the unprecedented weather, as in more snow. Then she paused to gauge my reaction to the news. Being the kind, compassionate, and loving Father that I am my first mental reaction was; “Stupid Kid, thinks he’s Superman”. Delivering your own kid creates that kind of invincibility. My mental action was the only reaction that I had time to express before my wife said “April Fools”. She got me and I give her kudos for the joke. I’d forgotten that it was April Fools Day.

Seems like the rest of civilization did the same thing. When I called up two of my grand kids on the phone to pull off a lame attempt at an April Fools joke even they didn’t know the significance of the day. I pulled my joke, got a calm reaction and then exclaimed “April Fools”! “Oh yeah, April Fools Day” was the response from both.

Am I missing something or did civilization as most of us use to know it die in this new world of political correctness and giant leaps in technological progress? I think so.

The civilization as I used to know it, the world in which I was a child, had shoelaces that tied so when you pulled the old “your shoelace is untied” joke the person actually looked down as if they had forgotten to tie their shoelace. The reaction today is “I don’t have laces, I have velcro” or “can you tie them, I don’t know how?” With some kids they never tie their shoes so the joke doesn’t work.

What happened to throwing snowballs at a car and getting chased by the driver for three miles uphill? Gone, it’s now a misdemeanor. Want to tp someones house with toilet paper just because your bored? Your local supermarket has a way to automatically track who bought large quantities of toilet paper so they can make you clean it up. Where’s the fun in having to clean up?

I was in Lowes the other day to buy some building supplies, one of the items was spray paint. The self checkout wouldn’t allow me to process my order without an override from the clerk until my age was verified, graffiti and gang tagging have taken the fun out of buying spray paint.

What happened to “Friday Flipup Day”, when you went around the recess yard flipping up people’s dresses? Although I agree with that one, you can pick up quite the draft from the “flip”. When did teachers quit wearing ties, boys and girls start having PE together, and not taking showers at school after gym? Why don’t kids mow lawns for money, be excited to be a Boy or Girl Scout, build model cars and airplanes, swing cats by the tail, have a dog with them as they’re swimming at the lake, river, or creek? Why do we only swim in lakes where it is allowed and not in the areas banned by the county?

My kids have never come home from a day of play and refused dinner because they spent the whole day sitting in an old apple orchard eating themselves sick on green apples. They didn’t build go-karts out of wood and old lawn mower tires and then race them down a steep hill only to realize that they forgot to incorporate brakes into their design. We called each other names and got over it, my brother called a girl names and got decked for it, but that story has already been told.

When I was in high school there were four types of students: jocks, intellectuals, loners, and stoners. For the most part the jocks, loners, and stoners all got along. Intellectuals still don’t get along. We feared the Principal, hated the Vice Principal, cut school without having Senior Skip Day, cut classes whenever we didn’t feel like it, did detention, sometimes our homework, loved some hot teachers, and tolerated the others. By golly when I got an “F” I deserved it and I felt the same way about the “A’s”. I never blamed the teachers or the system for what I deserved.

You’ve never lived if you haven’t found yourself on the roof of the house moving the antenna around while your dad yelled at you from the living room “just a little more that way!” Prank phone calls? Thanks to Caller ID you can't make a random call and ask if their refrigerator is running or call up a store and ask if they have Prince Albert in a can. I want to get excited again after we thrust a man or woman into space on a rocket and we lay on the ground at night looking up at the stars wondering what’s out there while we wish upon a falling star.

And I’m not totally complaining, I like my iPod, my DVR, CD’s, DVD player, big screen, computer, microwave, and cell phone. I really don’t mind recycling, sports on 50 channels, McDonalds, going green, and e-mail instead of the US Postal Service. I’m just wondering if maybe we can be a little less civilized.

By the way, your shoes untied.

Bring On The Global… Uh, Regional Warming

2009-03-21T18:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Global Warming Scientists,

Spring officially started today.

It’s about time. I’m so tired of winter that I’d like to go straight from winter to summer and then hit the snooze button on fall and winter a couple of dozen times and just move into summer for the next decade. Can you help?

I turn on my TV, Radio, surf the Internet, read the newspaper, and everywhere I hear about global warming. So here is my question: Is there an actual location that global warming is affecting on our earth besides Africa and the Middle East because it sure isn’t happening in the Pacific Northwet (pun intended). Whoever has control of the thermostat can turn that baby up a few degrees.

I’m not saying that there is no global warming, I’m not wired to understand the science thing that well. Just ask my old 7th grade science teacher Mrs. Vajdas, if she even knew that I could spell it would probably make her roll over in her grave, if she’s in the grave. Now Mrs. Hansen, my English teacher, she knew I could spell and write. I always did my homework for her because she was smokin’ hot! Her husband was a jerk though. Come to think of it my high school English teacher was hot too. I just figured out why I like to read and write.

Now we know you know the West Coast is a strange place to live. California has earthquakes and two seasons, “Flood and Inferno”. Oregon is like the best of California and Washington but unpredictable as to when you can expect what season. They can’t make up their mind there. They have year round skiing and assisted suicide.

Washington, well we don’t tan, we rust. The eastern half of the state spends most of their time hating the western half because 98.5% of the state budget is spent west of the Columbia River. Eastern Washington is considering letting Idaho annex it. Western Washington is the best of everything that you love about the earth, just the average temperature is about 20 degrees less than the rest of the states excluding Alaska and Canada. We have seasons, two of them, “Raining” and “Waiting for it to rain”.

And the rain does wonders for us. While you are conserving water due to shortages in the reservoirs we’re watering our lawns twice a day. Everywhere you go in Western Washington it’s green and raining! Moss is our state flower. Ever seen a rainbow? Here, it’s an everyday occurrence. Seattlites buy more sunglasses per capita than any other city because we can’t find them most of the time. We’ve got the ocean, Puget Sound, lakes, rivers, mountains with snow, mountains that are going to have snow. You want to see a wetland firsthand? Fly into Seattle and look out the window of your airplane. If you wait long enough in some areas the river comes to you or your house slides down the hill to the water. The reason water witching or dousing works in Washington is that you can’t miss, water is everywhere!

And now we’ve had enough. Snow the past two weekends! I’ve had to use my tire chains twice this winter. Who pissed off Canada and Alaska in our government that made them send us their weather? Give us global warming! Someone else can have the rain.

And here is why. While all of this rain makes things green, it’s against a background of gray. When the sun comes out the citizens start worshipping it like the second coming. Yes we’re green but we also have most of the crazy people here. If you look you’ll find the Unabomber vacationed here. In most states you have your occasional bizarre murder while we’re producing quality serial killers. Washington is a training ground for mass murderers, it’s the Al Queda of America. Why? They eventually get sick of the rain and with nothing else to do they kill. Give us some global warming and we’ll move to second place in a heartbeat. God’s creation of the rainbow along with the promise to Noah that he wouldn’t flood the earth again didn’t mean he wouldn’t regionalize it.

So, you scientists and people who got better than a D on your report card in 7th grade science… please send us global warming.

Sincerely,

Haynsy

Accessorizing Through Remodeling

2009-03-10T22:39:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if I am a typical husband but like most of the other spousal units of the male persuasion I notice the subtle and the obvious changes that Hottie makes in her appearance, eventually. I mean obvious changes like major haircutting and coloring I’m on top of, say within about a week or two of the event. Usually my son who lives about 400 miles away asks me how I like his mothers new hairdo and then I ask what hairdo and then I’m in the doghouse. I tried to compliment her everyday on her hair, you know, “isn’t that a new look for you?” or “that new hair color really brings out the brown in your eyes”, but she soon caught on to my complete lack on sincerity and the fact that my eyes were getting browner with every compliment.

Subtle changes like a new outfit usually take me a year. Take for instance last Sunday. We were out of town visiting the in-laws/romantic getaway at the coast. I know, sounds like it sucked but we didn’t spend the romantic getaway with the in-laws. Focus. Hottie takes off her coat and is wearing this red long sleeved top that really, well, turned me on. I’m sure that it looked good on her but this being a romantic getaway I was also wondering what the world record time was for sincere-compliment-to-sex. I just know that looking at her in that outfit made me want to break the record. Sadly, she had owned the very cute little top for over a year and what I got was the sincere-compliment-to-lecture about how I never really notice her. I’ve got the world record in that category. I still wanted to see how easy the top came off even though I got the lecture.

Which brings me to the real reason for this blog.

Men accessorize through remodeling.

If shopping defines women then remodeling defines men. I shrink at the thought of having to buy a new pair of shoes, shirts, a new suit, and even socks. My wife on the other hand wants me to go shopping with her all of the time, to the mall, to the grocery store, and the furniture store. I know you can’t believe that I would pass up a great opportunity like shopping but most times I’d rather have my testicles put in a vise. Nothing personal I just don’t like shopping.

But every Saturday I’m at Lowes. And I’m shopping but I don’t think of it as shopping. I’m accessorizing.

Like most of you I’m big into home improvement. As Hottie will tell you I’m constantly working on the house, she will also tell you that I’m not big into finishing my projects in a timely manner. But I’m working on a project right now that is the perfect project for accessorizing. I’m replacing my electrical service panel/rewiring most of the house/rewiring the phone system/replacing the cable lines/finally finishing the laundry room/completely remodeling the garage/building my man cave. And how does a man accessorize?

With new TOOLS!!!

Ladies, men put as much thought into the tools, or accessories for the project as you put into matching an outfit with the right necklace, earrings, shoes or scarf. A project just isn’t the same without a new tool. Take for instance my current project. Overhead work, rough carpentry, drywall. To my very patient wife it’s dust, noise, and destruction. To the man who accessorizes it’s a new ladder, framing hammer and a Rotozip! And like those necklaces, earrings, and shoes that you wear with a wide range of outfits, our accessories will go with other projects.

That Rotozip is just as useful trimming tile for your new floor as it is for trimming electrical boxes in drywall. I’m toying with the idea of using it to trim my nose hairs but I’m having trouble finding someone to test my theory. Now the ladder will spend its lifetime gaining us access to the attic, the roof, trimming the trees, hanging Christmas lights, cleaning gutters, and getting the cat out of the tree (or putting the cat in the tree). The framing hammer is useful in so many ways, building a new shed, that arbor that you’ve always wanted, and it doubles as a nut cracker.

So the next time that you think that your husband doesn’t notice you, turn it around. Go down to Manland and sincerely compliment your man on his new tools. You’ll fumble, he’ll grumble, but when you show him that you are sincerely interested in how he “dresses” himself you’ll find the compliments will be returned.

The Kid Delivers His Kid (Baby!)

2009-02-19T22:25:00.000-08:00

My oldest son is very upset this week. When his first child was born he was robbed of the opportunity to "cut the cord" due to some silly "complication", health of the mother, problems with the delivery. Doctors, what do they know anyway. Tuesday morning when his daughter was born he missed out on cutting that cord too. I think his actual words were, "dang, I didn't get to cut her cord either". What a complainer. You'd think that he wasn't allowed into the delivery room at the hospital to participate.

Truth is he wasn't allowed in the delivery room. Okay, she didn't deliver in the delivery room but she did made it to the hospital. The reason he didn't cut the cord this time is a tale as old as time itself.

He was busy delivering his own baby in the car, in the parking lot, at the hospital, just after midnight.

Show off.

It happened like this (and this is a second hand report).

Son comes home from school, 10pm. (He's an apprentice electrician and is going to police academy to become a reserve sheriff in Spokane (SpoCan, not SpoCain), Washington. They're going to induce the delivery on Monday the 23rd, baby due March 4th. This baby is a kick boxer it turns out and is working out early for the Ultimate Fight Championship. His sweetie pie is feeling weird, not right, but she is a human punching bag right now.

12 midnight. After a bath Sweetie calls for mommy to come watch child #1. Doctor says come to the hospital. You know, runs up the doctors bills if you do that. Mommy comes because that's what mommy's do.

Sometime between midnight and I'm guessing 1:30, yea, AM!, they are driving to the hospital and she starts having contractions a minute and half apart. This is the part where my son decides that traffic laws are for sissy's because he breaks most of them when he puts his foot down on the pedal. She worries she's going to have baby and there is widespread panic... at least in their car. Me and the wife, she's in her kerchief and I'm in my cap, we just settled down for.... forget it. Sleeping like old people do. Besides, we're 400 miles away.

Somewhere during this blatant disregard for the traffic laws they hear running water. Since there isn't a sink in the car it must be coming from the pregnant one in the story. More gas is applied to the injectors. More panic too.

He skillfully drives up to the emergency room entrance, don's his SuperDad cape and rushes to the door to assist his wife into the hospital. He yells at the security guard to get help there's a baby coming and other stuff that I forgot.

Adrenalin is not flowing, it's pumping at high pressure, but still he gently opens the door for his sweetie and suggests that maybe she should remove.... how can I say this delicately.... her, her, her. Underwear. Just in case, which they do.

Now this is the part where everything gets crazy. Supposedly it happens something like this; wife screams "I'm having a baby", has a major contraction, and then, and then....

MY SON LOOKS DOWN JUST IN TIME TO SEE A BABY SHOOT OUT OF THE PLACE BABY'S SHOOT OUT OF AND DOES A QUICK JOHNNY BENCH (Hall of Fame Catcher) AND GRABS SAID SHOOTING BABY REAL FAST AND PULLS HER TO HIS CHEST!!!! NOT SEEING HER BREATHE HE TURNS HER OVER, CLEARS THE AIRWAY, PATS HER BACK AND GETS HER CRYING!!!!

And then the nurses showed up, and security. Mother and baby doing fine. Dad, well he's SuperDad, his little piece of Kryptonite just jumped into his arms. Mom, well we just love our Jessica. We hope the baby looks like her.

Welcome to the world Heidi Jean Haynes. 6 pounds, 15 ounces. 20 inches long with lots of hair. Pictures to follow.

I wonder if his insurance is going to get billed for the delivery.

24

2009-02-13T20:29:00.000-08:00

Besides breathing and eating, you know, basically existing, there is only one other significant event that has taken up any significant portion of my 50 years of existence on this rotating orb we call Earth.

Marriage, and the joys and pains that go with it.

Saturday, February 14th, my Honey Buns, my Lucy, and I will celebrate 24 years together. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I never knew what happiness was until I got married… and now it’s too late.

Okay, when I say that she gives me the look. But she gives ME the look! And I think she’s beginning to realize that I’m in it for the long run. I believe that we have a chance of going all the way and that’s saying something. In our families divorce has been the light at the end of the tunnel.

First marriage for me, second for her, but she’s sweet and says that I’m the one that counts. She divorced the first guy because of a sleeping disorder... he was always sleeping with someone else. She brought two great kids to the party and I don’t think of them as stepkids, just my kids. Two more, the clones, joined us in the first 3 years. Later, 7 grandkids, the 8th is due this March.

The memories…. Here are some in no particular order.

· Driving to Disneyland, the two of us, June 1986, Seattle to Anaheim, 1982 Ford Escort, no a/c. San Joquin Valley. Spraying each other with spray bottles to battle the heat.

· Honolulu, Hawaii, November 2005, climbing Diamond Head together. I nearly die on this climb because I’m out of shape, looking forward to the stairs at the top. I think I did die doing those stairs.

· May 1987, hanging a stuffed rabbit from the chandeler at our apartment in Tualitin, Oregon, our visual message to friends Matthew & Kerry Peterson, that number 4 child was on the way. (The rabbitt had died.)

· November 1986, Everett, Washington, me the big strong guy and my petite little wife, carrying couches and mattresses together in the pouring rain when we moved into our new rental because the local congregation of our church knew we weren’t going to stay long and didn’t want to help a transient family.

· June 1993, Disneyland again, this time in a rented Chevy Astro, all four kids. Might have been the best family vacation ever for us. Down and up the West Coast.

· Westport, Washington, the in-laws own a one bedroom cabin there. Besides being the honeymoon suite (or as a friend calls it “the stabbin’ cabin”), it has been the Spring Vacation Getaway for the family, numerous summer visits, the place where the crab is cheap and plenty. We all do the Walton’s goodnight thing when we stay there.

· Date unknown, the family home evening where we learned to spit grapes across the room at the house on 14th Street. Almost invited Guiness Book of World Records.

· September 27, 1987, the Seattle Temple for the LDS Church. We got rid of the “til death do ye part” and replaced it with “for time and all eternity”. Three kids sealed, the fourth was 5 months away.

· March 1991, Disney World for four days, the weekend cruise to the Bahamas. Oh yeah, it was sooooo worth it. No kids.

· February 14, 1986 – Our first anniversary, new baby and burnt brocolli.

· February 13, 1994 to July 1, 1994 – Temporary assignment for me in Denver, home every other weekend. She had the kids, the daughter turning 13, three boys in baseball. It was hell, for her. But it did everything for my career.

· November 1986, I was demoted in a job. Came home to tell her, ex-husband there to see the kids. Not a great memory but it sticks in my mind because it’s was so great that someone that day still believed in me, and she always has.

· March 2008, Lucy has major surgery, supposed to take only an hour, at hour two I wondering, hour three I’m spending the insurance money mentally, hour four I’m a basket case.

· Everytime we’re intimate, well… she doesn’t laugh at me naked. Surely she gets points for that, and “stop calling me Shirley”.

· Name Calling – We have them for everything, My Ricky to her Lucy, Shirley, as in "Surely you don’t mean that. Stop calling me Shirley." Buns, Honey Buns, and when she’s mad, HOT CROSS BUNS. And let’s not forget our old standbys, “Dream Killer!” “Hope Smasher!”

There’s more about us, some personal, some general. We’ve had our disagreements, our make ups, challenges financially, with the kids, with each other. But over the years we’ve been a team. We finish sentences for each other, we start them, we still get frustrated at each other, but we’re together 24 years later.

A young man once taught me (just before he got divorced from some wacko), the grass isn’t greener on the other side, it’s greener where you water it. Well Buns, Lucy, Honey Buns, Shirley, let’s turn on the sprinkler and get the grass greener for another 24 years.

Gotta Love That Kisser!!! Ricky & Lucy at "24"

My (Misplaced) Fear of Flying

2009-01-30T18:48:00.000-08:00

WARNING! WARNING! If you are here to read about death row inmates eating their eyes and grown men having sex with horses you have come to the wrong place. I’ve reformed, I’ve seen the light, I’m a new man.

Let’s talk phobias!

I thought about being a pilot when I was younger, it’s a profession full of chance takers, guts and in some cases glory. The problem is that I have a fear of flying, or so I thought. When I watched the news stories last week regarding the “miracle” of US Airways Flight 1589 in New York I had a paradigm shift with regards to my phobia. And now that I’ve made this transition I’m ready to come clean. I don’t have a fear of flying… I have a fear of crashing. I also have a fear of dying but I’ve always thought that the fear of crashing was the prerequisite to the fear of dying.

Everyone still with me?

Let’s face it, there is something exhilarating about flying through the air, regardless, I might add, of whether you’re in plane or it’s just you in free flight. What stops us some of us from pursuing a life of flight is not the flight; it’s the potential of the crash. And I’m an expert witness for the defense in this case.

In my lifetime I have flown on commercial jets and puddle jumpers nearly 100 times. I have taken off 4 times in small planes, landed in only one of them. I have allowed someone to tie big rubber bands around my legs and ankles and then purposely jumped from 170 feet in the air with only a swimming pool to break my fall or, at some might believe, contain my remains. I have jumped from trees, high diving boards, the occasional window, deck, and roof. In all of these experiences the thrill is in the flight, the fear is in the options for the landing.

Let me share some experiences. Three times I’ve been skydiving. The question always comes up, “why would you want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” Trust me, the planes you jump out of are so crap that you want to get out. Each time I jumped from 2,400 feet in the air hooked to a static line. That means that I while I’m falling out of the plane and have completely forgot everything that they taught me in skydiving school, that there is a line to automatically pull the ripcord for my parachute. They are also nice enough to provide a spare chute in case things go wrong. The third option is death or a landing so hard that you become your family’s favorite vegetable. This school was so thorough that they informed you how long you could expect to float down if your parachute deployed properly, 3 minutes, and how long the flight would be if your chute failed to deploy. About 17 seconds. And with skydiving the question isn’t about whether you’re going to get on the ground again, it’s how far into the ground. I don’t know how far you have to fall before people on the ground can hear you screaming for your mommy if your chute fails to open.

Bungee Jumping is nothing like skydiving. Bungee jumping is “totally radical dude”! There are many places that you can bungee jump; off the side of a bridge, some take an elevator to the top of a crane, others hang their digits on the edge of a cliff. Then some guy who doesn’t have an engineering degree wraps your legs and ankles with bungees, a bigger version of the ones that you use to anchor the tarp over your tent; basically a big rubber band. The problem with bungee jumping is that you can visualize how far you’re going to drop because you’ve got visual verification, with skydiving you can’t comprehend the height. Let’s see, 2,400 feet is about half a mile, so it’s two times around the track but from the air. With bungee jumping you know where you are going to land or in some cases, splatter. The thrill is the flight, the fear is the landing. Here’s the other surprise; jumping from a height of 170 feet with a big rubber band attached to your legs means that you are at some point going to stretch the rubber band to its extremes. Now if you’ve every stretched a rubber band you know that they like to bounce back to their original shape. What goes down must come back up. You can see your house from up there, and again, and again, and again.

So far I’m pretty confident with skydiving and bungee jumping. I’m really okay with airplanes; each time I takeoff and land safely my confidence increases. I don’t have the same confidence in the future of solo flight where you are the flight vehicle. All of those documentaries showing humans with jet packs, or wings and rudders attached to their bodies trying to fly and then crashing have not convinced me that personal flight is the future. Besides, if God had intended that we fly solo he would have given us a rudder on the backside instead of a butt crack.

Can I Get An AMEN!

2009-01-26T01:44:00.001-08:00

Brothers and Sisters, the subject of our sermon today is food. We’ll be taking our lesson from “The Book of Daniel, Chapter 68, The Lost Chapters.”

Starting with verse 6: “Let the doors of the buffet be opened unto you that you may feast upon the salads, the meats and the fish, and end with a nice piece of chocolate cake, with ice cream. And in consuming them you shall be filled to uncomfortability and your pants shall be tight and your proximity to the bathroom shall be close. But you will be contented.”

Can I get an Amen! Amen! Say it again. Amen!

Fact; Women are into quality and men are into quantity, which is why women love restaurants and men love buffets.

The same rules apply with regards to sex, women want quality, men, well we just want it. Quantity.

But this is really about food so I’ll try to stay focused.

The secret to a long life, according to those who live long, is that food is not their priority. Sounds to me like someone has their priorities mixed up. I want to eat my way to at least 100 years old. Women tend to not focus on food and that may be the explanation as to why women live longer than men, but what’s the fun of living long if you can’t enjoy it and nothing says enjoy like buffet!

Last week I had occasion to be in a town on the Olympic Peninsula for business and decided to pop into a buffet for a “light” lunch, meaning that at lunch they don’t carve roast beef and ham. A group of four young men in white shirts, ties, and name tags were prayerfully pondering whether the buffet was a prudent use of their money. Now I’m not Bill Gates when it comes to money but I have needed some blessings for my family so I convinced them that the “spirit of the buffet” had prompted me to pay for their meal. Why else would they have pulled into the parking lot at the same time if it wasn’t meant to be?

“And they came two by two to the table; and they did eat of foods, both fried and baked, whipped and steamed, and they saw that it was good. They partook of fowl of the ground, fishes of the sea, and they popped those little shrimp all breaded and deep fried and dipped in cocktail sauce into their mouths. So great was their joy that they returned again and again to feast upon the bounties provided by the toothless guy who spoke no English.”

“And they washed it down with endless glasses of pop and milk and they all proclaimed that it was good.”

In modern terms, those boys could eat. I was so proud of them I nearly cried.

I did feel bad though. Just after we sat down together another four missionaries arrived, surveyed the situation, and then announced that they weren’t going to spend that kind of money on a meal. Bless those young men that were already eating for they did not announce that they were eating on my dime. Besides, 8 missionaries in one place is a zone conference in my book and I didn’t see a Mission President. They wandered off in search of a dollar menu somewhere. Hey, sometimes the spirit moves you. It moved me to not pay for four more.

I know that I don’t make the rules, but whoever, no matter what the circumstances were, invented the buffet should get a free pass into heaven. If I believed in sainthood I’d saint him. If I could name a town or a road after him I would. I’d declare a Buffet Holiday. There would be no fasting on this day. Forget sacrifice and service, the rallying cry should be “Buffets! It’s what’s for Dinner… and lunch!”

And his place in heaven should be on the right hand… of the guy who invented bacon.

A Strange & Peculiar People

2009-01-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

Warning! Warning! This blog subject is not suitable for children and most adults. It deals with a real world experience in a farm town near Seattle, so if you are easily offended, have been offended before by my blog, or your spouse tells you that you are so uptight and straighlaced that you can make a diamond out of a piece of coal if you sat on it and clenched your butt cheeks, then this is not the week to read my blog.

Welcome home the rest of you.

On December 31, 2008, The Seattle Times ranked the Top 20 Web Stories of 2008 online as counted by those automated counter thingy’s. The No. 5 story read online was a story originally reported on July 15, 2005. And it’s number 5 in 2008, the Times reports it took several hundred thousand hits. According to the paper “You can’t keep a good story down,”.

Drum roll please. The No. 5 most-read story of the year is about the death of a 45 year old man in Enumclaw, Washington who was killed, in July of 2005, while attempting to have sex…. with a horse. Okay, that is killer sex. Sorry. Apparently the State of Washington is one of 17 states that do not ban sex with animals. Police tried to find a crime here, and they did, trespassing, on his 54 year old companion, because it wasn’t his barn. And in 2007 someone tried to make it into a movie.

Now I’ve been to Enumclaw, it’s a quiet little town, they have a sales pavillion to sell livestock, the County fairgrounds is there, it’s where you have to pass through to get to the north side of Mount Rainier. I never thought of it as a place for weirdo sex. And the thought of it just makes me shiver. Ask my wife, I’m still a bundle of nerves everytime she seduces me. And it has happened before, about 15 years ago police caught a drunk getting jiggy with a cow in a field in Enumclaw. They say he was pretty much in the moment, they actually had to interrupt him. The man not the cow. There must be something in the water, or the hay. I always bring my own food and drink when I go to Enumclaw.

So, we shared this story around the family out here in the Northwest, we really get bored in the winter. Everyone had an opinion, no one felt sorry for the guy even though he died. The paper reported everyone’s opinion regarding the “incident” and then I realised, no one reported the horses point of view. Until now.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me,” I started, “What should I call you?

“Well the other horses are calling me “Easy”, but you can call me “Nelly”, as in whoa Nelly.” replied the the horse, hereafter called “Nelly”.

“How are you dealing with the attention regarding this incident?” I asked.

“Well, I like to think that I’m as neeeeeighberly as the next horse”, Nelly responded, “but this is just ridiculous. I’ve lived a pretty quiet life up until now and then all of a sudden I’m being treated like a celebrity. Mr. Ed never had to deal with this kind of peoplecrap, but then he was a zebra. I’m not the whorse that people think I am.”

I wanted more. “Were you ever in danger of being charged with a crime?” was the next question.

Nelly paused, let out a whinney, shook her mane, and then responded, “They were thinking about charging me with “negligent hoofacide” but after the facts came out I was cleared.” Her eyes were sad, she was having a hard time with the memories.

“What can you tell me about that night, what is your side of the story?” I quizzed.

She closed her eyes for a second and then for the first time opened up. “I had just turned in for the night, munching on a nice piece of hay that I’d been watching grow out on the back forty the year before, I ate a little bit too much and was getting sleepy. All of a sudden I felt someone grab my tail, I turn around and there’s this pervert human trying to violate me!”

She was opening up, “I turned on him” she continued, “and yelled “You ain’t my cowboy!” and gave him a quick little kick. It all happened so fast, he flew backwards, did a double somersault, and then it was over, I’d wanted to give him a 10 but he didn’t nail the landing so he ended up with a 9.5. His buddy grabbed him and hauled him off, it started and ended so suddenly.”

There it was, she finally brought it out in the open. She relaxed, shivered, butted me with her head affectionately, and walked away.

Suddenly she turned, “I heard that the story is No. 5 online, we were No. 3 last year. I just hate election years.”

Tastes Like Chicken!

2009-01-09T22:18:00.000-08:00

This just in: “Texas Death Row Inmate Pulls Out Eye, Eats It”.

Now I’m talented but I can’t make up crap that good. The story on the AP wire today tells of a death row inmate, in Texas, that pulled out his only good eye and then told authorities that he ate it. No comment from the condemned man on if it tasted like chicken. I’m betting no on the chickeny taste.

I’m having trouble having any sympathy on this one, the creep killed his estranged wife, young son, and 13 month old daughter. The infant’s death got him the death penalty. Creepy yes, but I’ll spare the details because I know that mothers read this blog.

I don’t see what he thought this would do for his case but, well, hmmmm, this is uncomfortable, it looks like he doesn’t see either. His attorney explained that “He is insane and mentally ill. It is exactly the same reason he pulled out the last one.” People, hold the presses, we’ve got a serial eye eater here. He’s definitely lacking vision, oh sorry, the foresight, excuse me, the ability to look to the future, I apologize. What an idiot, and as for the insane and mentally ill, I think they should have assumed that the first time.

Now ol’ One Eye, who is thinking of changing his name to “Wtotl” as in “Who Turned Out The Lights”, is from Texoma, Texas. I haven’t looked yet but I’m assuming that this town is close to the Texas/Oklahoma border, just as Texarkana, Texas is close to the Arkansas border. What’s with that anyway? I haven’t checked my map for accuracy yet but I’m hoping that I don’t find a town on the Texas/Louisiana border named Texiana. Over to the west it’s possible that there is a town named Texico bordering New Mexico. If Texas bordered any more states I could have some fun with those states. Texona, Texah, Texada, Texegon, Texornia, Texaska, Texucky, Texshire, well you get the message. To my knowledge none of the border states have names like this, no Oklahas, Louisas, New Mexas. All right, enough about the silly place he lived. I’ve never been to Texoma so I apologize to the good people there if I’ve blogged you in the wrong light.

And I’m sorry for the families of the people he killed but I’m just thrilled he ate his eye because I was drawing a blank on a blog subject this week and this was like manna from heaven. Crash, would you please consider that the next time you poke me that I don’t want to be poked in the eye?

Wtotl has actually created a problem for the State of Texas. His inmate care costs just jumped. By eating his eye he now qualifies for American with Disability Act protection. He will need a white cane, but please don’t provide him standard issue, those 8x8 jail cells have limited square footage. Something the size of chopsticks will work. And a seeing eye dog, paid for by the good people of Texas, but get him a small one, like the Taco Bell dog, it’ll be a tight fit in that cell with the new fire hydrant for the dog. Then he’ll have someone to talk to him. You can take the lights out of his room, I mean cell, a radio would be more appropriate than the TV he’s watching, and let’s face it, he needs to be taught Braille, that will cost the State.

I don’t ever plan on going to prison let alone commit a crime. My advice to convict types is that if you want to convince someone that you’re insane and mentally unstable then you should start with ridiculous requests such as; crunchy instead of creamy peanut butter, butter instead of margarine, real potato’s and not powdered, the letter Q stricken from the alphabet, or run around the exercise yard each day screaming “I’m a hamster”. All of these suggestions hurt a lot less and don’t deprive you of some of the few freedoms that you do enjoy.

And while I’m still straddling the line on the death penalty, Texas, because they don’t mess around when it comes to the death penalty, will eventually put Wtotl to death. In the death chamber, the warden or maybe the priest will ask him if he has any last words.

Please don’t let him say; “It tasted like chicken.”

Don't Stand So Close To Me

2009-01-04T19:52:00.000-08:00

“Everywhere is walking distance”, spoke the great philosopher/comic Steven Wright, “if you have the time”. That said, I finally got off my butt on Saturday and took a walk on the Interurban Trail here in my side of the woods. I have a simple walking plan; I don’t do hills (yet), I don’t park at spaces set aside on the trail by the County (too many car break-ins), and I walk two miles away from my truck, which means I have to walk two miles back to my truck. A nice four mile walk, it’s just me and my IPod, rocking out on my favorite tunes.

The problem with walking is that I can think and rock at the same time. I’m very talented. While I walk thoughts come into my head that really shouldn’t come out and end up documented, for instance in this blog. Take Saturday, I had just finished watching the Monk New Years Day Marathon on my DVR the night before. One of the episodes that I watched was called “Mr. Monk & the Naked Man”. The naked man reference was to the nudist beach that was part of the plot. It was a good episode even though it made me a little uncomfortable. So, I’m walking along the trail at a very brisk pace, started thinking about the Monk episode and then it occurred to me.

If you take Viagra and you should call your doctor if you experience an erection lasting longer than four hours, then, if you’re a nudist should you call your doctor if you don’t have an erection lasting longer than four hours?

Whoa!!! Now you know what it’s like to live in my brain. Only these thoughts are the ones that got out.

I could never be a nudist. My birth was the only time that I was comfortable being nude in front of anybody that I wasn’t intimate with and even then I only did it kicking and screaming, the birth or the wedding night. Okay, it was the only time that I’ve been comfortable naked in front of someone else. The closest that I’ve ever come to being a nudist was the period from September of 1970 to June of 1971 and the following three school years up to my junior year in high school. Yes, those exciting days of gym class, 7th grade to my sophomore year in high school. Group showers were the norm, 60 naked guys running around with towels, taking those towels and snapping at each others little butts just as we were moving toward puberty. Snap a towel at my butt now and you get a nice little scream in a deep bass, snap it in 7th grade and my alto voice broke glass.

Here’s another thought, what happens when there is a case of mistaken identity at a nudist colony? It would be very embarrassing if someone walked up to you, say you’re a guy, and said, “Excuse me miss, can you tell me where the bathroom is?” I actually knew someone, fully clothed, a woman, and to me she looked like a woman, kind of, and she went to get her driver license (she had just moved into the state), and the DMV officer listed her as a man on the license. It was only after she walked out with the new license that she realized the mistake they had made. Of course if nudity was allowed maybe the DMV wouldn’t make that mistake. She asked me what to do about it, I was still trying to make up my mind again about whether she was a man or a woman.

You know how people are real comfortable in their home walking around naked but as soon as someone shows up they quickly put some clothes on? Do you think that nudists secretly walk around the house in clothes but when someone shows up they quickly take their clothes off? There are advantages to being a nudist, your clothing budget would be minimal, maybe one pair of everything, swimsuits are always optional, wearing a hat, not necessary. No skid marks in the underwear, although, skid marks on the furniture does become a problem.

No, I wouldn’t be a nudist, I like people to know the real me but I don’t want to be that real to that many people.

I was scanning the guide on my cable box earlier and noticed that there is a Jerry Springer Marathon on TV next week. I wonder what watching that will do to my thought process. I have to go now, it just started snowing again and I think I’ve got some space on my DVR.

Pew!

2009-01-01T21:05:00.000-08:00

It's time to participate in our annual ritual of "which pew do I sit in at Church".

Sunday, January 4th some of us in buildings with multiple congregations will start attending church during a new block period. Our congregation shifts to the 11am schedule while the ward to the south gets to move to the coveted 9am schedule. Personally the 11am schedule just means I show up at 7:30 rather than 6:30 for my meetings. 11am really screws up the Sunday nap schedule, the only activity suggested by the church as a legitimate Sunday activity that I actually follow through on. The 11am schedule typically means lower attendance also, it's like if they haven't made it by 11 it's not going to happen.

I like Sacrament Meeting on most days, my wife and I have a lock on the back pew near the door. It used to belong to my son's grandfather and grandmother-in-law but I'm a big guy and not easily moved from a new seating position once I decide I want it. I used to sit about 5 rows up, on the far right, where I could support my knee against the wall that juts out. That way I could support my teachers manual I had to read if I hadn't prepared for the class that I taught. But I'm a back row guy. I'm thinking about getting a plaque for our seats. "In Memory Of" and then name some long lost relative. Not mine though, most of my relatives only get caught dead in church. My family is from Missouri which make genealogy easy. I just find the names of the pioneers crossing the plains getting persecuted and trace the ancestry of the persecutor's.

Now the back pew, not the one against the curtain, allows you to make Sacrament, well interesting. Passing small children can low five you while you look forward, you notice everyone that walks in late, you see and hear every child that screams, has to go potty 10 times, and you're usually the first to know which kids are going to die at the hands of their parents as they get drug kicking and screaming out of the chapel during the talks. The other day I thought that I saw the parent and kid high five each other after they escaped the chapel during a high council talk. We've hit a point where we can close our eyes when a kid screams and know what lungs belong to which kid. When you sit in the back you can see parents and kids arguing about not wanting to go to Sacrament. The kids usually win and the parents dejectedly follow them into the meeting.

I almost feel bad that I sit on the back row because it makes the people that are late walk in and walk all the way up to the front. Then I remember that we had the same problem when we had kids and I get over feeling bad.

In the Pentecostal church that I grew up in my family was always late for services. I would always fervently pray that the congregation would be standing up and clapping, singing some holy roller tune that had everyone dancing like they were walking on hot coals. Alas, it was usually "The Old Rugged Cross" and my mom, step dad and my six siblings would all make that long walk to the front of the chapel, all eyes upon us. Did you know that "Israel, Israel, God Is Calling" has the same tune as "What A Friend We Have In Jesus"? Sorry, trivia moment.

Now that I'm LDS and out of the house I'm not late for anything. Stake Conference is in a couple of weeks and the wife and I are thinking about camping out for seats overnight. Depends on whether we get a General Authority or not, I don't sleep outside for just anyone.

We could always play poker to pass the time.

Dear Diary

2008-12-30T20:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Diary,

Here I am at the end of another year, sitting at my desk, working away trying to finish up some projects by working a little later. I’ve got some important things that I need to accomplish before tomorrow night. There are deadlines to be kept, the mess on my desk just doesn’t clear up all by itself. On top of that one of the interns asked to shadow me for a few days and he is constantly asking questions that I’m surprised he doesn’t know the answers to. What is wrong with this generation? You’d think that the schools would teach them to be free thinkers, come up with solutions, find the answer before they make it your problem.

On the other hand I’ve had some one on one time with the CEO, some lengthy conversations, other times quick exchanges as we discuss the status of our unit. I feel like my performance could use some good ol’ Steven Covey inspiration. First Things First. These past few days have been “time wasting” activities. I haven’t contributed much, just flying along on autopilot. Watching the CEO I’m amazed at what she accomplishes in such a short time. Even has time for the intern, their exchanges are always lively, some would say playful.

Friday will be different though. Friday I go back to work.

It’s amazing how just a few days off throws your system off. I’m sure that my wife (the CEO) wonders how my company survives with me let alone without me. Of course if this was the summertime I would have a totally different attitude. I would be outside or at least in the garage, building or fixing something. But even the garage is cold and unattractive. Even sleeping in is a chore with the 8 year old grandson (the intern) an early riser and expecting me to be his entertainment. It takes some energy. I don’t remember my own kids being kids anymore. I am sure that someone got up with them, fed them, clothed them, kissed their scraped knees and held them when they hurt inside. I just having trouble picturing me doing those things.

But I could beat the best of them at Nintendo, until they found out I was cheating. My office phone line had toll free access to the Nintendo help desk so I’d just go on speakerphone until they picked up and then some attentive minimum wage minion at Nintendo would answer my Golgo 13 or Zelda question and I’d return at home a hero. “How’d you figure that out Dad?”, “Well, I just worked it out in between meetings son.” It’s easy to get them to think that they can become Gods when their dad is godlike when it comes to playing games.

No, future vacations belong to the time between April and September. I’m not anywhere close to being helpful during a vacation in December. I don’t shop, I don’t clean, I don’t decorate. I’m not a baker, I don’t ooh and awe over the cute things of Christmas, and I won’t go caroling. The weather is cold, it snows sometimes, the power goes out, and I eat 90% of my annual chocolate allocation from Thanksgiving to New Years Day .

I know, I make the Grinch sound cute and adorable. Go away now. I’ve got to organize my mp3 collection.

The Day Before The Day Before...

2008-12-23T20:08:00.000-08:00

Twas the day before the day before Christmas. In my world I think of it as the “day before the day I start shopping for Christmas". Moreover, there is nothing more disconcerting than shopping for presents for the wife, especially on the last shopping day.

Shopping for my wife used to be easy. I would put off my shopping until Christmas Eve, get up, eat breakfast, maybe slink around the house until about one, then sashay into a jewelry shop, and make my purchase. I didn't spend a lot of money, it was the thought that counted. I was buying what I could afford, $20 earrings in the early days. Later in our marriage, I bought her some stuff that could really cut glass. The purpose of going to the jewelry store was for personal publicity. I was a man, I was in a jewelry store, and I was buying jewelry. I got extra points if someone I knew would see me buying jewelry. What they saw was a loving husband buying his wife JEWELRY! Women wished they were going home with me, men were envious, little girls hoped they'd meet someone like me some day, little boys didn't care.

Reality is that I suck at buying gifts for my wife. Early on in my marriage I bought my wife a gift just for being her. No special occasion, no birthday, it wasn't the anniversary of the day we met, nothing like that. But I saw this item and just knew she had to have it! Seems like a food processor doesn't have the same appeal as cheap earrings. Now in my defense I really thought that she would love it. I was making her life easier! The other day I needed a new beard trimmer and she suggested that I wait until after Christmas because she might get it for me. I reminded her that personal grooming products and kitchen equipment weren't gifts but necessities. And then I realized where I went wrong with the food processor. We, or should I say I, only used the food processor a few times. The only time she touched it was when she moved it to the garage. I re-gifted it in 2004 about 16 years later. Okay, I gave it to my mother who was thrilled at how thoughtful I was. Mothers of course are thrilled that we can put sentences together.

Going shopping under the best of circumstances is tough. Going during the Christmas rush is just madness. 99% of the time when men are going to the store it's only for themselves. Even when we lovingly offer to go to the grocery store late at night for our sweethearts, it's only because we've been thinking about going and getting some chips or ice cream for ourselves. By offering to go we get style points. When she is pregnant and wants Mexican TV dinners at nine in the evening we go, but we find it an excuse to get more dip.

Nowadays I start early on my shopping. About a week before Christmas I start dropping hints to her that maybe I wasn't listening when she mentioned that she wanted so and so. I bring out my little black book and call her girlfriends, our children, Dr. Laura, and light a candle at Lourdes in the hopes that God will bring all things to my recollection. Once I've squeezed every piece of information out of my sources, the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars I make my final move. I confess to her that I have not remembered a single suggestion she's made. I take my verbal lashings and with paper in hand, I go shopping.

Today, the day before the day before Christmas I went shopping. I would have gone on Christmas Eve but there was a threat of snow in the forecast, besides I happened to drive by a mall. I went into the "Women's Intimates" section of a well known store... all by myself. I knew her size, I knew what she wanted, I froze. I hung out in appliances for about an hour before I got the nerve to go in. As soon as I entered the "Intimates" department my sperm count dropped by about 5o%. The women's area is of course where female hormones come to reproduce and they feed off male testosterone. It is why they place this section on the side of the store opposite of the electronics section. You cannot place your hand on any rack without touching something that makes you feel like you're a sex maniac. Everywhere you move it is a girly world. Words are hard to form when someone offers assistance. I've had better conversations overdosing on Novocain. I was slapped twice by asking different women for assistance. The slapping stopped when I quit answering the question "What's her size?" with "She's not anywhere as big as you.

Women on the other hand shop for boys all of their life and let's face it guys, there is nothing at all sexy and steamy about the men's section. Boxers or briefs is the biggest decision that we ever make shopping. Our only criteria is to find the best underwear to hide the skid marks from the outside.

And she will be great on Christmas Day, she'll open up the presents that she told me to buy her. She'll put on an Oscar winning performance as she tears the wrapping (if I bothered to wrap them) off of her gifts. She'll exclaim that I'm so thoughtful and so considerate, that I always know just what she wants.

And it will be our little secret. About how lame I am, how stupid I am, how lucky I am.

Happy Christmas.

Never Call A Girl Ugly (Even If It's True)

2008-12-10T18:46:00.000-08:00

Thank God for my younger brother Gene.

I learned from him that it’s not always appropriate to say what you think directly to the person that you have the opinion about. A lesson like this didn’t’ come from careful planning, books, or deep conversations about choices and consequences, it came from pure stupidity.

We spent most of our childhood living on two acres in an area called the West Hill. The surrounding houses were a mix of families living in homes on two acres and little tract homes on postage stamp lots, and at the end of every street a cul-de-sac. It was quite the mixture of incomes. Well off, middle class, struggling to make ends meet and just plain poor. We fell into the latter category. I didn’t know it until I was twelve. It took going to junior high to realize how poor we really were. In elementary school you live alongside the people you go to school with. In junior high you realize that some people have more than you.

Now Judy Lang, in my opinion, was ugly. I know that it isn’t politically correct to say that in this day and age and it shouldn’t have been okay to say it back when I was a kid. But, let me say again, she was ugly. Judy was the girl that they based the quote “beauty is skin deep but ugly is to the bone” on. And it wasn’t just my opinion, all of the guys in the neighborhood and all the girls thought it too. I think adults held the same opinion. It wasn’t a case of she sometimes looked good if the light was right, the only time she could have looked good was if the earth would fall into total darkness and light had been snuffed from our existence. It is no exaggeration to say that she was difficult to look at. To add insult to injury she was my age and in my classes in school from elementary to junior high.

As a comparison I should tell you that living next door to me was an absolute goddess that must have been a little selfish when looks were handed out. I’m sure she got any beauty Judy was supposed to get. Debbie was my first crush and of course, I had to live next door to her for the next 9 years. Very difficult to go through puberty living next door to her. We had very nice things to say to Debbie, all of them to her face.

Judy was the target of an endless barrage of taunting, ridicule and name calling that I have never seen repeated in my entire life, except for the recent presidential elections. We made fun of her last name mainly. We called her Fang, Fango, Fangendorf (after the bread), and numerous other things that I can’t recall or I’m too embarrassed to share. As an adult I’m shocked that she didn’t go out and off herself with the way we treated her. Her house was only about a block away from ours, a huge distance to a kid. Her house was nicer than ours, She wasn’t poor and She dressed better than us. Again, she was ugly and that was our excuse for the way we treated her.

Everyone on our street walked the quarter mile to junior high school, my brother, three of the kids living next door to us, and everyone to the east of our home, which totaled about twenty kids. Fango, I mean Judy, had to walk past our house everyday to get to school and to visit her friends. I don’t know if she was going to an ugly club meeting that was held weekly or what. Gene, the first of my younger brothers, was standing with a group of about six boys, including me, on our side of the street. Judy came walking by. Ready for the lesson?

Up until that day, none of us would call her names directly to her face, that would have been mean, but as soon as she turned the corner and came toward our house, my brother yelled out “FANGO, you’re ugly!” It was an obvious posturing technique to assert his position as leader of the pack. What happened next surprised us all. Judy Lang walked over to him, his chest feathers all puffed out with peacock pride, him still calling her names and then… she decked him! Not some girly slap, there was no pushing, no further dialog, no requests for him to be polite or apologize, she just reached out with her first and cleaned his clock with one move. I believe that it was a right cross.

Up to that point, I had never witnessed firsthand someone go from a vertical position to a horizontal position so fast. I learned something while watching the blood start to ooze from his mouth. It’s better to think twice and act once. Once to think about what I’m going to say and the second time about how it will affect the other person. Not that I have applied this lesson learned in all situations, but seeing my brother prostrate on the ground sent me a strong message that has served me well over the years.

And maybe Judy got the last laugh on me. As a kid I had a newspaper route and delivered a weekly newspaper in our neighborhood. Judy’s parents were faithful subscribers. I was so scared of her after she cold cocked my brother that I chose never to collect the monthly subscription fees from her parents again. She had me so frightened that I just delivered that paper for free as long as I had that route. To avoid any possible confrontation with her I either threw the paper at the porch or sprinted as fast as my little legs could take me to the porch and back to the street.

I just realized that I’ve admitted being scared of a girl.

Thanks Gene, whereever you are.

The Naughty and Nice List

2008-12-06T08:41:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving has come and gone and it looks like it’s crunch time for the fat man of the north. At the North Pole, this is the sports equivalent of fourth and goal on the one-yard line 10 seconds left and only a touchdown can win it, bottom of the 9th, bases loaded, two strikes on the batter and he needs a Grand Slam to win. If Santa was Cinderella the clock is about to strike twelve and he is nowhere near the pumpkin coach. Being Santa has its pressures.

While the elves have their tasks, made easier by modern factories, Santa still must personally take care of one thing. The Naughty and Nice List. They, and we all know who they are, say that only Santa has the magical powers that tell who is naughty and who is nice. That leaves Santa the sole employee in charge of logistics.

That is quite a list with some notable names on it.

The Naughty List includes infamous people like Adolf Hitler, Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dalmer, my ex son-in-law’s, and the girl who forgot to put ketchup packets in my bag at Jack in the Box on Friday. The Nice List includes people like Mother Theresa, Billy Graham, Bill and Melinda Gates, all the girls who went out on a second date with me, and my wife (who bless her heart didn’t laugh the first time she saw me naked).

As time has passed and the world has changed I’m sure that the list reflects more of the world’s current standards. For instance, things which were once naughty are no longer are part of societies evils. For instance, dipping the ponytail of the girl in front of you in the inkwell at school, naughty but not relevant in today’s society. Not because a naughty boy wouldn’t or couldn’t do it given the chance, there’s just no need for inkwells anymore. Where is the fun of taking an ink pen and trying to write on her hair? Besides, the number of girls with longhair has grown shrunk noticeably over the years and dipping a short-haired girls locks in the ink would defeat the goal of not letting her know you’re doing it. You can’t just grab a girls head, tilt it back 90 degrees, dip the hair in ink and think she won’t notice. You do that today and you are the recipient of a harassment charge or a swift kick to the boys.

Other Naughty List deeds that were once bad seem to be moving over to the Nice List. Living together, disrespect to your parents, teachers and minister seem to be acceptable today. So is cheating at school, taking bribes, some murders, and recreational drug use.

With all of this change in morality the biggest problem that Santa has are the people that could easily be on both lists. If the criteria for the Naughty and Nice List has got a little blurred over the years maybe the answer lies in a new list, The Naughty and Nice List.

Here are a couple of examples of the argument for the new Naughty and Nice List. Let’s say that you have a ruthless dictator that oppresses the very people that he has responsibility for. On one hand, he imposes outrageous taxes on the people, but he also provides free daycare to everyone in the country. See, naughty and nice. Hugh Hefner has three girlfriend’s (Holly Madison, Bridget Marquardt and Kendra Wilkinson) that live with him. I’m sure they engage in immoral activities. Naughty, in two ways. But, the girls are helping out a senior citizen in his golden years and Hugh is providing advice and financial support for impressionable young women.

Nice.

Not that any of this will matter soon. Santa will more than likely have to eliminate the Naughty and Nice list because it discriminates based on behavior. Soon he’ll be just like the Easter Bunny.

Everyone gets something, for nothing.

Remembering The First Thanksgiving

2008-11-26T20:06:00.000-08:00

As we approach this 219th Official Thanksgiving Day I thought it would be appropriate to honor the very first Thanksgiving Day. Not the Thanksgiving ceremony that took place on September 8, 1565 when 600 Spanish settlers landed at what is now St. Augustine, Florida and immediately held a Mass of Thanksgiving for safe delivery to the new world and began the rush of illegal immigrants into this country. Nor will we be discussing the “day of thanksgiving” that was observed by 38 English settlers about 20 miles upstream from Jamestown, Virginia, the first being on December 4th in the year of our Lord 1619. This was years before they fought against us in the Revolutionary War and made us take this country for ourselves. I also will make no further reference to the Pilgrims at Plymouth in 1621 which date and celebration most of us associate with our modern day Thanksgiving and the rallying cry was “Can we please have some food?”. No, I’d like to go further back than that, like a few thousand years.

Back to Adam and Eve.

I feel that I can offer some insight into Adam and Eve for they had good and bad times for which we should all be thankful. Let’s reminisce shall we?

Picture Adam and Eve newly evicted from their previous home, or should I say garden? In the Garden of Eden things were right in the world. Not a care in the world and no one to care for other than each other. Simple instructions; go forth and tend the garden, multiply and replenish the earth. Eat anything that you want, just not from this one particular tree. But no, it’s from the one tree they did eat, I would have spent more time multiplying. Some say it was an apple that Eve first ate, I say banana. After all if you are going to have a great fall you have to slip on something and a banana seems obvious. I would imagine that the conversation was pretty short after Eve took that first bite, “Adam” Eve demanded, “eat this fruit or we won’t multiply anymore.” And Adam being a righteous, and strong man with convictions said, “Yes, dear”.

It can’t be easy moving from the ritzy neighborhood to the projects but that is exactly what Adam and Eve had to do. “By the sweat of his brow” Adam made his way on the earth.

Of course Adam had Eve to nag, I mean encourage him on. He faithfully tilled the soil and planted his crops. Then he went into his cave, laid down on his easy rock, stared at the wall and waited for the fruits of his labors to bloom.

“Adam?” said Eve.

“Yes Dear?” replied Adam.

“What are you staring at?” quizzed Eve.

“I’m starting at a picture that I drew on the cave wall.” said Adam. “I’m thinking that one day I can get the picture to move and then it can entertain me for hours.”

“I’m hungry Adam.” says Eve.

“What do you want me to do about it? I’m waiting for the stuff I planted to grow. You can eat then.”

“Adam”, demands Eve, “no more multiply unless you find me something to eat.”

“So,” says Adam, “do you want Mexican or Chinese?”

Eve gives Adam the look, the one most men get from their spouses. The look that proves that women are beautiful so that we’ll marry them, and dumb so that they’ll marry us. “I saw a lion the other day killing and then eating a lovely little lamb, get me a lamb and let’s see what the fuss is all about.” responds Eve.

So reluctantly he gets up from his easy rock and wanders off into the jungle.

Two days later Adam shows up all scraped and bruised. “What happened to you?” asks Eve.

“I was inventing track and field.” is Adam’s response.

Eve gives Adam the “do I have to ask you to explain look” and Adam obliges.

“I did as you said and went to get a little lamb.” He explained, “The lion didn’t appreciate me taking his meal and chased me. The chase involved running, jumping, climbing trees and throwing sticks at the lion. I’m calling it track and field. I think it will be very big when someone invents the Olympics.”

Not that everything Adam and Eve had to do was hard. Being the only people on earth solved the problem of choosing a mate. “Let’s see” thinks Adam, “I wonder who’s available tonight?” No problem, “Herrrrrrrrres Eve!” They didn’t need People magazine to tell them who the sexist man and woman alive were, it’s the only man and woman alive.

We all know that Adam invented hunting but he also invented hunting trips. Every 21 days Adam would grab his hunting stick and go off hunting for 7 days. He never killed anything on those trips but he also never missed one either.

Once Eve got the hang of fire she must have tried cooking everything within her reach. Adam of course was her tester. “Try this, just one bite, don’t like that do you, why are you doubling over, too much spice?” and “I haven’t seen the dog for awhile”, “you had him for lunch”.

Adam and Eve were the “first” in everything. The first fight, the first make up, the first birthday and anniversary, the first forgotten anniversary, inventing the first calendar so that you don’t forget the anniversary again, the first “you’ve overdrawn the checking account”, and of course the first “is that lipstick on your collar?” I have to imagine that Eve felt Adam spent too much time with his friends and not enough time with her. Since there were no other people on the earth Adam had only imaginary friends and had no idea what the issues were with his friends.

Receiving the commandment to multiply had to be both a blessing and a punishment. Adam, like most men, wanted to make sure that he kept that commandment. I acknowledge that his contribution was microscopic but it is still must have been an overwhelming responsibility. I would imagine that being the first man God man sure that all of his little swimmers were of Olympic quality. Knowing men, I’m sure that Adam was constantly in a state of “let’s multiply but not necessarily qualify.”

Eve of course contributed by inventing the headache. Somewhere between the first kid and the 50th she must have really been banging her head on some rock for eating that banana. First Planned Parenthood wasn’t around to give her “options” and since there were no kids on the earth she didn’t know what to expect. When the animals gave birth on the farm the whole idea of raising them looked easy. “Look Adam, that horse is giving birth to a new foal… it’s sooooo cute and, look, now it’s walking. Ahhh, Let’s have a baby!” Must have been a real surprise when it didn’t walk on day one.

Which lead to the invention of the diaper, also by Eve. Eve invented washing, ironing, cleaning, showers, baths and soap. She invented brooms, mops, dust pans, named dust “dust”, and started the first maid service. She was the first person to call her husband an idiot and most definitely introduced the silent treatment to mankind.

Adam invented showing up and patience.

Yes we should be thankful for our first mother and father. They did what they did without the benefit of modern conveniences such as telephones, electricity, and running water. They never ran to catch a bus, they were too busy running to catch dinner.

On this Thanksgiving Day we should take the time to honor the parents of all mankind. They had less than we did and still managed to get by happily.

Without Viagra.

10 Times Better Than Crap Is Still Crap!

2008-11-23T21:52:00.000-08:00

As we enter the holiday season I think that it is only appropriate that we take a moment and ponder upon one of the foods that we are expected to put into our mouth and there origin.

While having a conversation with a young man in my church the conversation turned to fruitcake. The conversation started because all of the women in our congregation were carrying around plates of cookies in the shapes of letters that spelled out the word SIMPLIFY. The cookies were part of driving, or should I say baking, the message into their heads to simplify their lives’. I was very impressed that some loving and caring woman had taken the time to bake all of these cookies for the 50 or so women in the group. It must have been a huge task baking all of those cookies. That’s over 400 cookies! A task that no man would ever undertake unless he could find something in it that would clearly benefit him. I was less impressed that I would never get the chance to have one of those cookies. No one, and I mean no one was sharing. A little un-Christ-like I think, especially as we move into the Christmas season. Not that I needed any cookies, cookies are about wanting, not needing. If I was super concerned about the nutritional value of cookies I wouldn’t be so upset. I'd like to be bombarded by cookies just once. Chocolate chip and those nice soft cookies with icing on them would be great.

We digress, well I do.

Where was I? Right, cookies. Cookies, or should I say the lack of cookies, quickly turned into a conversation with my young friend about fruitcake. He said that there is a German fruitcake that is, “like ten times better than fruitcake”.

Huh?

I absolutely hate fruitcake and I would suppose that it tastes like crap although I have never tasted crap. If you do the math, ten times better than crap is still crap.

That was the end of the conversation. Still, it’s Sunday afternoon and Sunday afternoon is when I usually have lots of time to think and sort out the little grey cells. That is usually when I pull out some of my bizarre thoughts and put them onto paper or the PC equivalent. I started thinking about my experience with fruitcake and its close cousin groom’s cake.

It has been my experience that groom’s cake is fruitcake tied up in a little piece of cloth with a nice thin ribbon. It’s handed out at the wedding and is traditionally tossed at the groom as he heads off on his honeymoon. When you’re young and you receive groom’s cake for the first time it’s natural to try and eat it. Just once. Then you start finding clever ways to get rid of it. Throwing it at the groom is as clever as I’ve been with it. If it’s set out long enough it can dent a car.

Groom’s cake can incorporate chocolate as an ingredient. Not at the weddings that I’ve been to. Of course when I was younger most of the weddings that I’d been to involved my grandma who got married eight times, and only lived to be 61. If you assume that she got married at 16 (we are from the south), she had the potential to be married 45 years. Let’s assume that she waited at least a year between each marriage, and that is a very pessimistic assessment, then she could have averaged 4.75 years per marriage. But I think that 4.75 is optimistic as most of the guys divorced her rather than her divorce them. She had some marriage free years besides birth to fifteen. From the divorce papers I’ve read she had a little bit of a temper and might have been abusive. But that’s only what the first seven said. Number eight actually lasted about 11 years and always had his tennis shoes at the doorstep in case he needed to make a fast exit. If Grandma were alive today she would be 88 years old, and on her 13th husband. God rest their souls.

Right, moving on. Groom’s cake is a tradition associated with the American south. I’ll have to admit that I wasn’t surprised by that revelation all. According to Wikipedia you can use cheesecake for groom’s cake. That would have changed my position if I’d been offered cheesecake. That I would eat. With its origins in the south I’m actually surprised that it does include ingredients like squirrel, possum, and road kill.

Fruitcake is made with ingredients that shouldn’t be in cake, namely fruit. It’s not just any fruit but candied fruit and/or dried fruit, nuts and spices, optionally soaked in spirits, you know, alcohol. Then you bake it. Yummy! It sounds like the chef that came up with the recipe was soaked in spirits. You can even order it by mail and I’m sure it’s now available on the Internet. Mass produced American fruitcakes don’t have alcohol but the traditional ones are saturated, yes saturated, with liqueurs or brandy and then covered in powdered sugar, both of which prevent mold. Is your mouth watering yet? In England it is often accompanied with cheese. Who came up with the bright idea that cheese would improve the situation? Has the FDA just looked the other way because I think there is a real crisis in our food chain?

Is mad cow disease an issue because we eat more beef than we do other meats? Why don’t we hear about “loony lambs disease” or “quaky duck syndrome”? Is there a “flaky fish” epidemic that we don’t know about? Who came up with the idea of feeding cow to cow in the first place? I sense cover up. Do they have advertisements in England with the tag line: “Mad Cow, It’s What’s for Dinner”?

I guess that the idea of eating your own species isn’t good for your health either. The more you eat the more you freak. That makes cannibalism a bad choice of diet. What was the first cannibal doing and thinking when he decided to eat his friends? Was it an issue of I’m starving to death and this is my only option to survival? Do cannibals prefer white or dark meat? Do we taste like chicken? Are we better broiled or roasted, baked or fried? Is there a glaze associated with eating humans? I guess that there is even a “social stigma” against cannibalism that it is used as propaganda against the cannibals. What an observation! Let’s use girls as an example. I have never once looked at a girl and said, “I wonder what she’d taste like in a white wine sauce”. Of course there is a social stigma, you’re supposed to love your fellow man, not have him as the third course.

Let’s move on. I’ve got to stop reading Robinson Crusoe. Opens up too many thoughts and questions.

I think that the message here is that “new and improved”, “100% better”, and “ten times better” are all phrases that shouldn’t be associated with bad food. In one of my earlier blogs I talked about the things I love and hate, I talked about the foods I hate. You can’t improve your hate for something except to hate it more. Ten times better than crap is still crap.

And it when it comes to fruitcake its still crap.

CondomNation

2008-11-14T21:38:00.001-08:00

I recently made two trips to Grangeville, Idaho, a small farming city about 65 miles SE of Lewiston, Idaho. My younger brother Tom has a place in Grangeville, 10 acres with barn, silo, granary, etc. He even leases some of his land to a real live cowboy named Jerry. Jerry keeps his moo cows there from time to time.

Grangeville is the boyhood home of Tom's father. His dad is one of 11 brothers that all served in the armed forces, 8 of them in WWII. There were 3 girls in the family, only one lived to be an adult. It all makes for a nice story and one day I'll tell it.

This is about something that happened on the ride to Grangeville.

In this day of mass transit, planes, fast cars and the freeway it's interesting to take an honest to goodness road trip. In this situation it means crossing over the Washington Cascades on Interstate 90, through Cle Elum to Ellensburg. At Vantage, that little place where the bridge takes you over the Columbia River you have to take a right instead of a left and hit Highway 26. It will take you to Othello, Royal City, Colfax, and Pullman, though not necessarily in that order.

I usually take the left, on to George, Moses Lake, Ritzville, and Spokane. Mostly towns that are on modernizing. Taking the right is like going back in time. Somewhere time stopped as the world passed by these small towns. It was going through one of these little towns and stopping for gas that I found a memory from my past.

The men's bathroom condom machine. And .75 cents each. Only .25 cents more than in 1975.

The names were the same, "Rough Rider", "Form Fitting", and "Lady 6". When I was an impressionable young man I remember looking at these names thinking that some girl was going to get real lucky. Just not with me.

I remember as a young man, somewhat interested in the opposite sex, seeing these dispensing machines in the local Exxon, Enco, and Union 76 station. This was in the days when a gas station was a service station. They could fix your tires, fix your car, they had those neat bells that alerted the attendant when you drove over them. They irritated the attendant when you went over them with your bikes. But we did it anyway.

The air was free for your tires, so was the water for your radiator. The guys who worked the station checked your oil, the air in your tires and washed your windows. Sometimes they checked the girls in the car. It was cool to be a motor head.

The condom dispensers were usually located above the urinal. That way they had a captive audience to advertise the merchandise to. Just .50 cents. And gas stations were open long hours. If the truth was to be told gas stations were the forerunner of the convenience store. Get a car, get a girl, get some gas, get a condom, get lucky.

And I never bought one. Ever. And it wasn't because I didn't have the car, it was partly because I never found the girl with the loose morals, gas ran about .60 cents a gallon and I could afford that, and I could afford the condom. I just had this moral commitment to saving sex for marriage. And I did so. But the condom machine was certainly tempting. As I grew older the concept of repentance became clearer and even though opportunities were there I'm proud to admit that I never gave in.

The reason that I never bought one is that I was always worried that some adult would walk in while I was buying one and give me that look. Worse, someone that I knew would walk in and give me a bad time, for the rest of my life. I'd be 50 years old and some person from my past would walk up to me and say in from of family, friends, church leaders; "remember that time you bought the condom when you were 16?" It would have happened. It's embarrassing to get change for a dollar from the attendant, "can I have 4 quarters please?". Yeah, he knows what you're going to do with those quarters. So I never did.

Some of the guys I knew that had one kept it in their wallet. It made a condom sized impression on their wallet. It never changed, I assumed that it never got used. Most of the guys that I hung around with couldn't get a girl to give them a second glance let alone talk to them. I knew they were not having sex, they couldn't, they were out with me and I wasn't.

When I graduated from High School I travelled around the United States on a Greyhound bus for 3 months visiting relatives. I could go anywhere in the US and Canada. I'd been cold before so I decided that I didn't need to go to Canada. I went to Idaho, Minnesota, Michigan, Upper Michigan, Missouri and Mississippi in addition to other states too numerous to mention. My Grandpa Bryant, my mom's father, had retired from the auto industry to Winona, Mississippi. I travelled from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan by bus, through Chicago, to get to Winona. On the bus from Chicago to Winona, I got on the bus only to find that I was the only person on the bus that needed a tan. That included the driver. I was 17, I had ID, I was pretty sure they would never find the body. "Look everyone. We got us a nice skinny white boy to entertain us."

It turned out to be a great ride. My seatmate was a huge black guy going to play football at a university in Mississippi. We had a great conversation of which I remember no details. I do remember thinking that his first words were going to be, "Hi, my name is Albert and I'll be your killer today." I had to imagine that no one was going to miss one white boy in Mississippi.

When I got off the bus in Winona my Grandfather hadn't arrived yet so I went to the bathroom at the bus stop/gas station. There was a condom machine there. I was disenchanted with religion at the time. I was on my own. The moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter aligned with Mars. Everything was perfect. I was finally going to buy a condom. I went outside to get change for a dollar.

Great timing, Grandpa was waiting. No condom.

We arrived at his house and he showed me my home for the next two weeks. It was a truck camper. His house was too small to accommodate me. Total privacy. Then he introduced me to the neighbors.

Or should I say the neighbor girls. Five dang cute blond southern girls ranging in age from 13 to 18. The oldest was named Diane. I'm seventeen. After introductions by Grandpa I was left alone with the girls. All five girls gazed at me like I was fresh meat and Diane looked at me and in a Mississippi drawl looked me over and said; "Your granddad said that you wuz a Christian boy so I guess that sex with all of us for the next two weeks is out of the question."

I really hated my grandfather right then.

God didn't want me to have that condom. And so the five girls of Mississippi tortured me for two weeks and didn't even know it.

And now, in this world of the Internet, cell phones, convenience stores and 24 hour Walgreen's you can get all of the condoms that you want when you want them. And we've gone further than that. You can get them for free from the local health departments, from the manufacturers, you can buy them in complete secrecy from the Internet.

Now we have to explain to our young kids what they are as the advertisements blast across the scene. Kids today know more about condoms that I know as an adult with years of education. Are these things in the boys restrooms in high schools, junior highs? What is in the girls bathroom that we should know about?

I miss the good old days. Gasoline for .60 cents, condoms for .50. Now that I'm having sex (with my wife) I don't need the condom. Moreover, one thing hasn't changed since the summer of 1976.

I'm still a little mad at Grandpa Bryant.

VIVA VIAGRA!

2008-10-29T18:30:00.000-07:00

I will admit that I have a lot of favorite things. I have a favorite shirt (short sleeve blue, faded and stained BYU Tee), favorite car (MGB GT), favorite color (British Racing Green), favorite author (C.S. Lewis) and favorite movie (It's A Wonderful Life). I have a favorite something that most would find hard to guess.

I have a favorite day of the week. But not just any specific day in the week. My favorite day only comes around every four years. It's not February 29th because that is a day in the calendar.

It's the first Wednesday after the first Tuesday in November in even years. It just so happens that it happens this year on November 5th... the day after national elections.

This day that I celebrate is the first day after a busy and intense political campaign. It starts out promising enough, candidates promise that they will not be negative, they only endorse a positive campaign. And then the first poll numbers come in.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN! Can you hear the trumpets blow. It's like an English fox hunt. They're off and running. And you and I are bombarded with the campaign ads. It's difficult to sort out the truth amongst all of the lies. But one thing I am sure of as I am sure the sun rises and sets every day.

The ads are gone the first Wednesday after the first Tuesday in November in election years.

I just long for a nice tame Viagra ad.

At least I'll know with Viagra if it lives up to promises. Not that I use it, I don't, can't afford it, can't afford the chance of an "erection lasting four hours" and "seeing my doctor". I can afford Niagara, the spray starch. Again, my wife says I don't need it. You know, the Viagra or the Niagara.

TMI. Moving on.

I'm so sick and tired of political ads that I'm looking forward to seeing ads for women's products. Yes, I admit it. I want to see an ad that promotes a pad with and without wings. Bring on the Tampax, the Stayfree Mini and Maxi-pads. Give me a lousy douche ad over a great McCain or Obama ad any day. I want to see women discussing their periods every fifteen minutes.

Digressing again.

I can't wait for the Santa Claus to slide around on his Norelco shaver in the snow. I love Billy Maes and can't wait to have him sell me Oxy Clean.

And the best part is no one is going to pay for a political ad saying "Thanks to those of you who voted for me" and a big "shove it" to those who didn't. We only get to know if the winner was lying in the future. What did Dukakis, Kerry, and Gore do as President?

I don't know, they were losers!

The economy wins! People will start buying again. We have ads for things we can buy and put on our credit cards instead of putting our money into people.

And no matter who wins or loses I'll win. The first Wednesday after the first Tuesday in November is my day every four years.

Now bring on the ads. VIVA VIAGRA!

How Fast Should I Repent?

2008-10-25T20:21:00.000-07:00

At 18 I worked cleaning carpets. I didn't necessarily aspire to that job, I kind of needed it. That need is related to my desire to eat regular meals. The truth is I was homeless. Now I never spent a night hanging curtains in my cardboard box or living under freeway overpasses. I just didn't have a place to call home for more than a week or two. And to be fair to my mom and step dad I chose to be homeless, but that's another story.

My employer was one of the greatest people that I have ever met. I never saw a man so happy in my life! Eugene was one of the most dedicated Christian men that I have ever met. To this day I remember his great example and how he lived what he believed. I think Eugene was also a minister. Now his wife was a very nice woman and I believe that she lived her religion, but I don't remember her being as happy as Eugene. I know that she irritated Eugene on many occasions but he dealt with it in such a way that I always had the thought that I would be that way when I got married. I guess it should have been a goal.

Now Eugene was a black man, or African American as is politically correct to say, and I'm happy to say that I never thought of him as black or as an African American. I just thought of him as a great guy and someone to look up to.

Eugene employed many people over the few months that I worked for him. None of them memorable except for one. I don't remember his name and I couldn't pick him out in a crowd. But he put me to shame, taught me a lesson that I will never forget.

At the time I worked for Eugene I had decided to give God some time off, a little vacation. To be completely honest I had been a faithful Christian for many years, since the age of five. But after 13 years as a practicing Pentecostal, member of the Assembly of God Church, and member of the Reformed Church of America, I felt that I had been abandoned by God in so many ways and decided that if God really needed me he would know where to find me. There was no Mapquest then so it would have been harder than you think. (At the time there was a move among Christians to find Jesus and I assumed that God if didn't know where he was then it would be harder to find me.)

Which brings me back to my co-worker. He was a new Christian. He had made mistakes in his life. As we worked together I found that I was working with a former addict and petty criminal, someone who previous to becoming a Christian had not strayed off the straight and narrow path but had never been on it. I'm not sure that he even knew it was there. I'll have to admit that he scared me a little bit. I was still learning about life and was very naive.

We were working on the carpets of a mobile home not far from where I live now, part of the equipment was a very long vacuum hose connected to the van outside. In the van was a gas powered motor and a propane powered heater to heat the water. It was a complex system of hoses, there was always the opportunity for an accident.

As I was feeding him the hose line and watching the monitoring equipment on the van I turned and saw him coming out of the door. As he moved through the door with the hose and cleaning wand he moved wrong and jammed the equipment and himself in such a way that he hurt himself. As soon as he did he let out a loud curse word that totally surprised me. It started with "s", ended with "t" and had a nice "hi" in the middle. What really surprised me was what happened next.

He disappeared.

What happened after that surprised me more. He hadn't really disappeared, he just had dropped on to his knees without considering his surroundings, without taking thought as to whether he was embarrasing himself or me in public and was asking God for forgiveness right then and there for cursing. He was living what he believed and I think God forgave him right then and there.

I like to store up my repentance. If I was to repent when I sinned that would take all of the fun out of repenting. I like to have lots of things to repent at one time that help to balance out the bad from the really bad. Say I've taken a pad of post it notes from work (hypothetically), which would be stealing which is bad. Well I like to have say, ten impure thoughts that I need to repent of at the same time. Ten impure thoughts and you stole the post-it notes. If I'm judging I'm thinking that the ten things that I didn't act upon kind of trump the one that I did and I'm even.

Speed repenting would create a whole new set of problems for me. If I was to start repenting when I sinned I might actually start to sin less because I would become more aware that I was sinning, especially on repeat sins. Some of my repeat sinning I've grown accustomed to, I have to give all of that up.

If I start to speed repent I might serve more, criticize less, look for the good in other people more, and heaven forbid... I might start to become Christ-like. Speed repenting would require me to talk to God more. If I want to be forgiven I'd have to start listening to my Heavenly Father. I might improve my relationship. All of these things might cramp what little style I have.
This kind of trend might make me likeable, feel better about myself, others might like to be around me, start talking behind my back with comments like; "he has a glow" or "I wonder what he's doing different because he is different". How about; "he sure lives his religion".

No, speed repenting takes the fun out of procrastinating. What kind of person wants to be obedient all of the time? What individual wants people saying nice things behind his back?

Who?

Maybe there was a reason that Eugene was always happy, seemed at peace with his place in the world. Maybe Eugene was a speed repenter and had taught that to my co-worker. Maybe Eugene was as Christ-like as I used to think I should be or possibly think I am. Who knows?

But it was thirty two years ago and some lessons are never too old to remember.

Maybe there should be more doing and less hearing.

If I Could Live To Be A Million...

2008-10-25T20:20:00.000-07:00

In 1969 The Moody Blues, one of my favorite bands, put out an album called "To Our Childrens Childrens Children". In genealogy terms that means my great grandchildren. On that album were two songs, "I Never Thought I'd Live to Be A Hundred" and I Never Thought I'd Live To Be A Million". Besides having a certain amount of reverence for the incredible idea of having two songs on the same album with the same tune with the same name except for the last word, it is a song that has always made me think, something that none of my teachers accomplished.

Would I want to live to be a million? Or five hundred?

Well, when I bring that question up in casual conversations most people that I talk to say no and that's before they even know the conditions.

So I pose the question to you. Would you like to live to be five hundred?

You would be in relatively good health, which means you're not a vegetable, you can walk, drive, converse. You would have all of your mental capacities including all of your senses. Diminished slightly but you'd have them.

You wouldn't look like a prune, more like Paul Newman or Audrey Hepburn. Before they died. You'd still have your personality, you'd be able to sing, learn new things, play the guitar if you could before, learn to play it if you didn't. Your memory would be as sharp as can be expected and you would behave much as you do now, with choices and consequences for those choices. You would experience love and hate, joy and sorrow, new life's and the deaths of friends. If you forgot to zip up after going to the bathroom you probably still would. If you forgot to zip down, well, maybe you don't want to be five hundred.

You have to make the decision that you might be without your spouse. Or accept the fact that over 470 years together might grate on each others nerves. You'd get tired of chicken and , sandwiches, may even steak. You'll have seen things that others have only read about in history books. You'll be history.

Any takers? I've only found one so far and we agreed to hang out together somewhere around age 125.

I'm in. I like this world. And despite every one's effort to say that we're destroying it I love this earth. And it's not the prospect of dying that makes me want to live to be five hundred. It's the prospect of living. I think that knowing that most of us won't be around much past 80 let alone 500 stops us from doing things that remind us that we are alive.

Besides, can you imagine how much money you can get from Social Security if you live to be 500? 428 years of monthly checks! I'd be happy just because I was getting more than I put in.

What? There won't be any Social Security? Well dream smasher, I'm setting the conditions and it will be still paying out checks to me in the year 2458. Global warming will have come and gone a dozen or so times, same for global cooling. We'll find that oil and other natural resources will be enhanced by new technologies to be efficient or we'll have come up with alternate methods of energy.

Somewhere around age 115 they'll start asking me to be on TV talk shows as the oldest man in the world. Kids will write me letters asking me what its like to be the oldest man. I'll have a steady source of income as a analyst/expert on talk and news shows. I won't be a Republican or a Democrat, I'll just be an American, kind of like right now. I'll finally be in the Guiness Book Of Records.

My children will still be around because they will choose to be 500 also. My wife, she'll go 3 years before me so she won't be lonely (But I don't think she wants to be 500). The last 30 years of my children's lives will be the toughest because I'll already be gone and they'll have to miss me. My class reunion will have an attendance of one after about 2048.

And through the centuries that I live some things will never change. I'll still have hope and faith, still like my old t-shirts, my favorite song will still be from 1973, and I'd still want to drive one of my old cars. Of course I might need the 500 years to get them restored. I would still prefer green over blue, stripes over solids, real potato's over potato flakes.

I'd never get tired of looking at the ocean and hearing the tide go in and out. I would never tire of having a child hold my finger as we walked, pulling my finger to get a laugh and falling asleep on my chest when the day just got too long for them. Flowers would amaze me, the smell of fresh cut grass would still set off memories, I'd still catch snow on my tongue and teach my grandchildren to make snow angels.

And some things would change. I'd withdraw from the rat race and become more involved in the human race. My home would be in a small town where I could know my neighbor a little better. My happiness would come from what I have, not from what I want.

So yes, I'd live to be five hundred years old and once I get close to that I might make the choice to be a million.

The Worst 9 Minutes Of My Life

2008-10-21T20:01:00.000-07:00

There are very few people that I have hated in my life. As I have aged I have hated less and liked more. Love is too strong of a word to describe my progression so we won't banter that word around. Let's just say that I don't think that I have enemies so much as I know people that I might cross the street to avoid.

Except one person. It's not the guy who used to put 10 hot dogs in the hot dog package when there were only 8 buns in bun package. Remember, in order for it to balance out you needed to buy 4 packages of hot dogs and 5 packages of buns. And then someone always didn't want a bun with their hot dog. I had anger problems.That problem was solved when the hot dog people got together for lunch with the bun people, (there was 40 people at he lunch) and worked out a solution. It took an additional 40 negotiators to come to lunch and sort out the problem but they did. The hot dog people took two hot dogs out of the package, created a new package, slapped on a new and improved label and voila! Buns and dogs evened out and the dog people kept the price the same.

No, I'm over that one. Same for the guy who installed locks at 7-11. I just accepted the fact that open 24 hours isn't reality when the original premise of your store was that you stayed open 7am to 11pm. Didn't know that one did you! I cut them some slack.

My angst is directed toward someone who deserves it. The inventor of the 9-minute snooze alarm.What did mankind do to you that you have cheated us out of that extra minute. Did your mother wake you up in the morning for school only to have you respond "just 9 more minutes"? What kind of sick and depraved world did you grow up in?

Or is this part of your plan? Are you an overachiever who jumps out of bed after the first 9 minutes ready to take on the world? Have you spent most of your life saying "if I had just one more minute" or "gimme a minute". I don't know what kind of world you live in but you must be a Democrat for no self respecting right leaning Republican would try to take a minute from me.

In Britain you'd be a Labour Party member and not a Torie, in Russia you'd be.... well a communist, because they still are communists even though they say they're not. If you lived in that environment I'd be immigrating or trying to take over the world.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Who are you? You have taken two many one minutes from my life!

And now for the mathematicians. If you live to be an average age of 74, and assume that you don't get an alarm clock until 18 (because I don't want to figure out how many days you were going to miss school, sleep in during summer, winter, mid-winter, spring vacations and assorted holidays), let's assume that you get up for Church on Sunday, Saturday if you are a Seventh Day Adventist, assume that you get 10 sick days a year, that by the time you retire you don't sleep in anymore because your internal alarm clock has taken control of your body, assume that you don't drink and and won't be in a situation where you wouldn't hear an alarm because you had passed out in some strangers house. Using those assumptions that means for 17,441 days in my life I have missed out on one minute of sleep. That tranlates to 17,441 minutes of lost sleep. See how tricky that math was? 17,441 minutes translates into 290.683333333333333333333 hours of lost sleep. 290.333333333333333333 lost hours translates into 12.111805555555555 days that I could have been sleeping. And I did factor in Leap Year.

Yes Mr. 9 minute snooze alarm guy you have robbed me of a minute of sleep and I hate you.
And if you think I don't hate you enough, I usually hit the snooze twice.

Do that math.

All Dogs Go To Heaven?

2008-10-20T20:59:00.000-07:00

There is travelling around the Internet, you know, that thing that Al Gore invented, a pictorial battle between two churches located across the street from one another. One is Catholic, the other Presbyterian. These churches each have sign boards in front of them and the Catholic's started it, put up a message that said "ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN".

Well all God-fearing-right wing-gun toting-bible-clingers like ourselves know that that ain't true and the Presbyterian's shot back with a message of their own; "ONLY HUMANS GO TO HEAVEN READ THE BIBLE". Sometime after bingo the Catholics dug deep into the scriptures and fired one back "GOD LOVES ALL HIS CREATURES DOGS INCLUDED". That seem to incense the Presbyterians because they responded with "DOGS DON'T HAVE SOULS THIS IS NOT OPEN TO DEBATE" (punctuation added).

The Catholics had had enough and the war of words escalated. They brought out their big guns, longer sentences. "CATHOLIC DOGS GO TO HEAVEN, PRESBYTERIAN DOGS CAN TALK TO THEIR PASTOR".

Now I'm the kind of guy who doesn't like to ruin a good story so I won't share the rest with you right now. Besides, I now know how to spell "Presbyterian" without looking it up in the dictionary. If you'd like the full e-mail let me know and I'll forward it to you.

I just thought that it was an interesting argument. It actually got me thinking. First I thought about Al Gore and the Internet. Then I thought about how I wasted my vote on George Bush instead of Al in the first election. And then I realized that the only reason I would have honestly voted for Al Gore is that his daughters were hotter than George and Laura Bush's daughter's.
I thought about that scripture that seems to back up the Presbyterian argument, the one that says "we should be holy, without Spot". So no dogs in Heaven. But I found the Catholic argument compelling. And then it hit me.

Would I actually want to have dogs in Heaven?

Being a former dog owner I feel that I am an authority on this. I'm the former dog owner that in a moment of incredible triumph convinced my wife that we should have a dog. It didn't hurt that the gift of jewelery was blinding her decision making ability. My logic and reason had left the building with Elvis. I owned a truck, it needed a dog.

My life begged for a dog. I had an easy chair, the aforementioned truck, a large fenced yard, and money for the dog food. We had dogs when I was a child. We had had big dogs and little dogs. Mostly little dogs. Dogs were easy. From everything I had observed dogs were truly a man's best friend.

So I got a dog. Gave her a cute name. Bought her a dog bed, a dog brush, a dog collar, some dog shampoo, and a dog leash. I bought a pooper scooper. It was a great pooper scooper. I just liked showing it off to friends so that I could say "pooper scooper". I was a little short on friends for a while. And then it happened...

I had a dog.

And if dogs are allowed to go to heaven we are going to be in real trouble with the landlord.

Something that I didn't know about dogs when I grew up. Dogs that live on two acres poop in the woods with the bears, not on my nicely manicured grass. Dogs on two acres have over 90.000 square feet that they call their own and they choose to poop in areas that most humans don't inhabit or travel.

Dogs on two acres don't leave paths throughout your nicely manicured lawn as they scurry about pooping from place to place in the woods. Dogs on two acres consider that two acres their domain and will defend it from other dogs that want to poop in their woods.

Dogs on two acres don't chew through your: power washer hose, building level, lawnmower pull handle, steering wheel of the borrowed lawn tractor, shoes left outside, lawn furniture, handles to your wheelbarrow, and small children that wander into your yard. Dogs on two acres are content to use the two acres to stay entertained. Dogs in fenced yards bark just to hear themselves bark.

Heaven will be a mess with dogs. Let's face it, our mansions on high are going to be in trouble if all dogs go to Heaven. Now I would argue that this would be the case if only "some" dogs went to heaven. And it doesn't stop there. Consider what else could be in Heaven.

Cats.

They don't serve much of a purpose here on earth so let's imagine what they would be like in Heaven. Heavenly hairballs, shedding, litter-boxes that don't get cleaned out when they should. Cats lead to another problem. If you’re going to allow cats in Heaven then you have to allow:

Mice... and rats, moles, possums, skunks, badgers, elk, deer, bison, hippos, those little invisible things that dogs chase while you're not watching them. Let's face it, allowing dogs into Heaven just opens up a real Pandora's box of problems. If you let one in you have to let them all in and I'm not sure that I'm ready for that responsibility. I plan on going to Heaven to rest on my laurels and sing hymns. If I constantly have to stop resting and singing to let the cat out or take the dog for a walk then Heaven isn't going to be heaven. I'm looking forward to the rest.

And here is a little thought, what about all of animals that we've shot for sport, just for the fun of it. Don't you think they might have an attitude? What do we do with the whales? Will there be a tub big enough? No, we've gone too far. I'm still having trouble with knowing that some humans will be in Heaven. I don't want to be worrying about the...

Elephants.

Of course I have no problem with all dogs going to %&**. Let the devil clean up a mess or two and maybe he'll be nice and leave us alone.

I Y'am What I Y'am

2008-10-19T18:47:00.000-07:00

Everything I learned about self-confidence I learned from cartoons on Saturday mornings.

Cartoons are a cultural melting pot; cartoons have been the leading medium to tolerance and acceptance. Where else can you find cows, ducks, oversized mice, rats, and other assorted creatures getting along so well? By the way, they also can drive, play instruments, sing, build houses and boats, anything we can do as humans they can do. How many mice do you know that have a dog for a pet and another dog for their best friend?

But I digress. This isn't about tolerance. I'm not very tolerant.

Let’s talk about confidence. The king of self confidence has to be Popeye the Sailor Man. You know the guy. Sailor, toot toot, spinach, big muscles (the “cles” is pronounced “culls”). Popeye was a good looking guy, if the light was right (and you couldn’t count on the light). His main object of affection is Olive Oil (who has gained in popularity recently as a food additive), a razor thin anorexic wafer of a women who is about as attractive as two monkeys eating bugs off of each other’s private parts. His challenger for the love of Olive Oil is an overweight beast of a man named Bluto. Bluto is actually less attractive than the two monkeys. J Wellington Wimpy is his overweight, panhandling, burger obsessed friend. Mostly used for comic relief.

If you have seen one Popeye cartoon you have seen them all. Popeye wants Olive Oil, Popeye makes a date with Olive Oil, Bluto tries to break up the date, Bluto beats up on Popeye and just when the end is near for Popeye a can of spinach falls out of the cupboard, off a shelf, out of the grocery bag, off a truck, is sitting on the bottom of the ocean, lake, stream, in the belly of the fish, the whale, the dolphin… well you get the picture. Popeye eats the spinach, gains super strength (a modern day Samson) and beats the living daylights out of Bluto. Olive Oil exclaims “Oh Popeye!” gives him a kiss and a hug and all is well in their cartoon world.

Wimpy is inserted into the story always searching for, begging for or having found, is eating a hamburger. Popeye sings that song at the end and all is well with the world. It is Oscar winning and incredible heart tugging dialog. But what do I remember about Popeye? He always managed to say “I am what I am” but more like an old seadog; “I Y’am what I Y’am”.

And therein is the great message. This overly buff, short, ugly sailor with an obsession for overly skinny girls with no apparent figure just liked who he was.

Will America: I Y’am what I Y’am.

I love cooked spinach, I tolerate raw spinach. But if I had my way I wouldn’t eat raw spinach ever again and if I was God I would make raw spinach one of those foods that you could only eat cooked because it would just be awful raw. Of course, I think that is the way God did it anyway.
I’m 50 years old and I know what I like and what I love. I know what I will tolerate and what I hate. I’ve got 50 years experience. I’m past the point of thank you bites and no thank you bites.

About food; I’m old enough to know that just because a food has a fancy name doesn’t mean that I don’t know that foods I hate are in it. Tell me the main components (ingredients) of a dish and I know whether I’ll like it, love it, hate it, or just be plain indifferent. There is a hidden meaning in this paragraph. Life is too short to eat something that you don’t like. No one should tell you what that you have to eat something and if you do it only pacify them then your life is wasted.

I’m pretty sure that I would hate the taste of dog crap even though I’ve never even come close to trying it. I’m pretty sure that most humans feel the same way. I’m absolutely sure that if you try to serve up a dish with an ingredient like dog crap to the public that they wouldn’t order it and would even go so far as to say the chances of that being a successful restaurant would be nil. So don’t try to convince me that you can take what I hate, mix it together with things I love and come out with a winning dish that I’ll be packing the leftovers up for the next day’s lunch at work.

I love to drive. Give me the choice of being the driver, riding shotgun or shoving me in as the backseat passenger and I choose driver every hour, every day, every week. You could bury me in a bucket seat and I’d prefer the seat with the seat controls on the left (unless it’s a British right hand drive and then I choose controls on the right). I don’t like being anyone’s passenger. If I could drive the bus that I occasionally have to ride I’m wishing that I was the bus driver. I wouldn’t own a Yugo or most German cars but I’d drive them if the only other choice was to ride in them as a passenger. If I ever ride a camel with two humps I call first hump.

I like cheap tennis shoes. I don’t like to pay much over $20 for my shoes. I don’t know if they look good or not. I’m just into comfortable. Same view on t-shirts. I don’t like to buy or wear t-shirts advertising Old Navy, The Gap, or Abercrombie & Fitch. They aren’t paying me to advertise for them, in fact, they charge me extra to do so. I’ll advertise a car on a shirt; that’s a cultural thing. I don’t know when the moment comes that you part with a favorite shirt. It’s somewhere between holes in the hem at the bottom and the collar barely hanging on. My jeans preference is 501 Levi’s. I like cuffed pants over no cuffs with my dress and suit pants. Pin stripes over solids, black suits over blue.

My favorite color is British Racing Green. I’m not fond of pink or purple. My favorite song has been “Clouds” by David Gates (of Bread) since 1973. My favorite singers/bands are Bread, The Moody Blues, The Eagles, Cliff Richard, The Beatles, Crowded House, Paul McCartney, and The Corrs, although not always in that order. To me the Rolling Stones just got lucky. Five of the ugliest blokes in the British Isles that don’t seem to know more than 6 guitar chords, and a 40 plus year career. Luck.

You cannot convince me that rap is music, that most of today’s music is music, and that any movie put out since It’s A Wonderful Life showed up on the silver screen in 1946 can compete with the greatness of that film. None of today’s actors capture my attention or my heart as does Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, William Powell, Audrey Hepburn, and others from the golden age of film. But I grew while rock 'n' roll was a child and while the movie greats were still alive.

I like women who leave things to my imagination. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who makes you wonder what kind of girl she is. Today’s girls are like Las Vegas lights. You know exactly what they want even though they say they don’t. I'm happy with my wife. She stills leaves things to my imagination.

I’m not homophobic. I have no fear of gay people and no aversion to someone that is. I don’t discriminate against someone who is gay. I just do not agree with the lifestyle choice and do not support special rights for someone that is gay. I believe that if gay was okay the big guy upstairs would have outfitted males and females with duplicate plumbing. Should I tell you what I think about gay marriage?

And I’m not absolutely sure I’m always pro-marriage between a man and a woman. It’s hard. You have to stop being selfish. You have to commit to someone. Men commit to a woman thinking that she thought he was perfect prior to marriage and found out that she’d been making a list of things that she wanted to improve. Women commit to someone who was happy to get a girlfriend to go home with every night for the rest of his life. Women are complex and men are simple. You buy a sexy outfit to turn him on and get him in the mood, women require expensive jewelry. And here is how simple we are as men; sexy outfit not required to get him in the mood. You have to put your spouse’s needs before most of yours. Kids get in the way of having regular sex, marriage gets in the way of sex. Some dreams die only to be replaced with other dreams. All kids disappoint at some time, all kids make you proud at some time. Some kids are ugly, some are beautiful. Mine are all beautiful. And yet we love them, hurt with them, laugh with them, ache for them. Some people believe in marriage and commitment, others use it as a disposable relationship.

But here is the thing. I don’t hate anyone. I just disapprove of lots of things. For instance, baseball purists say that the designated hitter is the worst thing that ever happened to baseball. Seriously? Have you ever seen a pitcher hit? They don’t have low batting averages because they’re in a slump. Most pitchers have been in a batting slump since they picked up a baseball as a child.

Dolphins are not the smartest animals on earth. Humans are. Of course, that depends on the human. Now Hitler was not smart. Attacking Russia in the winter is not smart. Nor was Stalin. Killing your own isn’t smart. Pol Pot was stupid too but to his defense the name he got stuck with was kind of a handicap. If dolphins were as smart as some would have us believe they would have created some kind of weapon to eliminate all of the sharks and whales in the seas, leaving a few for Sea World. That way they could have all of the fish. See, not smart. Humans have found ways to spend time underwater for long periods of time. It’s called a submarine. Dolphins still have to come up for air at fairly predictable times. Dolphins aren’t even close to coming up with a way to live on land. Chimpanzees only look like they have potential. Take humans out of the equation and they are still just trying to find the best tree for bananas.

Time out is for sports and not children. Discipline is for children. Who came up with the idea that a child in need of time out should only spend one minute per year of age in said time out? In prison they call that an early release. What a 5 year old child learns is that 5 minutes in time out is time worth doing the crime. I believe that a misbehaving child will die of malnutrition before I let them out of “time out” without a sincere apology and a hug and a kiss (so they know I love them). Interested in what I think about parole, sentencing to multiple life terms, probation? Yeah not in favor.

I don’t think we’ve had any good politicians and certainly not any great ones since Abraham Lincoln. I’m in favor of “We the people” which translates to “less politicians” and ”less government”. I think that if you’re going to take welfare money you should work cleaning streets and parks. You do that enough days and you’ll get an education and a job. If you live on welfare you shouldn’t have a pet, have a bigger TV than me and anything more than basic cable. Your Christmas should be smaller than mine. I think that welfare should have an expiration date. Food stamps should only buy basic food staples. If you’re going to have babies and be on welfare you should pay for the diapers. Keep having kids while on welfare and your benefits should be reduced. I don’t have a problem drug testing anyone on assistance.

I’m for school uniforms and outlawing gangs. I believe in the “F” grade. I think that for some people General Education is a waste of time and that they should be in a trade or a tech school. I say pay the good teachers good money and get rid of the bad ones. I think that kids should look at a teacher with a little awe and some healthy fear. Being sent to the principal’s office should have some meaning put back into it. I think that if you cheat you fail that assignment. You cheat three times, you fail the class.

I’ve seen the kind of art supported by public money as a requirement of law. I’ll be honest, the drawings on my fridge over the years are worth more than the crap I’m forced to pay for through taxes. If most of the public art is indeed art then I think we should all get a refund or at least get paid to not look at it.

If public transportation can’t serve the public or only supports a small percentage of the public then I don’t believe in giving them more money. It’s like putting a turbo on a Yugo.

There. I Y’am what I Y’am. This isn’t my all inclusive list. It’s just some healthy ramblings. I think that if you slowed down a bit and considered your life you could come up with some of the same conclusions. Happiness is truly wanting what you have and not having what you want.

Be you. You’ll be happier.