BDGJM

Gary Cooper Was In The Movie, Too?

2012-01-07T16:43:00.001-05:00

Sometimes a situation comes into your life that makes you realize how much you have taken something for granted. It’s the kind of thing that makes you stop and smell the roses, tiptoe through the tulips, mingle among the magnolias, and carefully caress the cactus flowers. It’s the kind of thing that makes a man thankful to be alive. You guessed it. I’m talking about Western movies.

I am currently taking a class in American Cinema. The professor has a list of movies and you select movies from the list to watch and write about them. For the purpose of the class, I have to analyze the film direction, storyline, and cinematography. I have to use such terms as iris shot, parallel action, and mise-en-scène. In spite of such under-the-microscope analyses, I am still able to actually watch and enjoy some of the films. Given that the focus is currently on Western films, I get to enjoy it even more.

It is hard for me to succinctly explain what it is about Westerns that appeals to me. Maybe it’s because it’s the best way to see the good guys versus the bad guys where the good guys (almost) always win. Maybe it’s the underlying themes of medieval chivalry that weave through the characters such as The Lone Ranger. Then again, I also loved the character or Rooster Cogburn in True Grit who had a crust as thick as Texas toast. Maybe it’s because I was named after a Western movie. Apparently, my Mom and Dad liked the movie Shane hence my name. I am quite happy with that since my Dad also likes The Creature From The Black Lagoon.

Today, I had the pleasure of watching High Noon. This is one the the great ones and I had never seen it before. Gary Cooper plays the local marshall. The movie starts with the marshall getting married to a very lovely lady played by none other than Grace Kelly. The newly wedded couple is getting ready to leave for their honeymoon which coincides with the marshall’s retirement. These plans are completely derailed when everyone receives news that a man the marshall had convicted has been pardoned and is due to arrive back in town on the noon train.

Now I understand the “codes of the West” and a sense of duty and all of that. But, c’mon Marshall Kane. You are in your early 50’s and you have just married a 21 year old Grace Kelly. I don’t mean to be indelicate but I respectfully suggest you have bigger (and prettier) fish to fry. If that isn’t enough, everywhere you walk Tex Ritter can be heard singing “Do Not Forsake Me. O, My Darling”. To top it all off, there isn’t one single solitary man who is willing to go to the train depot with you. All those years you have been protecting every man, woman, and child in this town and this is the thanks you get on your wedding day and retirement party. I may be selfish, Marshall. Nevertheless, I’d be tempting to grab my gorgeous wife (reminder: it’s GRACE KELLY) and leave town with mistletoe fastened to the seat of my pants.

I won’t give away everything because this is a movie worth watching. I will tell you that the marshall’s newly wedded wife proved to be quite a woman. I will also tell you that the marshall put his wife on a coach and road with her out of town as the credits roll. Why did he do this? Is it because it is such a stereotypical Western ending. I don’t think so. I think he finally realized that 1 minute past high noon was half past time to get on with his honeymoon. After all, IT WAS GRACE KELLY!

It’s 2012 (And I Feel OK In Spite Of It)

2012-01-02T15:53:00.001-05:00

Well, 2012 is finally upon us. I realize that 2012 is a subject that has prompted a lot of people to think that we will see TEOTWAWKI (The End Of The World As We Know It). Many further felt this was evidenced by the fact that R.E.M. disbanded in 2011. This event made me uneasy as I thought they had already disbanded some 10 years previously.
Still, we have some good things to look forward to in 2012. First of all, 2012 is a leap year. That means I get one extra day to pay bills and exercise. I might celebrate the occasion by buying a Slurpee. I’ll just have to figure out how many kettle bell lunges will be required to work it off. Other events include new musical output from longtime acts. On the rock front, Van Halen and Black Sabbath are both promising albums of new material. Van Halen is even promoting a tour in 2012. I take this as a positive sign that David Lee Roth has finally allayed his fears that Eddie Van Halen has another kid that no one knows about and is planning to turn the band into a family act. With reunions such as these, I am sure that Ricky Martin will inevitably sign a deal with Menudo and launch the “C’MON! SERIOUSLY?!” tour.
If you don’t want to hear new music, you can possibly look forward to going to a movie. 2012 will offer yet another Twilight film so that we may continue teaching young women that there is no hope for a lasting romantic relationship with a man who has a pulse. But wait, there’s hope. If you disliked Thor and loathed Captain America: The First Avenger, don’t fret. You get to see them again in The Avengers with Iron Man. OK, there’s a little hope. We can all even look forward to a 3-D release of Titanic. After all, what better way to appreciate Leonardo Dicaprio’s one dimensional performance than by wearing funny glasses that allows the viewer to see how flat something is from more than one angle.
OK, now that I have looked upon this schedule of events, I think I might forget about a concert or a movie. Instead, I will just stay home and relax with the new video game system I just got for Christmas. All I need to do is to clear the levels and enjoy hours of game play. This will be easy once I can negotiate my game controller. This controller includes (but is not limited to):

Two joysticks
One directional button (not to be confused with the joysticks).
Four individually colored round buttons
Two bumper buttons
Two trigger buttons

When you see the enemy alien approaching (using the radar map on the side of the screen), all you have to do is:

Use one joystick to face the alien.
Use the other joystick to aim your weapon. This is after you have hit one of the color buttons to choose the right weapon.
Hit the trigger button to fire your weapon. This is not to be confused with the bumper button.

Now how hard can THAT be? I’ll let you know once I am able to get my soldier guy through a building without getting him killed. The good news is the controller is wireless so I can hurl it farther across the house when I get killed for the 17th time in 3 minutes. Here’s to another relaxing year. Happy New Year, everybody.

I’m On My Weigh

2011-12-11T15:59:00.001-05:00

I realize that I am no spring chicken. As I have reached the age of 45, with 46 coming ahead like a toll stop on the New York State Thruway, I’d say I am one rooster who has been through a few harsh winters. However, I have also once again come to the harsh realization that there is something that is holding me down more than my age. It’s my weight.

I am really not sure what it is that has made me take stock, once again, of my obesity and lack of fitness. It could be that I have seen several friends and colleagues not much older than me pass away in the last year. While that is a valid motivator, I probably should be more honest. The truth is my daughter is engaged to be married next summer. Her fiancé is of Scottish decent. This means they are planning a traditional Scottish wedding. This further means that Yours Truly will be walking my beautiful daughter down the aisle…in a kilt. It may be vain of me. I would just prefer to be more fit (and look more fit) as I escort my daughter at an outdoor wedding.

There is also another reason other than the issue of my self image about my appearance. The other factor in this matter is that I am sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I am tried of going to the taco place by myself and ordering 10 tacos and a steak flatbread sandwich and being asked: “Is that for here or to go?” I realize that the otherwise very kind attendant is most likely just following a rote procedure but it’s hard not to be insulted by that.

Due to my work schedule combined with some college classes that I am taking, I realized that time management was a factor in making this change. It seemed difficult at best to me to making regular trips to the gym around an already demanding weekly schedule. Because of this, I invested in some equipment for exercise (kettle bell weights and a stability ball). I also invested in some DVD that would help me put these items to their most effective use. My start into this routine was briefly sidelined by a shoulder injury while I was waited for said fitness items to be shipped to my house. The irony was not lost on me.

As I nursed my shoulder injury, I reviewed the DVD’s I bought. I kept hearing words like target weight and target heart rate. I find this obsession with targets a bit worrisome. I realize that target weight is a goal. Still, speaking of targets is tough for someone who has never been good at darts or archery. My sons still won’t come near me with an apple. Once bitten, twice shy they keep telling me.

My shoulder started to get into a place of healing where it was safe and reasonable to begin using the equipment. This meant I also had to use three other important items to help me work toward my goal: a scale, a marker, and a calendar. I got on the scale and my weight was literally flashing before my eyes. Seeing this value wasn’t as hard as writing it on the calendar with my marker – 285 lbs. The only thought this figure could put into my head was that I was presently as large as the perimeter of Atlanta. I guess it’s better than taking GA – 400.

Sometimes, You Just Need An Outlet.

2011-11-06T19:56:00.001-05:00

I must admit, I have been truly blessed over the past couple of years. I have been working at my current job in technical support for two and a half years. This job has proven to be very rewarding and educational. In addition, I began pursuing a four year college degree by taking some courses online. I started my educational pursuit a year ago. In addition to this, my wife has also begun her pursuit of a higher education. I have come to believe that it is a blessing to have a job. I know this because I have been through more than one period in my forty-five years when I have been unemployed for a long stretch of time. A person can get a job via a newspaper ad, a referral from a friend/colleague, or attending a job fair and shaking a lot of hands. A career, on the other hand, is something to be obtained through hard work. It has to be earned. So, to reiterate, I have a job and an opportunity to further my career by pursing an education. I am TRULY blessed.

Now , I don’t mean to be ungrateful to be the beneficiary of such huge blessings. Having said that, this also has been known to consume a lot of free time that my wife or myself could use for ….recreational activities. Lately, my interactions with my wife involve her making appointments on behalf of our kids or me (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah! I know. What’s the difference?). Another example of recent interactions would entail my wife whispering in my ear to check my email for something she sent me. True to her word, my wife has sent me a research paper she has composed for me to review and help her edit. These interactions go on week after week. As we neared our 18th wedding anniversary, my wife and I agreed to arrange some time to remove ourselves from the great bounty of blessings in our lives. This is strictly a temporary measure to disconnect from the blessings and re-connect with one another. After all, life does go on.

Our getaway destination was facilitated by our older daughter who is engaged to be married next year. She went to a bridal show this past summer. As a result, she got a voucher for a king suite at a hotel in the beautiful Finger Lakes area. This meant that our night at the hotel and the breakfast the following morning were entirely complimentary. As the day of our getaway got closer, I searched for ideas for activities we could do together. The Finger Lakes Region of New York is full of tourist spots to check out. My wife and I were looking forward to our getaway and spending some quality time together. We just need to find the right activity for our quality time. We needed an outlet.

Within less than 5 miles from our getaway hotel, we found our outlet. It was not just ANY outlet for a happily married couple to spend their quality time. It was THE outlet. That’s right, folks. The missus and I went to Waterloo Premium Outlets. This was a MALL of outlet stores located in Waterloo, NY. There were all different kinds of stores there. There was a wide selection of clothing stores for every man, woman and child you know. There is a selection of shoe stores for discount prices on acquired kicks. There was even a store that offered discount prices on women’s AND men’s cosmetics. I know that men’s cosmetics exist because I got my self a rather nice shaving kit (hypoallergenic no less). There was a sports memorabilia store and a book warehouse store RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER. What can I say? My wife and I had a mutually enjoyable shopping experience (a challenge within itself).

Alas, our anniversary weekend getaway came to an end (as all good things must). My wife returned to making yet another appointment on my behalf. I, likewise, returned to discover that my wife would lovingly attach another research paper in my email. We have not forgotten the blessed situation in which we live. Still, we long for the time that we can once again disconnect from our daily duties and re-connect and return to our outlet. OK, that metaphor was mixed up and made no sense but you get the point.

Thanks A Lot, Richard. Yer Cool!

2011-11-01T21:47:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, you meet a person that makes an impression that lasts a very long time. Sometimes, that impression lasts a lifetime. It would be too easy for me to say that I don’t do impressions; I do humor writing. The problem is, I know the former part of the preceding statement to be false. Others might argue that the latter part is also false.

1991 was a rough year for me. I had just endured the end of my first marriage and was living with a couple I knew from church. The wife of the couple was the church’s receptionist. On Wednesday nights, I would hang out at the church a couple of hours before service since the couple’s home was about an hour away. We’d hang out, attend the service, and go home afterward. In the hours prior to the service, I would often sit and play my guitar to pass the time. After the service was over, a young, bearded man approached me. He extended his hand and said “I’m Richard. I rather enjoyed your playing earlier”. I thanked him for his generous compliment and introduced myself. He mentioned that he owned a 6 string acoustic as well as a 12 string. He offered to bring his 12 string to church at the following service. I told him I looked forward to it and we both went home for the night.

Richard and I would meet rather often over the next year with our guitars. We played everything from Johnny Cash to John Prine to John Michael Talbot. When we got tired of songs by people named John. We’d gravitate toward the silly side. We always include an old Ray Stevens favorite named “Fred”. “Fred” was a song about a dog that was typically hard to finish because the lyrics made us laugh so hard. As we got to know one another. We discovered that we both had a love for puns. Richard and I would trade puns back and forth every time we saw one another. Sometimes, it was done in a manner of two blues musicians riffing in a call-and-response pattern. Other times, we were clearly trying to top one another. We usually wouldn’t stop until the other began laughing so hard he couldn’t continue.

I would also come to find Richard to be a model of chivalry and generosity. I didn’t have a car when I first met Richard. He gave me many rides. He offered me many meals as he loved to cook. Whenever anyone thanked Richard, the response was always the same - “You’re always welcome”. If you did Richard a favor, the response was also always the same - “Thanks a lot. Yer cool. You really are.”

Over the years that followed, Richard and I would go through some changes. We both got married. Richard even drove my wife and me to the hospital when she was in labor with our youngest child. One night, my wife got an email with some devastating news. Richard was in the hospital and had been diagnosed with leukemia. We visited with Richard and his wife while he was in the hospital. We, of course, traded puns as we enjoyed one another’s company. Some time later, I shook his hand. We made tentative plans to go out for a bite after he got out of the hospital.

Richard passed away a few short days after our visit. My wife and I went to his memorial service. There was a lovely display table of many mementos. What caught my attention the most was his guitar that was displayed on the table. My mind went back to when we played together many years before. Richard and I, unfortunately had the same aggressive attack on our instruments. As a result, we broke strings often. It was always the same string. Richard and I were constantly replacing the G string for each others guitars. After the memorial service was over, I went back to the display table and gazed at the guitar. As I stared and remembered, I noticed something about the guitar. The G string was missing. You could even see the windings in the tuning machine where the string broke. I couldn’t think of a more fitting tribute for my friend. Thanks for all you've done, Richard. YER COOL!

Soft Shoulder Ahead

2011-10-15T16:29:00.002-04:00

I do like to think I have a healthy perspective as far as my personal limitations are concerned. My body has gone through some significant changes over the years. Some of them are self inflicted. Others are just evidence that I am not as young as I used to be. In 1986, I was 20 years old. I had finished an enlistment in the United States Navy and I was certain I would be the next Paul Stanley (with slightly less face paint). I didn’t look like a body builder but my body was somewhat toned due to my recent military tenure. I was ready to make my mark on the world with a guitar and a blow dryer (as I said, it was the 80’s).
Time, of course, has a way of changing things. My guitar playing is sorely out of practice. I have long since retired the blow dryer. I didn’t so much retire it as it eventually died of boredom. My hair is now much shorter and greyer. I am also a little over 100 lbs heavier than I was in 1986 (file that under self inflicted). The effects of time and the excessive weight have had its consequences. I also have sleep apnea and high blood pressure. My rock star blue eyes now have the assistance of bifocal lenses. Let me put it this way – I have all but given up hope for a career as an Atlanta Braves home run hitter. Don’t work Hank Aaron. Your legacy at Turner Field is safe from the likes of me. Nevertheless, I try to take some of it in stride. I may not be as strong or as fast I used to be. But, I still have a chance to lose the excess weight and get myself in better health. I know I can’t completely turn the clock back on my physique. I CAN however wind up my figurative watch a bit better. In spite of the fact that many of you are too young to know what it means to wind a watch. My ego is not too bruised these days.

Recently, however, my ego has been a bit harmed due to a recent injury to my shoulder. I initially thought I slept wrong on that arm. I figured a good hot shower and a nice massage from my lovely wife would help to correct this. I thought incorrectly. The pain remained to the point where it shot from my right shoulder blade all the way down to my right elbow.To move or rotate my arm was would prove to be painful. To lift my right hand over my head would prove to be excruciating.

I tried to surmise what caused this injury since I had ruled out sleep position, My wife and daughter reminded me that I had carried a window air conditioner from my daughter’s room to the curb in front if the house. Both my daughter and my wife insisted that I see an orthopedic doctor. My daughter had also suffered a shoulder injury that had to be surgically corrected. Given that, I relented to her recommendation and my wife made an appointment for me. In the days that followed, my daughter helped me with some physical therapy (since she knew it all too well) and insisted I put an ice pack on my shoulder each night for a brief bit. My family has graciously endured my daily groaning. My daughter showed even greater patience and understanding as I referred to her as Lady Torquemada (due to the exercises and ice packs she provided me).

The appointment finally came today. I was greeted by a nurse practitioner. She wore this lovely royal blue blouse. She had long flowing hair (imagine Farrah Fawcett without a curling iron). She wore dangling, but tasteful earrings. I thought to myself: maybe this wont be as bad as I imagined. I thought incorrectly. Nurse Farrah-Pretty-Blue-Blouse asked me some questions about my injury. She then began to move my right arm into a variety of positions. These were simple range of motion tasks. It was somewhat painful when she rotated my arm. When she placed my arm behind my back and gently pushed upward, it felt like a dagger piercing my shoulder blade. The pain I felt was too obvious for me to hide as my wife and kids who were sitting in the exam room with me. Nurse Farrah-Pretty-Blue-Blouse recommended physical therapy for me. She then offered me an injection of cortisone. She said this would reduce the inflammation after a few days. She pulled the needle backward to South Alabama and met my shoulder in New York. Once inside my shoulder, she decided to make stops in Syracuse, Utica, and Schenectady before making its way back to Rochester. Finally she gave me the referral form that indicated I had a rotator cuff injury with nerve impingement.

So it was now official, I have injured my shoulder doing physical work and was treated with a steroid. Maybe I AM to be a professional athlete after all. Watch your back, Mr. Bonds. I may just go for home run 763. I only have to hit….763 home runs to make it happen.

An Exercise in CATharsis

2011-09-26T17:56:00.000-04:00

I have told a few people in my life that I am not exactly a cat lover. I actually prefer dogs. I could list quite a few reasons for this. However, for the sake of this writing, I’ll just list several short ones. This also gives me an excuse to bring back one of my favorite features of my writing – the bulleted list.
The reasons why I am not a huge fan of cats include, but are not limited to, the following:

For most of my childhood years, we had a dog around the house. Dogs are great companions. Dogs can lift your spirits on your worst day. Dogs can provide great home security. I know this because we once had a Doberman Pinscher named Rickets. Along with being one of the most loveable creature on four legs, Rickets made any would be intruder know it was wise not to mess with her. A cat would just glare at a burglar for waking him up and do a figure eight around the burglar’s legs.Such irritating behavior will only provoke a burglar to steal even more of your precious belongings then sue you for the cost of a lint roller to get the fur off the cuffs of his pants.
Dogs are in my opinion far more responsive to their owners. You have a short period of adjustment for a time for a dog to get used to its name. From that point forward, that dog knows its name as much as you know yours. Naming a cat is pointless, I have four cats in my house: Snip, Two Face, Sonic, and Paige. Snip and Two Face have been with us for more than ten years. Sonic and Paige have been with us for more than five years. Nevertheless, the only name they respond to is KITTYKITTYKITTYKITTYKITTY! Even then, then will only respond because they assume it is time to eat. I challenge you to go out on your front porch and say KITTYKITTYKITTYKITTYKITTY! You will soon be surrounded by twenty strange cats doing a figure eight around your legs. I have a personal theory that Ivan Pavlov initially began his research in conditioned reflex by using cats. He only started using dogs because the confounded felines kept playing with the little bell.
Dogs tend to engage their owners in play. If you bring home a ball from the toy store, a dog will play with you for hours on end. They will eventually reach the point where they will pick up the ball and give it to you. This is because they want to play WITH YOU. Bring home one of those infernal cat toys and cats will demonstrate that they prefer to play alone. A cat will act as if you are not even in the room. If you have a toy laced with catnip, the cat will become very possessive of the toy. I have seen two of the cats in my house tear a catnip toy into two pieces as they played “make a wish” with it. You don’t have to drug a dog to provoke play and the dog will play with you. Besides, I’ve noticed that cat owners go to great lengths to teach a child to stay away from drugs. That same cat owner will has no problem giving their cat an herb with hallucinogenic properties and find it adorable when the cat sleeps chases an invisible object for two hours then sleeps for three days. Hypocrisy, I say!

Now, I realize that some of you may also accuse me of hypocrisy in return since I have mentioned that I have four cats in MY house. This is because the four cats were snuck into the house while I was away. I was not consulted on these acquisitions. Well, that’s not entirely true. When the first pair arrived, my daughters said they wanted the kitties. They even used the right verbiage. Calling them kitties instead of cats made it a much harder sell. Besides, if you think a kitten or puppy makes your heart melt, trying looking into the eyes of your two daughters (who at the time were both under 12). The younger pair on the other hand were sitting on my couch with my wife and kids when I came home one day. HONEST!
Well, thanks for letting me get this off my chest. I have to stop now. Sonic is staring me down again. He wants to blow bubbles while he chases them and pops them. I’m still not a cat lover but I am not made of stone.

To The Finish, Please (And Through The Park)

2011-08-27T15:51:00.001-04:00

Often during my writing, I approach my laptop with a preset topic in mind. I keep a list topics that I update several times a week. I usually review the list of topics and make a decision on which topic to cover during that particular sitting. I then strikethrough the topic once I have written about it. After some editing, I decide whether to post the essay straight to my blog or save it for another time. I then go and resume my normal daily routine which includes finding things to write about and adding them to my previously mentioned list of topics. It’s not exactly a vicious circle but it does sometimes glare its teeth.
It’s pretty cool to actually look at the list and see that I have several topics from which to choose. These topics usually come from my warped mind doing what it does. More than one person I know has heard me say “I should write about that”. I have sent many emails to myself just so that I don’t forget to add it to my list of topics. Once I sit down and choose a topic and start writing, it truly becomes like taking a ride. I sit down and start typing away. I feel myself begin to pick up speed and momentum. I feel like I could climb any mountain and sail across the stormy sea (Please don’t sue me, Mick Jones. The Foreigner concert at Darien Lake is still stuck in my head). In addition to this wild ride, there is the fact that I am going in a much different direction than I planned when I first started. This is usually the point when I realize that I am not the One doing the driving. It is often after the writing is all done and I am reviewing the piece that I realize that I am not just in the passenger seat of the vehicle. I am not being carried in some rough rickshaw ride. I am being chauffeured to my destination. It is truly a great ride. Just when I think I know the route like the back of my hand, I am shown a new way to get to from point A to point B. I even sometimes find out that neither of these points were quite where I thought they were. All of this happens while never experiencing a feeling of being lost. Even as I write this piece, I realize that I initially approached this with a different topic in mind. Trust me, please. I am not turning senile at 45. I am just along for the literary ride.
I am not sure why, other than foolish pride, that I feel that my writing comes entirely from me. I am so reminded that it is quite to the contrary. These reminders come either when I am searching for a topic or when I find myself on one of the above mentioned wild rides. I have a friend, Kevin Cummings, whose writing I have admired. Kevin has proven to be a great mentor since I began writing. I asked Kevin once how he handles dry spells in writing where the ideas and inspiration don’t seem to be coming. Kevin advised me to use a list of topics like the one I mentioned earlier in this writing. He also said something to me that really struck home: “You are the conduit of the talent. You are NOT the Source of the talent". It was a sorely needed dose of perspective. Now, I can make another strikethrough in my topic list. Thanks, Kevin.

Shame On You, Johnny Apple Thief!

2011-08-01T22:23:00.000-04:00

I had previously written that there are certain things in life that, when I seem them, provoke one of three reactions: anger, laughter, or my head shaking in wonder. Sometimes it is a combination of any of those three reactions. For this writing, I feel the need to share a story that once again prompts a combination of those reactions. When I last wrote on this subject, I touched on the passing of a law sorely overdue law against texting while driving. For this writing, I feel the need to touch on a law that has been around since the age of Moses (“Thou shalt not steal’ Exodus 20:15 King James Version). I am going to share a story that I could not have possibly created about one person’s attempt to sidestep this law. Coincidentally, it is a story that also involves a garden (to be specific an orchard). It even involves fruit that is (at least to those that don’t own it) forbidden.
Before I delve into the story, I feel the need to share something about myself (to those who are not already aware). I am a Georgia native.I spent half of my life living in the Southern United States. I am now in my mid-forties. I have spent most of the last 23 years living in Western New York. All four of my children were born in New York. I have never really fallen in love with New York. I mean no disrespect to my readers from the Empire State. It’s just like the old saying goes: “You can take the man out of Georgia. You can’t take Georgia out of the man.” Having said all that, there is one thing about New York that I do love – apples. I like apple slices, apple sauce, apple juice, apple cider, and apple pie. This works well because New York is only second to the state of Washington in apple production. Such a fact helps keep my relationship with New York amicable.
Now, on with the story. This is the story of an orchard that is owned by a family in Western New York. Hurd Orchard is a business that has been running for 7 generations. The sign at the front of the orchard says it all: “A Farm, A Family, A Tradition”. This long running family business grows fruits and flowers on approximately 300 acres. Among the varieties of produce grown by the orchard is, you guessed it, apples. And among the apples produced by this orchard were 180 trees given to the family by Cornell University. These are special trees that were not to be introduced to the market for another two years. In short, they were looking to provide two new varieties of apples to the market. This could stand to provide a boost to growers throughout the state of New York. More apples for consumers. More revenue for growers.
Unfortunately, one man allegedly felt that the law of New York State (and basic human decency) did not apply to him. Six days after these 180 new apple trees were planted, 83 of them were stolen right out of the ground from where they were planted. It is uncertain how exactly this caper was pulled off. I guess when you have 300 some odd acres of land to cover, it is perhaps easier for one to greedily steal what doesn’t belong to them. Reports began to surface that this man allegedly had baby apple trees growing on his property. This man allegedly tried to explain away the new apple trees. He first said he got them off the internet. Then, when confronted by law enforcement, he said that he got them from some Hispanic males. Perhaps he thought that law enforcement would resort to racial profiling and leave him alone. After all, there were no department store security tags on these trees. There was no alarm triggered when he allegedly left the orchard with his precious bounty. He just needed to shoo away some cops and things would be fine. I can only assume this thief was looking to be the big kahuna of some underworld apple cartel. After all, why go through all the work of getting people hooked on some illicit drug when you can just literally snatch food right from folks’ mouths (and profit from it). This man, in an act of unmitigated audacity and boundless greed, attempted to steal from a family business. He also was trying to (perhaps) create an enterprise that was free to him alone. None of the explanations the alleged thief offered could be verified and he was taken into custody by law enforcement. In the end, 73 of these trees that were recently planted on a family orchard and subsequently supplanted by a thief, have now been re-planted back on the orchard where they rightfully belong.
To the family running Hurd Orchard, I sincerely hope that people all over the world speak of your produce seven generations later. To the alleged thief, may you be afforded your due legal process. May you be tried by a jury of your peers. Lastly, if convicted in a court of law, may our prison work detail consist of you spending your life gathering road apples.
PS – As I stated, this came from a news piece. The story is not one of my own creation per se. This is simply my reaction to the reported events. The story, as I found it, can be located at http://rochester.ynn.com/content/top_stories/551324/man-charged-in-apple-tree-theft/

Common Sense on Draft

2011-07-17T08:57:00.001-04:00

Sometimes in my life, things happen in which I find myself laughing, shaking my head in wonder, and angry all at the same time. Every once in a while a law gets passed that brings about this type of reaction. Will Rogers once said: “The trouble with Congress is that every time it tells a joke it becomes a law, and every time it passes a law it becomes a joke”. Rogers would probably see that in many ways not much has changed since his passing in 1935.
Some laws were just never taken off the books. Time goes on and people go “there’s actually a LAW for THAT?” It would be very easy to cite laws in states where I have never lived. However, let me talk about some states where I have lived (and loved living in most of them). For example, I am currently a New York state resident. In New York, a marriage cannot be dissolved for irreconcilable differences unless both parties agree to it. HUH? Supposedly, in my home state of Georgia, legislators are given a unique form of protection. Supposedly, members of the Georgia state assembly cannot be ticketed for speeding while the state assembly is in session. After all, legislation is just as important as an ambulance transporting a mother in labor. NOT! The beautiful state of South Carolina reportedly has a law that states a permit is required to fire a missile. Thanks, South Carolina. I will feel much safer the next time I cruise the Mark Clark Expressway. I also must not leave out the beautiful state that is known as the Heart of Dixie – Alabama. In Alabama, it is allegedly illegal for a driver to be blindfolded while operating a vehicle. I must say that, out of everything I have cited, this last law from Alabama is the one that provides the most amusement to me. Alabama had to pass a law to tell grown people not to drive while wearing a blindfold. The same state that gave us Joe Louis, Helen Keller, and Hank Aaron HAD to tell its constituents that one watch the road while driving. This is not a shot against the legislators in Alabama. Alabama is a beautiful state and I made some friendships there that still stand today. It is just one example among many throughout our great United States where common sense had to be legislated.
It is with this thought in mind that I get back to my current state of residence, New York, and a driving law that has once again been updated. A law has just passed in New York that mandates hands free operation of a cell phone WHILE DRIVING. This means that New York drivers MUST use a hands free device to use a cell phone WHILE DRIVING. Technically, under the law, using a cell phone's speakerphone instead of a hands free device is a violation. The law even specifies that sending text messages WHILE DRIVING is a violation. Just like Alabama, the state of New York had to legally mandate that people who are old enough to know better to keep their hands on the steering wheel and their eyes on the road WHILE DRIVING. Yes, it makes me laugh a bit and shake my head in wonder. It also angers me a bit.
The reason why I am angered by it is that I see evidence for its need daily. Just the other day, I pulled out of the office park where I work. This office park is about a quarter mile from the expressway. Shortly after I pulled out of said office park, I see a young lady in a sporty little car. Two things were clear about this lady. She was very irate and she spoke with her hands. I know this because this lady was in the car behind me. Every time I looked in my rear view mirror, I could see her ranting on her cell phone. Presumably, she was talking to the source of her ire. She held her phone in one hand and waved her other hand about wildly to express her very apparent indignation. She did all of this WHILE DRIVING. As I merged onto the expressway, she remained behind me ranting and waving. I even noticed her correct her steering a couple of times as her car veered while she spewed her wrath into her phone. This new law is designed to protect us all from drivers such as these. It is designed to protect us all from other drivers who feel their rights and convenience is more important than the safety of others.
In closing I’d like to air one final thought. To the angry driver, I hope you get pulled over soon. I hope you get slapped with the $150 fine and 3 points on your drivers license. I know that would be very unpleasant for you. However, I find that a much better alternative than the strong risk of police needing your family to identify your body and what remains of your car.
P. S. To New York State Governor Andrew Cuomo, thank you for passing this bill into law. This is a very important step to protect New York drivers from distracted drivers, Now, if you’d be so kind Governor, please stop dragging your feet on the Autism Insurance Reform Bill and pass it into law. Thank you.

Cursive Foiled Again

2011-07-07T23:08:00.002-04:00

I have been sharing my essays with readers from all over the world (those happy, happy few). I have made it a point to write pieces that are intended to be humorous. Some are even intended to be informative or thought provoking. I have also intended to write pieces that are family friendly. If a 9 year old child reads my work, I don’t wish for his parents to pull him away because my material is too “adult” in nature. My sister has even commented to me that I self censor my writing. This may be true but I feel I get my point across well enough.

Occasionally in my writing, I may even stand on my proverbial soapbox on a particular issue. Again, the point is to get my thoughts across and generate a laugh at the same time. I would like to address an issue that is really sticking in my craw. The issue of this writing is….well the issue is writing. To be specific, the issue is handwriting. Handwriting has been a talent I have sorely lacked all my life. I have always admired people who so seamlessly let their thoughts flow from their mind to a piece of paper. Legible handwriting has never been a strong suit of mine. As a result, the only thing I write cursively is my signature. If I actually use a pen and paper, I print everything else. Many of my teachers during childhood squinted, changed their eyeglass prescriptions, or shook their heads in disbelief. In spite of my obvious shortcomings in the area of writing, my teachers (and my parents) still insisted that I continue practicing.

This now leads me to an issue that I have found to be absolutely reprehensible. At the current time, some districts in the United States and across the world have decided to remove cursive writing from their curricula. Some other districts, while not removing it altogether, allow students to learn cursive writing AS AN ELECTIVE. That’s right. Cursive writing in some schools will be the same as taking drama, band, or a foreign language (such as written English).

I realize that technology makes it easier for kids growing up these days. I must admit that I am grateful for some of these advances. I have typed many a college paper in my adult years that would have costs my parents a lot of typewriter ribbon from all the editing. Remove the typewriter from the equation and you would have seen a lot of crumpled paper and pencils broken out of frustration. Technology has also helped many kids with learning disabilities to more effectively complete assignments. This is not a bad thing.
Nonetheless, I still question the logic of removing such teaching from kids who do not have the aforementioned disabilities or disorders. While it’s true that I rely on my computer for a lot of things. I know that if my power went out and my computer was not available….

You may scoff and say: “That printed. It’s not cursive”. Touché, I say but the following is also true…..
I agree that it is not the most legible writing in the world. That’s OK. By my own admission, I am very out of practice. I would like to offer however that for a child to learn to do cursive writing there are quite some advantages. First of all, such writing can prove to be a great therapeutic exercise. When one writes in cursive, all the letters in a word are connected. There is less stopping and less less movement of the writing instrument from the surface. This allows much more flow with writing. Such writing also helps to build and improve eye to hand coordination. Also, such writing has a more personal touch if one does it well. This makes things such as greeting cards and thank you letters to appear more “from the heart” and less like a form letter. As I stated previously, I admire people who write their thoughts well with just a pen and paper. If schools refuse to teach this, parents should continue to encourage the practice to their children. I realize it can be a time consuming process. The same can be said for teaching a child how to play baseball, bake a cake, or drive a car. I truly worry that we may become so dependent upon technology that kids will no longer draw in the dirt to plan a play of backyard football because their phone has an app for that. I worry that kids will not acknowledge gifts with a thank you card because their printer is down. I even worry that a kid will stand at the candy counter of a movie theater with a confused look because neither he (nor the kid helping him behind the counter) know how to break a $20 bill for a $19.47 purchase of a 6 ounce box of chocolate covered peanuts and a soda that could fill a cow’s bladder. I believe that technology should be a supplement and aid to a child’s education. It should never replace it.

I shall now step down off my soapbox on this issue (for now). I pray that five years from now, a young adults can use a pen to fill out a job application. I pray that young adults can balance a checkbook without a spreadsheet. I pray that parent’s will have the fronts of their refrigerators will have at least one creation from their child that was actually created with their child’s own hands. If schools and teachers continue to make decisions such as the removal of cursive writing. We may have little recourse other than prayer.
In conclusion, to my parents who insist that I not do my writing homework on the school bus (or math with a pen) and to all my teachers who insisted that I practice to improve my handwriting, I’d like to say…

Rock of the Aged

2011-07-03T19:38:00.003-04:00

I went through my teenage and early adult year’s in the 1980’s. Just as it is today, music is an essential element for daily living. I have been a frustrated guitar player since I was about 10 years old. I am very out of practice and no one will ever confuse me with with the late, great Les Paul. Nonetheless, my red Squier Affinity Telecaster remains at the side of my desk so that I can play some chords until my tendonitis makes it hurt too much. My love for the guitar has driven me toward great guitar sounds. I have always enjoyed listening to many different genres of music. I love the wonderful chords and beautiful vocal harmonies that come from acts like Simon & Garfunkel, The Eagles, and Dan Fogelberg. I also gravitated toward the harder rock edge from a young age to bands such as KISS and Queen. This harder rock edge and my love for great guitar tones, rockin’ guitar riffs, and rippin’ guitar solos made the 1980’s a great time for music in my life.
Some of my obsession with guitar driven rock music probably started when I got a 45 record of “Don’t Stop Believin’” from Journey. [NOTE: For those of my readers who don’t know what a 45 rpm record is, ask your parents.] I already liked Journey’s music at the time. But that song is one of many in their catalog that features the perfect blend of Steve Perry’s vocals, Ross Vallory’s bass, and the smokin’ guitar of Neal Schon. I played that record constantly as I started my air guitar career. If Neal Schon was unable to fulfill his duties in Journey, I wanted to be READY.
During my sophomore year in high school, another band released a great album – Foreigner. Their album, “4”, had some GREAT songs on it which included: “Urgent” and “Waiting For a Girl Like You”. Once again, it was that perfect blend – Lou Gramm’s vocals and Mick Jones’ guitar. This culminated in my attending a concert in 1982 at the Savannah Civic Center. Foreigner was promoting their “4” album with (then unknown) Bryan Adams as an opening act. I went to the concert by myself. I was so close to the stage I could tie Lou Gramm’s shoelaces if he needed it. At one point in the show, they told us they were playing a song from their new album - “Juke Box Hero”. I stood there as my chest rattled from Dennis Elliot’s bass drum and Rick Wills bass guitar. You could feel the crescendo build as Lou Gramm’s vocals began. Then, Mick Jones brought me to the crest of the wave. I HEARD ONE GUITAR (JOOOOOOOOOOOONG) AND IT BLEW ME AWAY (JEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENG). I could see stars in my eyes. So, the very next day, I walked around sporting my overpriced Foreigner shirt that I bought at the concert. I saw Foreigner again three years later. The second time, I was in the nosebleed seats with a group of friends. I would have loved to have been closer to the stage but among this group of friends were some very pretty girls. Sorry, Mr. Jones. SOME things have priority over watching you play the chords to “Feels Like The First Time” from 15 feet away.
I am now in my mid-forties and I still love those songs. Next month, I am going to have the pleasure of seeing Journey and Foreigner live. They will be accompanied by another great band from the 80’s – Night Ranger. The bands and I have all gottten just a bit older. None of them have the original lineups intact. Neither Journey nor Foreigner have the singers that helped put them through the stratosphere. That’s OK. Arnel Pineda and Kelly Hansen quite superbly handle the lead vocal spots of Journey and Foreigner respectively. Even Night Ranger has a different guitarist these days (Joel Hoekstra replaced Jeff Watson). Obviously, it won’t be the same as it was in the 1980’s. Then again, neither am I. I know that once the chords start playing, I will be back in 1985 (minus the Members Only shirt).

From Daddy’s Arms to the Commencement Stage: Part Three – Caleb Strikes Back

2011-06-25T11:17:00.000-04:00

[Author’s Note: My original subtitle for for this piece was going to be “Odds Are For Cowards”. My LYE (Lovely Young Editor) and my wife both decided that “Caleb Strikes Back” was more fitting. They were correct. Having said that, Caleb is living proof that odds are for cowards.]
I am sure that any of you who have read my previous writings are wondering: “I wonder what Shane is going to talk about this time”. I have previously written about my daughter, Brianna, on her high school graduation. I have also written about my daughter, Shayna, on her college graduation (which also included her getting engaged). I feel convicted to inform you that I have four children. Two of them are still in college. This means that this series of writings will most definitely continue. For this writing, I am going to orate about my youngest son, Caleb, as he has now reached the point of HIS high school graduation.
When Caleb entered our lives in 1993, he was a ball full of energy that kept his mother and me on our toes constantly. He was always running at top speed and climbing the shelves in our pantry all the way to the top. He also had the same obsession that drove most boys – FOOD. This was usually the reason Caleb climbed the pantry shelves. Caleb would stack soup cans three high. He would then stand upon the stack in order to get on top of the pantry counter. From there, the pantry shelves were an all too easy reach. The next thing you know, Caleb had a handful of whatever food we had placed on a top shelf to keep away from him. Needless to say, my wife and I frequently faced new challenges of strategic food placement.
My wife and I would face another challenge we did not anticipate. As Caleb was going through the first two years of his life, things appeared to be, for lack of a better word, awry. Caleb did not seem to be as talkative as we expected of a young child his age. Also, he also seemed to have somewhat of a distant look in his eyes. It was as if he was tuned into something completely different than what was going on in the room. His mother and I just couldn’t figure out the frequency (and he seemed unable to tell us).
Caleb then went through an array of tests. This included auditory testing as we all thought perhaps there was something wrong with his hearing. We finally got a report from a developmental test that gave Caleb the following diagnosis: Pervasive Developmental Disorder (Not Otherwise Specified). We took Caleb to the pediatrician with this diagnosis. The pediatrician who saw him was a very competent doctor with a rather thick Germanic accent. My wife asked her: “What does this diagnosis mean?” Without hesitation, the pediatrician said: “That means he’s autistic”. While I know the doctor did not intend it as such, her thick accent made her response sound extremely harsh as if my wife and I were overlooking something obvious. Simply put, it was just not a response we anticipated.
Over the months that followed, we had doctors, therapist and specialists attempting to prepare us for some other harsh possibilities: “He may never become fully verbal.”; “He might only get as high as a middle school education”; “It is possible that he may be dependent upon his parents throughout his life”. Even as I read back the aforementioned possibilities, it is hard not to be as overcome as I was when I first heard them. I know the professionals were just doing their jobs by telling us this. They would have been derelict in their professional duties if they did not tell us these things.
While I hold no grudges against these professionals, it gives me great delight to state that none of their predicted possibilities came to fruition. Over the years, I have seen Caleb exert his independence by making a simple meal for himself whenever the mood strikes him. As a matter of fact, he prepared a fine meal for the family as part of a home economics assignment. As far as verbosity, Caleb can tell you anything you need to know about Sonic the Hedgehog, Mario the Plumber, or Jack Bauer. He also converses quite well with his mother as they discuss a bill that is waiting for the governor’s signature. This bill (once signed into law) would ensure that people with autism receive insurance coverage for the screening, diagnosis and treatment of autism spectrum disorders. As far as his education goes, Caleb spent the day of this writing registering for his fall college classes (quite surpassing middle school).
To my son, Caleb, I would like to say that you have earned the accomplishment of walking across the stage and receiving your high school diploma. I hope that as you continue to grow into a young man that I will still be able to enjoy your company for a conversation, a movie, or a Rochester Redwings baseball game. I will do my best to support you during your college education. You may be our youngest child. But you are clearly no longer our baby. Just try to grin and bear it if your parents still call you that.
To the rest of the world, I present Caleb Hugh McAfee – a young gentleman and a scholar.

Confessions of a Defiant Mule

2011-06-18T17:54:00.003-04:00

It started off as an annual trip to Georgia. The plan was to spend a week with my sister and my Dad. I had already enjoyed baseball game at Turner Field. Chipper Jones, Brian McCann, and Dan Uggla tried their noblest since Jason Heyward was on 15 day disability. Alas, they lost to the Cincinnati Reds that night. That’s OK. A bad game at Turner Field is still better than a good day at my cubicle. I even helped my brother in law renovate my Dad’s room. Between pulling up carpet and making multiple trips to the neighborhood pool, I had a lot of quality time with my brother in law that I truly enjoyed. It was a great week of diversion and respite.

Unfortunately, such trips often cause some very old addictions to resurface. I had hoped that I would be able to keep most of these addictions under control. Yet, there I was taking 48 individual wrapped 1 ounce packages and dividing them between two large zippered plastic bags so that I could take them back to New York in my luggage. I was doing fine until one of the individual packages ripped. The precious, grainy, substance spilled onto the floor. I had travelled far for this stuff. Nonetheless, I decided to take the single ounce loss and vacuumed it up. I sat there pondering on what just happened. I asked myself: “Self, how did I get to this point.”

I suppose it all started back in 1988 when I first relocated to Western New York. It was a bit of a cultural adjustment at first but I was handling it well. At least, I thought I was handling it well. I was browsing through a local grocery store and missing my home state. I figured I could fix myself a simple meal to remind myself of home and lift my mood. I went down the breakfast aisle and viewed the different items: cereal, oatmeal, farina (YUCK!). I then thought I was getting closer to what I wanted. I found a nice cylindrical canister of grits. I then looked at the boxes of instant grits and nearly wept. They had butter flavor and original and THAT’S ALL. There was no bacon bits flavor. There was no country ham flavor. To add further insult to injury, there was NOT ONE SINGLE, SOLITARY CHEESE FLAVOR. I approached the store manager about this. As soon at he heard me say grits, I had clearly lost him. I drove to store after store after store all with the same results: original and butter flavor and THAT’S ALL. I then came to the conclusion that President Grant MUST have written some law during the Reconstruction period that made such varieties of instant grits illegal north of the Mason-Dixon line.

I tried to find a way to right this grievous wrong (at least in my own home). It started with me calling my Momma and asking her to send some in a plain brown package from Georgia. I often made these requests from a payphone in case my conversations were being tapped by the FBI (Farina for Breakfast Investigators). It ultimately escalated to the point where I was even making long distance trades with friends and family members. My wife even made a deal with a sister of hers in Florida. Her sister would send instant grits from Florida for a variety of pasta that is apparently illegal there (Curse you, Ulysses Simpson Grant). I almost feel ashamed for bringing my wife into my addictions. I say almost because my wife loves grits as much as I do (bless her beautiful heart).

I now had the incident of the aforementioned package ripping behind me. I had made it through the security checkpoint in Atlanta and was now back in Rochester. I felt sort of like Johnny Depp in the movie “Blow”. I picked up my suitcase from the carousel and tried to think of something. I tried to think of my kids’ birthdays or something festive like that. I actually transcended myself to that place if you will. I tried to think about anything except what could happen to me if I get caught with the 47 ounces of instant ground hominy in my suitcase. I began to walk out of the airport. I was stopped by a government official with a badge. He was a Farina for Breakfast Investigator. I was surrounded by four other investigators. They had caught me dead to rights. I was busted. I looked at the investigator and asked “Parlay?”. The eyes of the investigators were wide with frustration. “We have to let him go” said the lead investigator. Another protested: “But he’s referencing the WRONG MOVIE!”. I walked away with my victory, my suitcase, and my grits. I thumbed my nose at the Anti-Grits government conspiracy. And I must confess, if it means I get to exercise my God given right to more variety of instant grits in my Western New York home, I’LL DO IT AGAIN!!

From Daddy’s Arms to the Commencement Stage: Part Two - The Psychological Sequel

2011-05-14T18:24:00.001-04:00

I have been sharing my writing with friends, loved ones, and the world at large since 2008. During that time, I have shared the triumphs and traumas of being a husband and father. As a parent, I had great examples before me. My amazing parents reared three children to adulthood. They managed to do this without winding up smoking cigarettes and watching “Captain Kangaroo”.* This may be due to my parents’ tenacity. It may also be due to the fact that both of my parent’s stopped smoking in the mid-1960’s. I can remember looking at my dad and thinking he was 10 feet tall and bulletproof. I can only hope that my kids will look at me and think I am at least 5' 10" with mild allergies.

I have spoken about all of my four children at one time or another in my writing. On this occasion, I would like to shine the spotlight on my older daughter – Shayna Amarelle McAfee. I was in the delivery room when Shayna entered the world on October 6, 1989. I stood there in the delivery room as I held this beautiful, angelic, newborn baby girl in my arms. I could not help but notice two very distinct features. For one thing, she did not cry as she entered the world. Shayna came into the world sneezing. It wasn't just once or twice. Shayna sneezed over and over again. I nervously hoped this did not indicate she was allergic to her father. Secondly, I held Shayna for quite a bit following her delivery. Unfortunately, I could not tell you for the life of me what color her eyes were. For the entire time I held Shayna, she would not open her eyes. This would turn out to be the first day of many that Shayna would have amusement at my expense. Even as a newborn, Shayna new how to milk a good gag. For the next few days, I would go and visit Shayna after work. She never once had her eyes opened when I was present. I knew she HAD eyes as many people who visited (as well as her mother) told me how beautiful her eyes were. The day she came home from the hospital, I held Shayna in my arms again. Finally, I got to see her eyes. As we gazed at one another, I could feel that our connection was finally complete. It is a connection that I still feel almost 22 years later (as of this writing).

There are many things about Shayna that have changed over the years. I have seen Shayna’s hair go through more colors than Roy G. Biv. Her obsession with Belle and Gaston has segued to a fixation with Harley Quinn and the Joker. Other things have remained the same. She still enjoys reading the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Still to this day, she saunters across the room on her tiptoes. It’s as if she comes as close as humanly possible to walking on air. She still has the bouncy demeanor of a hyper-caffeinated kangaroo. When she was a child, she spoke of being a doctor. Her vision has shifted only slightly. As I write this, she is preparing to graduate with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology and a Bachelor of Science in Health Sciences with a concentration in Alcohol and Substance Abuse Program (try saying THAT five times fast).

Shayna, my beautiful daughter, I have tried so hard to find the words to express how happy I am with what you have accomplished and the woman you have become. Some may say that I am blessed with the gift of sesquipedalian loquacity. Others would just say that I use a lot of big words and I talk too much. In any case, when it came time for me to express my feelings, I was unable to find the best way to give the truest justice to my sentiment. Therefore, I turned to someone who is a great influence on my writing – Erma Bombeck. Erma Bombeck was a truly gifted humor writer whose children were grown while mine were still infants. On the subject of college graduation, she offers this musing: "Graduation day is tough for adults. They go to the ceremony as parents. They come home as contemporaries. After twenty-two years of child-raising, they are unemployed." I couldn't have said it better myself. In all my adult years, I have never been so happy to be “unemployed”. I guess you could now deem me as pater emeritus. That is to say, I am somewhat relieved of my duties but I still hold some of the honor of the position. As you walk into the world, I no longer need to stand as closely as when you first took your tiptoe steps. But always remember that if you feel you may fall, or if you even just feel the need to lean, I am never too far away.

* I often throw references into my writing, often without explanation, assuming that at least SOME people will get it. This is from a song called “Flowers on the Wall”. It was recorded by the Statler Brothers and written by the late Lew Dewitt. It’s a great and humorous song.

IPSBS (Invisible Passenger Side Braking System)

2011-04-24T23:14:00.000-04:00

I can remember when my parents were teaching me how to drive. This process around the age of fifteen for most kids back then. When I say “back then”, I am referring to the early 1980’s. One of my friends reminded me that this was part of the Paleolithic Era when he and I attended Pangea High School. At any rate, this training process started to prepare a young Pangean teen to acquire his driver’s license at the age of sixteen. This also allowed parents a full year of therapeutic counseling to prepare them for the emotional transition of this great milestone of childhood. It also allowed parents to obtain a years worth of supplemental employment to financially prepare them for the rise in their auto insurance premiums.
At the time, we lived in a nice quiet suburban neighborhood on the south side of Savannah, Georgia. There were a lot of nice little side roads to go down with little to no traffic on the weekend. My mother worked for a bank in the area. There was an occasional perk to her job. We lived some distance from the bank where my mother worked. Due to this distance, she would occasionally be provided with a vehicle that the bank had recently repossessed. This usually happened for a weekend until the paperwork on the vehicle could be processed the following Monday.There is an important reason why I am given you this little snippet about my mother’s occupation. I had asked my mother if I could practice driving around the neighborhood one Saturday. I was expecting to use our family’s 1967 Ford Falcon. However, my brother had the use of that car. This meant that I got to have my first driving experience in a repossessed car. I was initially less than thrilled about this. This was until I realized that this same vehicle was a 1975 Cadillac Sedan De Ville. That’s right, folks. I got to drive around my neighborhood in a CADDY.
I sat in the Caddy while I waited for my Mom to get in the car. I decided use this time to work on the proper way to lean my arm on the back of the seat and complete my cool look. After all, it’s a Cadillac. You MUST lean. The best way to complete the look is to wear some cool sunglasses and let them hang down on your nose a bit. My mom got in the car. She started off by telling me to fix my sunglasses. She said she had no desire to ride with Marlon Brando. I asked if she was talking about the old dude in “Superman”. I knew who Marlon Brando was but I couldn’t resist taking a poke at my Mom’s age (who was younger than I am now). She then told me to put BOTH hands on the steering wheel and dispense with the lean. I tried to explain the need to look cool. She wouldn’t budge on the issue. She firmly replied: “You can look cool when it’s YOUR car. Until then, put your hands at 10 o’ clock and 2 o’ clock.” I asked her if that meant I had four hours to drive the car. “You know what, boy? I COULD just go back inside right about now.” I decided this was a good time to put my sense of humor aside.
I backed out of the driveway and drove down the side streets as my mother instructed me. Overall, things seem to be going well. My mother decided to up the ante a bit at this point. She directed me to take my main street out of our neighborhood. Check it out, people. I was driving down White Bluff Road in Savannah, Georgia. You couldn’t have gotten rid of the grin on my face with a belt sander. It was around this point that I discovered something about driving that I did not know previously. As we were moving down the road, my mother noticed a car backing out of the driveway into the street. My mother apparently did not think that I noticed this vehicle as quickly as she felt appropriate. My mother then very quickly pressed her right foot down to the floorboard. The car had been equipped with an invisible passenger side braking system. I knew that it worked because when she did this, I firmly and quickly pressed on the brake pedal on the driver’s side (producing a very audible and visible skid). This prompted a very brief exchange between me and Momma. “Shane, WHY did you slam on the brakes like that?” BECAUSE, you slammed on YOUR brakes, Momma. “Well, I didn’t think you saw that fella backing out.” Momma, it’s a Ford pickup. Did you think I suddenly went blind? “Boy, if you keep talking to me like that, you’re gonna be blind for a couple of days.” At this point, the gentleman in the pickup drove by and gave my mother a sympathetic smile as he shook his head at me. At this point, my mother offered to take the wheel. When I say she offered, I mean she said “How about I drive now?” and got out of the passenger side before I could respond.
There would be other driving lessons over the months that followed. I would discover that there were other parts of the car to engage the passenger side braking system. Sometimes my mother would just use the floorboard. Other times, she would also put her hands on the dashboard or on the roof (or both). She even once used a unique braking system by using the floorboard, one hand on the dashboard, and the other hand over her mouth. I take pleasure in telling you all that a few short months later. I acquired my first drivers license at the age of sixteen. I couldn't help but notice that the instructor had BOTH of his feet pressed into the floorboard for the entire test.

The Wild Kingdom of Study

2011-04-10T22:10:00.001-04:00

From the moment that I decided that I was going to advance by higher education and attend college again, I knew that I was going to face a concurrent task that would be the bane of my academic existence – homework. Due to the fact that, out of a family of six, five of us are attending college and the sixth is a high school senior (as of this writing), I occasionally have to relocate an area outside of the house to minimize interruption. So, with my laptop computer and text books in tow, I retreat to the great sanctuary of silent study – the library.

When I get to the library, I walk toward a sign that designates an area for me (and others like me) to do my studies. The library calls this the Quiet Study Area. I cannot help but be amused by the irony of a library that apparently needs to designate an area for quiet study. Since I have already had my cathartic rant about that particular subject (an essay entitled “I Can't Hear You (I'm in a Library)”), I will not belabor that issue any further. I find an empty table and begin setting things up. Once I get my laptop computer plugged in and get comfortable in my chair, I devote a few extra minutes to what I consider to be a brief but necessary amount of lollygagging. I talk to my wife for a few minutes online and do some internet surfing. After all, a marathon runner doesn’t just start a 5 mile sprint without doing some warm ups.

It was during this time that I began observing some of the other people using the quiet study area with me. There was one interesting commonality, we were all wearing corrective eyewear. This is understandable to me. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar wore goggles to play some serious basketball for the Los Angeles Lakers. It was clear that everyone in the room was preparing for some serious study (and I had already performed the proper warm up). I also noticed that the women in the room all had their hair pulled back. Quiet study is serious business where one should not be impeded by their tresses. I haven’t suffered such impedance in a long time. When my hair WAS long enough to have such an issue, I spent less time in libraries.

I also noticed some very distinct differences. One lady in the room appear somewhat matronly. She wore earrings that dangled like wind chimes to be strummed. I thought it better not to do so. This particular lady also had another distinction. She was the only one among us NOT using a computer. She was using (GASP) pen and paper. I have always admired people with legible handwriting. The last time I attempted writing anything other than my signature, I got three scholarships for pharmacy school. I also noticed another younger lady in the room. This young lady did not actually sit in her chair. She was perched upon her chair and seated more upon the heels of her feet. Her posture is almost feline in nature as if she is about to pounce upon whatever appears on her computer screen. Two more women arrive. Both, of course had their hair pulled back. However, instead of wearing eyeglasses they have sunglasses pulled atop their heads as a makeshift hair band. This is an interesting twist of the use of eye wear for function AND fashion. After all, they have no need for sunglasses in the library. Corey Hart wore his sunglasses at night but I am unsure if he wore them in the library. Should I ever meet Mr. Hart, I will be sure to ask him. It was shortly after this that two other ladies arrived (as I felt somewhat hormonally outnumbered). These two ladies were one adult and a girl about 12 years old. They are clearly rebelling against societal norms. Neither have eye wear. I did not verify the presence of contact lenses. For some reason, people are put off by that kind of behavior (once bitten, twice shy). Also, both had their hair down. I must say that I was truly taken aback by such a brazen display of anarchism.

After all this observation, I decided that it was time to get down to business and crack open the textbooks. I took one last look around and said to myself: I have three homework assignments, I have three textbooks, a laptop computer, and I’m wearing bifocals. HIT IT!

Johnny Weissmuller, What Is Your Sleep Number?

2011-03-15T19:04:00.003-04:00

I have addressed many things as well as the effects of those same things on me and/or my family. Such topics include (but are not limited to) the following: mall shopping, higher education, communicable diseases, and libraries. For the purpose of this writing, I’d like to focus on an issue that has become very important to my wife and me after 17 years of marriage – sleep.
Before your mind begins to wander (or wonder), let me be clear. I am not going to address the marital perspective of our sleeping quarters. After all, this is a family show. I am here to talk about the rapid-eye-moving, excessive-pillow-drooling, Metallica-stops-recording-their-new-album-because-your-snoring -is-too loud state of sleep. I am talking about that state of rest between the point where your head hits the pillow and the palm of your hand slaps the alarm clock with the force of a Hank Aaron homer. There are two entities that greatly assist my wife and/or me with getting a good nights sleep: a CPAP machine and a sleep number bed.
The CPAP machine, though a blessing to both of us, is primarily for my benefit. I have a condition that many people suffer call sleep apnea. To describe this as succinctly as possible, without the benefit of my CPAP machine, I will literally stop breathing (multiple times) during my sleep. This can result in many less than restful nights, extreme fatigue, and horrendous snoring that has threatened the structural integrity of the windows in my house. Needless to say, we LOVE having this machine in our lives. Mind you, the machine also requires me to be tethered by a nasal mask connecting me to the machine. This forces air into my airway while I sleep so that I don’t stop breathing. I am of the opinion that breathing while sleeping is good. I may look like an alien SCUBA diver but I’ll take breathing over vanity any day.
The sleep number bed, though a blessing to us both, is primarily for my wife due to a back injury she suffered some time ago. The mattress is essentially two long bladders of air (one for each side of the bed). We each have a hand controller that allows us to set the pressure for our side of the bed to a specific number (ranging from 0 – 100). We each have our own sweet spot, or sleep number, to have a comfortable night’s sleep. My wife sleeps comfortably with much less aggravation to her back injury. Needless to say, we LOVE having this bed in our lives.
However, having two different sleep numbers has proven to be problematic every now and again. My sleep number ranges from around 55 – 80. My wife’s sleep number is considerably lower. Part of the problem is my wife’s sense of humor is similar to my own. If I get out of bed and leave the room for more than five minutes, she inflates my bed to 100. This means that she gets to watch me come back into our room and plop myself into the equivalent of an eight foot long brick. She then giggles while I am now reaching for an ice pack. The other problem occurs when one of us leaves the bed while the other is sleeping. If I am out of bed and my wife rolls over toward my side, she ends up with her nose firmly pressed against a wall of air mattress. This gives her the sensation that can only be compare to those stuffed kittens you see on the window of a station wagon. On the other hand, if my wife is out of bed and I roll to her side, the end result is quite different. I fall into the deep chasm that is my wife’s side of the bed. Since I am tethered to my CPAP machine, I look something like Tarzan trying to pull himself out of quicksand. There are two key differences: a) since I have forced air blowing into my lungs, I will not suffocate and b) no one is likely to confuse me with Johnny Weissmuller.
I pull myself back up by my CPAP tubing back onto my side of the bed sweaty and hyperventilating (with forced air pouring into my lungs). My wife comes in shortly thereafter. She notices my perspiration and heavy breathing and asks me if I am feeling OK. I beat my chest and tell her the lord of the jungle is fine. She giggles at me with confused oblivion. She then rolls over and falls back asleep like a newborn child. Like I said, we LOVE having this bed in our lives.

Away With You, Sinus Squatters!

2011-01-29T19:12:00.001-05:00

I have been having a rather rough couple of weeks. Sometime, during the past couple of weeks, some tiny gremlins took siege over my sinuses. These gremlins are too small to be seen with the naked eye. They tend to travel in packs of four and, in spite of their size, produce a collective weight of 35 lbs. Their only goal is to take residence in the sinuses for as long as possible and make you feel like you are carrying a bowling ball on your neck. I tried asking them nicely to leave. I rationally explained that they were MY sinuses and they did not belong there. It was really nothing personal. I just really dislike this extra weight on my head. They scoffed at my naive niceness. To add further insult, these sinus squatting gremlins invited their friends to make my eyes itchy and make my voice sound like a mouse in a library.

This, of course, leads to the true source of my irritation. My loving wife was kind enough to go to the store and pick up some sinus medicine for me. Mind you, she did this partly to help me feel better and partly because she had caught my cold. I eagerly opened the package hoping that relief would come soon. My hopes were very quickly dashed. It appears that the sinus squatting, eyeball itching, voice vanquishing gremlins are in cahoots with the makers of SnotAway. They start by using transparent plastic on one side of the packaging. This provides you with a view of the medicine – tiny little blue gel caps of hope. This only serves as part of the torture. On the opposite of this medicinal visual tease, the medicine is sealed with a layer of foil held onto the plastic by an adhesive. It is then topped with another of paper that is held to the foil seal by the same adhesive. Each dose (two gel caps each) is then separated by perforations. The torment continues further as one corner is pulled back ever so slightly.

First, it starts with the perforations. I do what any rational person would do. I do the bending back and forth of the perforations to make the individual doses easier to separate. This does not work because the adhesive (used to hold the paper and foil seals in place) gets between the perforations. If they has used this adhesive on the Titanic, I wouldn’t have had to sit through a three hour movie explaining why some old lady threw her necklace in the ocean. So, here I am. I am already having trouble breathing. I am wearing myself into exhaustion bending this thing back and forth. Finally, I get some scissors to cut the perforations apart. The problem is, the combined effects of my cold condition and my exhausting efforts to open this stupid medicine have made my eyes water. The blurred vision causes me to slice my index finger with the scissors. Now I am bleeding and I need a bandage. Unfortunately, the bandage is sealed between two strips of paper held together by the SAME ACCURSED ADHESIVE. I can actually hear the sinus squatting, eyeball itching, voice vanquishing gremlins giving each other high fives in my head. I find myself crying myself to sleep in a fetal position.

Three hours later, I awoke. I tried to speak but the gremlins still had hold of my voice. The still-sealed, unused bandage is stuck to my hand from the dried blood. The scissors lay at my side along with the the still-sealed, unused medication. My wife takes one look at me and says: “Honey, I bought you some medicine. You won’t get any better unless you take it. Honey, why are you crying?”

Are Your Shot Records Up to Date?

2011-01-24T21:52:00.002-05:00

When I was in the Navy, I can remember being taught that there were certain folks on base you didn’t want to ever upset. To be specific, there were five types of folks in particular who were good to have on your side: hospital corpsmen, dental technicians, postal clerks, disbursing clerks, and mess management specialists.
I was a hospital corpsman. Corpsmen assisted doctor’s and nurses with the medical care of military personnel. Corpsman have access to (among other things), immunizations records. Getting on the wrong side of a corpsman could result in the sudden unexplained disappearance of said immunization records. Immunization records (or shot records) must be up to date before personnel can go on leave (vacation) or transfer to another duty station. It’s quite possible that the corpsman will tell his buddy – the dental technician. Dental records must also be up to date. Suddenly, a rude an impatient sailor may find himself having to undergo dental x-rays and an exam in addition to the vaccinations he KNOWS he got six months ago. The dental technician might tell his buddy – the postal clerk who is stationed at the base where this sailor is transferring. Strangely, an issue has arisen with the forwarding of the sailor’s mail from the previous base. The dental clerk might tell his buddy – the disbursing clerk. Disbursing clerks handle payroll. Now the sailor finds that something has gone wrong with his direct deposit. The disbursing clerk may even tell his buddy – the mess management specialist (cook). The mess management specialist prepares a special meal for the sailor to “make him feel welcome”. Later that day, the initially rude and impatient sailor, has come down with a sudden “stomach bug” and has to go to sick call at the new duty station. The sailor finds himself with sore arms from vaccinations, sore gums from dental exams, homesick because he hasn’t gotten any mail from home, flat broke, and extremely nauseous (might have been something he ate). When he arrives at sick call. The corpsman notices that the sailor was last stationed aboard the USS Ersatz. The corpsman asks the sailor if he knew a corpsman by the name of so-and-so. It turns out that the former corpsman is “old buddies from boot camp” with the latter corpsman. The sailor is now as pleasant as punch and suddenly feels “much better now”. The next day, the sailor is informed that his mail has been forwarded, his back pay has been re-instated, and his immunization and dental records are all in order (once again). He even goes on to eat three square meals in the galley without incident (and uncertain what brought on that stomach bug the previous day).
It has been nearly twenty-five years since I got out of the Navy. I can honestly say that I have never participated in such a conspiracy about which I have just written. However, I couldn’t help but think of it as I went to get my hair cut this evening. I went to a stylist. The difference between a barber and a stylist is about $15. The stylist gently washed my hair and lead me to my chair. I told her that I wanted a very short cut. Her technique was such that I wasn’t sure if she was using clippers or 200 grit sandpaper. I watched her in the mirror as she did this. You’d have thought my hair was made of graphite and she was trying to erase it. I got out of the chair wondering what I had done to her to inspire such anger. Whom did I anger earlier in the day that knew her and called her before I arrived? Now I sit here in the comfort of my own home, satisfied with the final result of my haircut. One question haunts me: Are my shot records up to date?

Drinks Dye Hard

2011-01-10T20:19:00.000-05:00

   I am not going to imply that I live a charmed life per se. However, on the average work day, I typically drive to work, work a typical day, and drive home without incident. Don't get me wrong. I have had a day here and there where: my vehicle has broken down, winter weather has made me late, or a circulating sickness has caused my head to weigh 15 lbs. Such incidents are the exception rather than the rule. I can even jazz up my routine by taking a different drive to work or home and be incident free.

   I went to work earlier this week and it seemed to be a day just like any other. En route to work, I made a stop at a nearby convenience store and grabbed myself a nice hot cup of coffee. They had several different blends available. I grabbed my little plastic cup the store provided. I turned the little spigot and the coffee poured gracefully into my cup. The aroma was wonderful. I grabbed my nice little plastic top for my cup. I typically drink my coffee black so it is usually hot for a while. I usually allow the drive to work to allow my coffee to cool down enough to drink.

   The traffic on the way to work was rather light as it was the tail end of a holiday week. I called my wife on the way to work. The nice little wireless earpiece allowed me to do this quite nicely, safely, and legally. I got to work and found a great space. I carried my cup of coffee with the nice little protective lid and went inside the building where I work and to my desk. I started my rather routine workday. I reached for my coffee to take a sip. For some reason, as I began to drink from the little slit in the cup's protective lid, it seemed I didn't quite a watertight seal. Fortunately, I also have a coffee mug that I kept at my desk. I simply transferred the coffee from the cup to my mug. I now drank my coffee from my mug in secure water tightness. I had averted a minor crisis. At least I THOUGHT I did. I looked down and noticed a fresh coffee color stain on my dress shirt. The shirt was white with light vertical brown stripes and I was wearing a brown tie. I joked that at least the stain would blend with my shirt and tie. It was kind of strange to me that the coffee spilled onto my shirt in such a way that I did not feel the heat. I let out a small sigh and decided to carry on with my day.

   The day went forward rather well from that point. It was nothing spectacular. It was just representative of the incident free routine to which I had grown accustomed. I performed my work duties. I conversed with my colleagues. I even enjoyed a nice lunch that was lovingly prepared by my wife. After lunch, I sat at my desk and began to resume my routine. Since I work in a call center, I sit in very close proximity to my colleagues. We do our jobs. We share some laughs here and there. We even occasionally share a high five or fist bump for a job well done. One of my colleagues returned from work and sat at his desk next to me. He was enjoying a cherry flavored Slurpee he had picked up while he was out. Several of my colleagues and I share our love for these shaved ice flavored drinks. You have to get them in a huge cup with a huge straw and a dome shaped cover which has a hole for the straw. Those drinks are heaven in a plastic cup.

   As we all resumed our work duties, my colleague picked up his drink right where the dome cover meets the cup's rim. Suddenly, the dome cover came apart from the cup. As my colleague and I were both wearing white shirts, we suddenly moved our chairs backward. We even leaned back in our chairs to avoid the flying droplets of cherry dye and shaved ice. It was like watching a scene with Neo and Morpheus. Of course, since we are guys, we'd probably debate about which of us was Neo and which of us was Morpheus.

My colleague dutifully cleaned up his mess and even had plenty left to drink in his cup. We all laughed it off and got back to work. All was well once again. That was until, my colleague grabbed his drink again and the dome cover popped off again. I can definitely say that, when it happened a second time, I was DEFINITELY Morpheus.

Stars So Bright (Editor’s Choice)

2011-01-02T21:27:00.000-05:00

I have spent the last week and a half concentrating on reading. There are several reasons why I delved into reading so deeply:

· I had reached the end of a college semester and therefore a brief period of more free time.

· I love to read and, having reached the end of said semester, I wanted to CHOOSE what I was reading.

· I also love to write but, in order to write, I must also be reading. It’s the Garbage In, Garbage Out principle. My daughter edits my writing. I am sure she will find the comparison of my writing to garbage quite amusing.

· Last but certainly not least, it gave me (yet again) another excuse to create a bulleted list. I love making bulleted lists. The reasons are….PSYCH! You thought I was going to create another one; didn’t you?

Having all of this free time at the end of a year has also made me somewhat introspective. After all, it was just the end of a year. It was also the end of a decade. A lot of things have transpired over the last 10 years. I walked across the stage of the Blue Cross Arena in 2000 at my college commencement. This occurred with my wife, kids, sister, niece, and mother in the audience. I moved several times since 2000. My family has endured many harsh Western New York winters (including an ice storm in 2003). I endured long stretches of unemployment. The flipside of that is that I also go to work briefly for an airline. My last day of training for the airline, I got to marshal out a 737 aircraft. This incredible experience took place at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, GA on my birthday. I flew back to Georgia that same year as a surprise anniversary present for my mother. The following year, my wife sat at my side and held my hand after I had finished speaking at my mother’s memorial. Three years after that, I got to witness my wife handle her father’s passing with amazing dignity. I have heard both of my girls perform in various choir performances with voices that are nothing short of angelic. I have seen my older son, Tom; perform at club gigs as he becomes a better guitarist than I was 20 years ago. I have heard my younger son, Caleb; provide the history of Sonic the Hedgehog (he has a PhD in Sega).

With all of this looking backward, I mustn’t lose sight that I have so much to expect in the coming years. Caleb is graduating high school in 2011. Shayna is graduating from college in 2011. Thomas and Brianna are currently enrolled in college. If their most recent semester is any indication, I have no doubt that they will excel in their academic pursuits. My wife, Renee, is starting college again in 2011 with a degree to pursue a career in Social Work. She is projected to graduate in 2013. I am also enrolled in college pursuing a degree in Health Information Management. I am projected to graduate some time before Jesus comes. We’re doing alright and getting good grades. The future’s so bright….. Forgive me; I just received notice from a lawyer representing Timbuk3 with an injunction from finishing the previous sentence.

Trickle-Down Pumpanomics

2010-12-13T21:05:00.000-05:00

   I believe myself to be a reasonable man. I can roll with a few punches. I can be downright accommodating at times. Knowing that my daughter is most likely proofreading this writing, I will thank her to NOT scoff at that previous statement with very audible "HAH!"

   In spite of being reasonable and accommodating (with my wife in kids now singing "HAH!" in multi-part harmony), there are some things that DO rather irritate me. In this writing, I am going to focus on a location that has provided me with a great source of irritation recently — the gas pump.

I realize that the gas pump provides several different irritations for many people. Given this, I feel that I need to disclaim some things. I am not here to lament our country's dependence upon a supply of foreign oil. I am not here to bemoan the effects of fossil fuels on the trans-continental snow squirrel. I am not even here to the demise of free roadmaps and cartoon character drinking glass giveaways. These are all very valid reasons to be irritated. However, this is not my purpose here.

   Please, allow me to provide a bit of background here. When I was a young teen, there were a lot of things going on in our country. The country was changing Presidents, enduring a nationwide heat wave, and going through a deep economic recession. This had a huge collateral effect at the gas pump. In less than two years, gasoline prices had nearly doubled. Self service pumps were becoming more and more the norm. This required people to do more creative budgeting with their travel expenses. This also required people to show some finesse at the gas pump. Every penny counted. If you only had $5 in cash, you had to be sure you had to stop pumping right at the $5 mark. Most people would get within 5 or 10 cents of the intended amount and pump one cent at a time until they got the amount they wanted. I became very good at this. I pumped gas for my parents. I pumped gas for my friend's parents. I was even considering going on a seminar tour on the art of pumping gas.

   However, as gas prices continued to rise, another process came into place — pre-payment for gasoline. You would go inside and tell the cashier you were pumping X number of dollars from pump Y. As you got closer to the pre-paid amount, the pump would automatically slow down and then stop once the pre-paid amount was reached. This usually occurred when you got to within 8 – 10 cent of the pre-paid amount.

Now, we are getting to the true source of my irritation (and a pox on those of you that just said "FINALLY!") More than 25 years have passed since the gas shortage I mentioned previously. The gasoline prices have continued to rise with the rate of inflation. However, I have begun to notice that as gas prices has risen, the pump begins automatically slowing down sooner and sooner. No longer does it happen within the 8 – 10 cent range. We have long since bypassed that and even left the 50 - 60 cent range to be a distant memory.

One morning this past week, I had left my house much earlier than usual. This was due to the fact that the wonderful city in which I live had experienced its first major lake effect snow of the year and it was also quite bitterly cold. There was already indication on the morning news this had a very bad effect on morning traffic. So there I was, at the gas pump once again. I had dutifully pre-paid my desired amount. I was filling the tank so I knew this was not exactly going to be a 30 second process. I did my best to grin and bear it as the pump chugged along. Suddenly, the pump came to a snail's pace and hummed along one cent at a time EIGHTY-FIVE CENTS AWAY FROM THE FINAL AMOUNT. REALLY?!! EIGHTY-FIVE CENTS?!! Now, I was beginning to wonder if I was going to be able to finish pumping this gas before supper time or if I should invest in some sled dogs and pick my car up at the end of the day. I figured the pump MIGHT be done by then. I finally finished the process, capped up my gas tank and drove away.

   As I made my way to work, I could envision my family and friends in much warmer climates stating that my irritation was probably made worse by the winter weather. I thought that this was ridiculous. I would have been just as irritated if I had been pumping gas at 9 o' clock at night in July with 90 degree temperatures and 90 percent humidity. The traffic guy on the radio quickly rebuffed that theory when he uttered the words: "Allow extra time for travel". I DID ALLOW EXTRA TIME FOR TRAVEL. OF COURSE, THAT WAS BEFORE I WAS TO THE GAS PUMPETERIA AND THEY DECIDED TO TEST THE TRICKLE-DOWN THEORY ON MY GAS TANK EIGHTY-FIVE CENTS AWAY FROM THE FINAL AMOUNT! I then decided to stop shouting at the radio. The traffic guy was just doing his job after all. I even decided not to scream at the guy who suddenly cut in front of me on I-390. I instead enjoyed a fit of uncontrollable laughter as the aforementioned driver and I were BOTH caught in a barely moving bottleneck of traffic. Like I said, I can roll with the punches.

Georgia Trip 2010 Vol. III: Where There’s Smoke, There’s Good Eatin’

2010-12-07T21:01:00.000-05:00

I had enjoyed a great game between the great Atlanta Braves and the Pittsburgh Pirates. After enduring some delays brought on by torrential (but temporary) rain, the Braves had earned another win of what would go on to be a 9 game winning streak). We had dropped my friend, Bill and his wife, Jenny at the hotel where they were staying. We finally got home around 1 AM. I rang out my socks and lay my head down on my pillow while visions of RBI's and homers danced in my head.

I spent the next day hanging out with Bill and his wife at my sister's house. Bill and I caught up on the last 25 years. It was like someone had taken the needle off the record for 25 years. During our reunion, the needle was placed exactly in the groove where it left previously (though perhaps with some pops and a bit of warp). For you young whippersnappers who don't understand that reference, ask your grandparents what life was like before digital downloading (just speak up when you do).

Bill's wife, Jenny, was somewhat of a quiet and bashful type. She mostly kept to herself and politely declined any offer of hospitality. That was temporary. Soon enough, my brother in law, Larry began heating up a pot of oil on the outdoor grill to fry some catfish. He also had some ears of corn on the grill. Now THAT got Jenny's attention. She asked Larry if she could put the battered fish in the grease to fry. Larry happily accommodated her. In addition to catfish, there was a bunch of other fish my Dad and his friend had caught. It truly WAS a fine kettle of fish. Larry then offered Jenny something a little different to try. Larry took an ear of corn and coated it in cornmeal. He then had Jenny place it into the grease to fry. Jenny was like a kid in a candy store. Frying the catfish was one thing. Sampling a fried ear of corn was something else entirely different. This truly illustrates the Mason-Dixon Line of cuisine. Why boil the flavor out of something when you can seal the flavor with cornmeal and hot oil?

More friends and family joined the occasion. We all sat in the living room and socialized while my sister incessantly nagged me to play some guitar and sing a song or 17. According to my sister, I "promised". My debate over the alleged promise aside, I banged out a few chords. With my Dad's help we sang some Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson, and Johnny Cash (with a dash of Hank Williams). It was a bit hard on the tendonitis but I must admit I DID enjoy fulfilling my "promise". It seemed like my vacation couldn't get much better. The next day would be the icing on the chocolate cake.

We drove about an hour or so east to visit my Aunt Judy in a nice town called Juliette. The last time I remembered being in Juliette was when I was about 14 and did a bunch of fishing with my brother and some uncles. I didn't do any catching but I did a lot of fishing. Juliette's main claim to fame is the filming of the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes". Anyway, I digress. Bill and Jenny live about another 2 -3 hours east of Juliette in Savannah. The plan was that Larry would drive in one car with my niece and her boyfriend. I took the opportunity to ride with Bill and Jenny. Bill planned to drop me off in Juliette then head straight home to Savannah. Bill called on his mother on the way there while we rode. Bill wanted to let his Mom know he was on his way home. "Where'd you go?" she asked. "I went to Marietta to see Shane." She confusedly replied "…the movie?" Bless her heart; it HAS been 25 years after all.

I introduced Bill and Jenny to my aunts and uncles. They all greeted Bill and Jenny with hospitality and hugs. My uncle Richard asked Bill if he was staying to eat. Bill said that he was planning to head home to Savannah. Richard motioned Bill and me over and opened his smoker. Suddenly we were all inundated with the sight and smell of smoked chicken. Bill decided to stay a spell. Richard can be very hospitable but his smoker is VERY persuasive.

I was treated to good eating and good times. My late mother's cousin, Jackie was there. I had not seen her in nearly 30 years. She presented me with some childhood pictures of my mother that she had scanned for me. That simple gesture was a great gift. On the other end of the generation gap, my second cousin, Amanda, blessed us all with her beautiful singing voice. Little by little, we all began to depart. Bill and I hugged and promised it would not go another 25 years before we saw one another again. I gave hugs and handshakes to all my family.

As we were pulled out of the driveway to go back to Marietta, there were some horses running in a field. Suddenly, we had to stop the car while two wild turkeys crossed the road. While all of this was happening, "Free Bird" was playing on the radio (if I'm lyin,' I'm dyin'). You couldn't have written a better ending to the week (with all due respect to Fannie Flagg).

I Dub Thee – Starship Laptopia

2010-12-01T22:49:00.000-05:00

Over the past three years, I have owned a laptop computer. I have waxed on previously, ad nauseam, about how much I love my laptop. I have used it for work. I have used it to listen to the radio. I have used it for school work. I have used it to talk to friends and loved ones worldwide. I could go on but I think I am beginning to add to the ad nauseam. Besides, I have a bad habit of going on literary tangents and I never cared much for geometry. Mind you, Pythagoras really had some good idea with the triangles and all. Oops, there I go again. Forgive me, I'll try to avoid the bunny trails going forward and stick to the subject. I'll also try to avoid using non-sequiturs because I really like dogs.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I was talking about my laptop. The thing is that I was using my laptop for so many things; I actually had a laptop table set up at my bedside. On some days, I would sit for hours at the side of my bed doing the any one of the aforementioned ad nauseam tasks. This was not only inexcusably sedentary. It was really not that comfortable. I'd occasionally relocate myself and the laptop to different areas of the house: the dining room table, the living room couch, or (in warmer months) the patio table outside. The change was often welcome. Still, I'd even wind up back at that uncomfortable spot at the side of my bed with my laptop perched atop a plastic folding tray table. Again, it got to be rather uncomfortable and yet I'd stay there and suffer in silence (though some might debate if I was actually suffering or silent).

Clearly, it was going to take some ingenious brilliance to solve this issue. I have been known to come up with a few good ideas here and there. However, in this case, the ingenious part came from the innovative ingénue of the house (aka the missus). My wife decided that it was time to invest in a desk and chair to use my laptop. What can I say? She can be the epitome of ingenious. OK, I realize I have been throwing in a couple of alliterations in this paragraph. Please bear with me, when I am avoiding tangents and non-sequiturs, I must have some kind of an alternative.

We got the desk and chair home and began unpacking the parts. I sat on the floor and spent the next 45 minutes or so engaging in ergonomically injurious assembly. In spite of the tremendous aggravation to my tendonitis, everything went smoothly. My wife even told me I looked "cute" with my Braves hat on backwards. I tried to take that as a compliment.

The desk and chair were completely assembled. I transported my laptop to its new location in an almost ceremonial fashion. Other items soon found a place either on the desk or next to it: lamp, headset wit microphone, harmonica set, guitar (next to the desk), house slippers (underneath the desk), and a miniature rubber ducky that blinks when you hit it (which I love doing). I sat in my new desk chair to get a feel of my new acquisitions. The chair's comfort was a welcome change. I now sit at my desk and it's like my laptop has a new perspective. I feel powerful. I feel like I have just taken command of the Starship Laptopia. OK, it's a lame name but let me have my moment. I am a new productive machine and the world is my oyster. Yes, I realize I just used two metaphors in that last sentence. After avoiding tangents, non-sequiturs, and alliterations, not much else is left.

I'm Seeing A College Girl

2010-11-19T19:02:00.000-05:00

About three months ago, I started taking college courses online to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in Health Information Management. It was a move that is designed to marry my experience working in hospital settings (during my twenties) and my information technology experience (which began in my mid thirties). So far, the two classes I have taken this semester have been manageable in conjunction with my job and my home life. I am happy to report that, as of this writing, I am maintaining a 97% average in both of my classes.

This is due in no small part to the support of my wife, Renee. She made a lot of phone calls and did an amazing amount of legwork to get me rolling. Once, I got started she has done her best to be sure I have a good environment in which to do my homework. She even prints my test scores and puts them on the refrigerator next to the macaroni art. OK, that part isn’t true but you get the picture.

My wife informed me just as I was starting college again that she was making plans of her own. She told me she was planning to enroll in college herself to pursue a degree in social work. She wants to provide advocacy and support for families with special needs children. You could have knocked me over with a feather. This is assuming that the feather was six feet long, weighed about ten pounds and was made of lead. Just as I thought everything was beginning to slow down and settle a bit. My industrious and (seemingly) impetuous wife has thrown another rock into the river. I am still not quite sure why this rock gave me such a jolt. After all, a ripple in the river is hardly a hurricane on the coast.

My wife has just received news of her acceptance into Empire State College. This means that starting January 2011, out of a family of six, five are college students. My youngest, Caleb, won’t be far behind as he graduates high school in the spring. My older daughter, Shayna, will be graduating college at the same time. It is almost as if Shayna is opening a spot for Caleb to fill.

I have made jokes over the past couple of days that, come January, I am going to be running around with a college girl. Mind you, such a remark is designed to add some levity (and perhaps feed my mid-forties ego). The truth is, I see my wife’s approach and I see someone driven and focused with her eyes on the proverbial prize. She is in many ways the same woman I have been looking at for the last nineteen years. Yet, she is very different. It is very easy to see a ripple in the river and curse the waves rather than observe and embrace the beauty. I can't wait to see her in a college sweater. BOY HOWDY!

Tiny Bubbles (Make Sonic Happy)

2010-10-31T16:06:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, my wife, Renee, and I attended the wedding of a colleague of mine from a former job. It was a lovely wedding. The groom and his groomsmen wore these spectacular tuxedoes complete with tails, canes, and top hats. The ring bearer was this dashing young man wearing the same type of outfit. He had long, shoulder length hair that curled underneath his top hat. For such a young man, he played his role with a great sense of protocol, chivalry, and decorum. Indeed, the only thing lovelier than the wedding was the bride (the aforementioned colleague).

The couple exchanged their vows and sealed their marriage with a kiss. Renee and I exited the church and congratulated the newly wedded couple. As we exited, the dashing young ring bearer presented each person with a vial. The vial contained bubble solution and a wand for blowing bubbles. In lieu of rice or bird feed, the bride and groom brilliantly decided to have everyone shower them with bubbles. After all, when people are in their absolute best, you really don't want to attract the attention of birds flying overhead. Renee and I went to the reception and enjoyed some pleasant conversation with the folks at our table (along with some great food). Eventually, Renee and I again congratulated the couple and headed home.

A couple of days later, I was sitting around the house and generally being annoyed by one of the four cats in our house. Those of you who know me (or read my previous writings) know that I am not exactly a cat lover. Cats, to me, provide little purpose other than a foot rest or a buffer for my shoes. I have tried to find some common ground so that the cats and I may peacefully coexist (often to little or no avail). However, on this particular day, I found one of the vials of bubble solution from my friend's wedding.

Let me just state that whoever it was that came up with the idea to market bubble solution was quite brilliant. Give the average enough bubble solution and the right wand, the same person can blissfully pass an entire day making bubbles and watching them disappear (only to make more). One is only limited to the amount of bubble solution and an intact wand. I believe that making bubbles can (at least temporarily) alleviate grief and lower crime rates. Think about it, if two dudes met each other on the street and sized up one another, they could start duking it out or they could make bubbles. Teenagers could vandalize a neighbor's car or make bubbles with the neighbor. In both scenarios, one choice will cause someone to get hurt or arrested (and provoke some type of insurance claim). The other choice provokes nothing more than smiles, amusement, and laughter. No one gets hurt. The crime rate and insurance premium go down. The world is a better place. But, I digress.

Anyway, I was sitting with this vial of bubble solution and decided to see if it could help me find some common ground with the cats. The cats could enjoy the bubbles with me and I would (temporarily) find them less irritating. I started making bubbles. One of the older cats, Snip immediately ran from the room as if he was avoiding a bubbly nuclear holocaust. However, the younger male, Sonic enthusiastically chased the bubbles and pawed at them at which they popped. At this point, Sonic would meow until I produced more bubbles. Eventually, I would stop and Sonic would get the point. Sonic would then go onto other means of entertainment such as sleeping.

This all seemed well and good until it became clear that I had created a monster. Now, instead of learning feline aerodynamics by doing the figure eight under my legs (knowing how much I hate that), the cat would just come up to me and stare me down. It started with the stare down and they he would begin his Marge Simpson meow (MMMMMMMMMMMM). If I did not start making bubbles by this point, he would actually open his mouth to meow. Renee, on the other hand, is the bubble enabler. She will see me yelling at the cat: LEAVE ME ALONE! At this point, Renee starts making bubbles and Sonic is once again content. Now, I just want to go to the toy store and find a wand that will make one of those enormous, gigantic bubbles and trap the cat inside it. Alas, I know if I did that, Sonic would just start meowing at me again once the bubble popped.

NOTE - The former colleague I spoke of in the beginning is none other than Megan Hartman Barton. Mrs. Barton is the founder of the blog "A Dash of Nutmeg". Please take the time to visit Megan's blog at http://www.dashofnutmeg.com/ and take in all of her wonderful recipes. Please be sure to congratulate Megan on her recent nuptials and tell her I sent you. - P Shane McAfee (founder of BDGJM)

Sometimes, Stress Is Good?

2010-10-18T19:37:00.000-04:00

I had the joy of visiting my doctor recently. During this visit, we got caught up the state of my mind and body since I had last seen my doctor some 8 months previously. She commented about my weight and asked if I felt that the reading was accurate. I made a comment that scales don't lie (in an effort to dismiss the subject). Her next question had the subtlety of 100 grit sandpaper: "Have you noticed your clothes have begun to fit more tightly?" My wife nodded in silent agreement. I felt like I was at a parent teacher conference being called out for passing notes in class. Except in this case, I was being called out for repeatedly asking someone to pass the gravy.

Along with this pleasant topic of conversation, my doctor made some adjustments in my medications. In the interest of being through, my doctor also scheduled me for a cardiac stress test. I have some mild anxiety over this forthcoming test but I was usually able to divert myself with other things: work, watching the Braves lose the wildcard playoffs after a good season, learning new chords on the mandolin, or preparing for two upcoming midterm exams. OK, maybe that last one wasn't the best way to avoid stress. Getting an F on one of these midterms is more stressful. After all, this will require that my wife and kids will have to meet with my teachers. I'd prefer not to be the only grounded parent in my neighborhood. In the days that followed, my wife caught a terrible cold. I did my best to keep my distance while proving her with a never ending supply of cold medicine and cough drops. My room reeked of eucalyptus. I had koala bears knocking on my door at 3 in the morning begging me to hook them up.

The day before the stress test, my wife got a phone call from the office performing the test. They said I could not eat for 4 hours prior to the test and I could not take my blood pressure medicine. I don't know about you but it was beginning to sound like they were stacking the deck against me. I was sure that any minute they were also going to feed me a fried bologna sandwich and make me sit in a sauna for 20 minutes before the test. This didn't happen which was sad. I rather enjoy fried bologna.

A cardiac stress test involves attaching enough wires to your body to become an antenna for the nearest college radio station then briskly walking on a treadmill. You start at a nice pace with no incline. As the walk continues, they increase the speed and the incline. During all of this, a nurse has a blood pressure cuff wrapped around your arm. This requires a lot of talent considering that you are walking and wired for sound (I think I hear the B-52's playing). So every minute or so, the nurse will say "30 more seconds on this level". Then, as you make your way up this imaginary hill and you feel as if your face will explode, the nurse inflates the blood pressure cuff on your arm to get another reading. I can only describe this part of the experience by saying I think I know what it feels like to be a zit.

The speed and incline got me to where I felt like I was racing my way to claim a prize at the top of Stone Mountain. It would have been true as I was really getting an urge for that fried bologna sandwich. The routine continued: "30 more seconds, Shane", another blood pressure reading, and my head feels like Mount Saint Helens. At this point, the treadmill slows down and the incline levels off. The nurse then takes off the leads which held the monitor wires (Darn, I was really digging that song). It is at this point that I should delicate point out that I am, shall we say, hirsute (i.e. hairy as an ape). I didn't really think of the repercussions at the beginning as the nurse was strategically shaving areas of my chest to place the leads. Now that the leads were off, I looked like aliens have made crop circles on my chest.

I left the office with my wife and I treated her to breakfast. Now, I know what you are thinking. So, let me just set the record straight. I DID NOT HAVE a fried bologna sandwich. After breakfast, I went home to relax and prepare for a midterm that was taking place that evening. As the day went on, I began to notice that my very generous wife had something waiting for me once I got home. She had given me her cold. Man, I had JUST gotten rid of those koalas, too.

Professor Momma: TV Travel 101

2010-10-05T22:27:00.000-04:00

   My mother was a very patient and accommodating woman going back as far as I can remember. I am the youngest of three children my parents brought into this world. Given that two siblings came before me, my mother had grown accustomed to the (seemingly) constantly inquisitive mind (and mouth) of a child. I was certainly no exception to this rule. I would ask my mother questions about whatever happened to pique my curiosity. My mother would respond matter-of-factly with an informative answer.
   She would often do so without even having to stop whatever it was she was doing. Sometimes, she wouldn't even have to face me. We could be in the produce section of a grocery store. My mother would be diligently inspecting a cantaloupe for potential purchase. I would be behind her (but always within arm's reach). The conversation usually went like this: "Momma, what's that?" "It's an eggplant and don't touch, Honey." "Momma, is this a big potato?" "That's a rutabaga and don't touch." "Do roobagrabbah's taste good?" "It's a 'ROOT-uh-beg-uh' and they taste very good. They are also good for you." [Note: When Momma said it was good for me, it usually meant I wasn't going to like it.] "Is the purple egg thing good for you, too?" "Yes, eggplant is very good for you" [News Flash: I don't like eggplant either]. "What's this, Momma?" "It's a coconut and DON'T TOUCH!" We would continue to the meat counter, the dairy section, etc. etc. We even passed by a kid being reprimanded by his mother for breaking a dozen of unpaid eggs. I proudly and smugly informed him: You're NOT supposed to touch." "SHANE, THAT'S UGLY!" My mother would then firmly take my hand and lead me onto the bread section. Like I said, she was very patient.

   This type of question-and answer was not limited to the grocery store. I could find my mother pounding cube steak with a glass soda bottle. It was loud and my mother was relentless. "Momma, why are you beating up on that steak?" "It helps to tenderize it and it tastes better that way." Another day, I was watching my mother iron some clothes. She would patiently and diligently iron this shirt and that pair of pants. "Momma, why do you iron stuff?" "It gets all the wrinkles out of them and they look nicer". Tender meat and wrinkle free clothes; Professor Momma was gonna make me one educated individual.

   One day, I was sitting in the living room while watching a show on a very small black and white television set. [Some historical perspective: there were three channels, no color, and no cable. Somehow, we deprived souls enjoyed it. Anyway, I digress.] "Momma, how do the people get into the TV?" "There is a TV studio on the other side of town. They have a camera that records the people. The camera then sends the recording using a signal. The antenna in our TV catches the signal and you see the people in the TV." "You mean the signal travels through the sky like an airplane?" "In a way, yes." "What does the signal look like?" "It's invisible." "AMAZING!"

   One morning my mother woke me up and said she had a special surprise for me. She got me dressed and made me breakfast. She then drove me to this really cool looking building with something that looked like a flying saucer outside it. My mother had taken me to the local television studio. Not only that, the special surprise was that I was going to be ON TV. That's right, people. I was a guest on "Miss Patsy's Playhouse" which was a local kiddie show in Columbus, Georgia in the early 70's. I learned that day that my Momma was not only smart enough to answer my questions. She was also talented enough to help me travel invisibly through the sky and into every TV set in Columbus, Georgia. Mr. Wonka, you have been one-upped to infinity.

In Every Man’s Life, Some Whiskers Must Fall

2010-09-27T18:52:00.001-04:00

As I have mentioned in some of my other writings, I currently work in technical support in a call center which many of my fellow colleagues affectionately (or with extreme irritation) refer to as a "cube farm". The company for whom I perform said technical support has staff which spans the entire globe. We have folks that work in several areas in the United States as well as staff overseas. In spite of this great, diverse, and widespread staffing, we all communicate with one another quite frequently (usually via email).

One day, one of our colleagues came up with a hair-brained scheme (pardon the intentional misspelling). He proposed that since the peak of our work season runs from Mid-August to Mid-October, the male staff should grow beards as a sign of solidarity. I guess he felt this was a way promote esprit de corps among the male staff. The female staff (thankfully) did not feel the need to participate in this activity. They instead decided to show their respective solidarity and collectively sashay away from the esprit de corps.

Many of us men chose to participate. You could easily dismiss as sheep following a call. Scoff if you will. We rams were more than happy to begin sporting our great naps of woolen whiskers. One man chose to wear a Van Dyke beard. Another man chose to channel his inner Abraham Lincoln and wear a chin curtain beard. One man had to recuse himself from the activity as he already had a nearly waist length beard that would have made Billy Gibbons green with envy. Other male colleagues (and I as well) chose to grow a full beard.

As each week passed, we admired the growth of some beards and pitied the attempt of others. "Dude, your beard is filling out real nice." "Hey, son; why don't you peel off that peach fuzz and have your Mom read you a nice story". "Dude, stop crying. We were only joking." We sat at our respective cubes and stroked our beards (and our egos) with great pride. I have to admit; the male bonding ritual was quite enjoyable.

Alas, not all was great in this great state of heavenly hirsutism. My daughters would not come near me. I had been dubbed "Scruffy". I took such comments in stride. Then, I began to notice something that became much more prominent as time passed. The beard I had acquired in my forties had become significantly different than beards I had grown in my twenties. Patches and streaks of gray had begun to accent (or in some areas entirely cover) my wondrous beard. It was one thing to have your kids tell you that you are no spring chicken. It is another to realize that my beard has reached its autumnal equinox and I had the follicular foliage to prove it. The kids had dispensed the "Scruffy" moniker and began calling me "Santa". My wife had also stated her displeasure with the beard. In short, her husband had a beard and so does a turkey. She found neither to be particularly attractive.

With my approaching wedding anniversary right around the corner, I decided to do the unthinkable. I decided to get rid of the beard before the end of the peak work season that prompted its growth. I flicked the switch to the beard trimmer and hesitantly took that first stroke. That first clump of hair seemed to fall at half speed and make a reverberated thud onto the bathroom counter. I had crossed the Rubicon. There was no longer any room for rationalization or mind changing. Once I realized this, each stroke with the trimmer got easier and easier. I shaved off the stubble with a razor and foam and saw the lower half of my face for the first time in a month and a half. I looked down at the mound of whiskers piled up on the counter. I then dutifully cleaned up this pile. After all, if my wife saw that, I'd have bigger problems than a few gray facial hairs. The autumnal equinox that was my face has become more tolerable. However, the winter solstice is surely approaching. I can already see the snow on the roof.

Before

After

Comma, Come Here (Please).

2010-09-12T18:23:00.000-04:00

As a writer, I always find it particularly pleasing to learn something new as I am seeking to amuse myself and my readers. I found myself musing over some pet peeves of punctuation and grammar. For example, I detest the use of quotation marks for emphasis. For example, you walk into a thrift store and you see a handcrafted sign that reads: ALL SALES ARE "AS IS" WITH "NO IMPLIED WARRANTY". This implies that the terms of the sale could be left to interpretation. Apparently, the cost of ink is great to underline words than to encase them in quotes. Our country has an undesirable unemployment rate and there are a lot of folks seeking work. In spite of this we have folks throwing around quotation marks willy-nilly and forcing them to work outside of their job description. Anyway, I digress.

Given that it was my day off from work and I had no homework to do, I did some Internet surfing about punctuation. I ran across the name of a great man — Aldus Manutius (circa 1450 – 1515 A.D). Aldus Manutius the Elder made some great innovations in writing that we now take for granted. Manutius the Elder invented the use of italics in writing. This can be a great tool of emphasis or aside information when used correctly (unlike those poor quotation marks). Manutius the Elder also established the modern use of the semi-colon. More significantly he produced what was then known as octavo book (one-eighth size paper). This allowed books to be carried in one's pocket or satchel. That's right, folks. Manutius the Elder created what we know as the paperback or pocketbook.

You may wonder what lead me to start this Internet search in the first place. Some might suggest that it could be one of the three following reasons: a) I was looking to expand my knowledge. b) My warped mind took me onto a new adventure. c) I was incredibly bored and my wife was hogging the television. Mind you, all three scenarios were a factor but the third was probably the greatest motivator. It all started very simply. My wife had to draft a 300 word essay for entrance into a college program. At first, she asked for my assistance as she was unsure that she could pound out 300 words. I found this laughable. A diplomatic person would say that my lovely wife is blessed with the gift of loquacity. I would quote the late Jerry Clower and suggest that my lovely wife "sure can shell down the corn". The point is that 300 words would not be a problem.

As I reviewed her essay, I corrected some spelling here and suggested some rewording there. I then noticed something very distinct. I have also reviewed a lot of essays for our daughter Brianna. However, Brianna and my lovely wife Renee are very different in the way that they handle one lone item; the comma. My wife, Renee, tends to insert commas here, there, and, everywhere with such reckless abandon, that is only rivaled by, the aforementioned quotation mark in its use. My daughter Brianna on the other hands writes gloriously long run-on sentences that are four feet long five feet wide and could pierce the engine block on an eighteen wheeler. I do not wish to come across like I am insulting either my daughter or my wife. Both have been known to prepare my meals. In addition, Brianna proofreads my essays before I post them to my blog site. I merely found this distinction between mother and daughter very intriguing. Therefore, I searched for the comma and found Aldus Manutius the Elder. Thank you Elder Manutius for all you have done.

I will submit a disclaimer here as well. I do not mean to suggest that I am an authority on punctuation or grammar. Several of my online friends are teachers (two of them are MY former English teachers). Instead, I will suggest that you turn to the writers' works below. I have no endorsement deal with any of these folks. I don't make a royalty nor do I get an autographed copy of their work (Mind you, I would never be so rude as to refuse such a gesture).

Lynn Truss – Author of Eats, Shoots & Leaves; a great book that provides an accurate tongue in cheek guide on proper punctuation. http://www.lynnetruss.com/
Mignon Fogarty aka Grammar Girl – I am a huge fan of the Grammar Girl podcasts and highly recommend Grammar Girl's Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing
http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/
Bonnie Trenga – Author of The Curious Case of the Misplaced Modifier: How to Solve the Mysteries of Weak Writing I bought this book for my daughter to help with her writing. http://sentencesleuth.blogspot.com/

I would also like to apologize to any of the above three writers for any implication that I have learned NOTHING from any of you.

Smooth Sailing….NOT!

2010-09-05T20:22:00.000-04:00

I sit here and ponder as I have completely my first week back in college. So far, I am ahead on my homework assignments and I am feeling rather confident about the whole thing. Mind you, I am sure at some point I will have my head spinning over an assignment and things will be normalized somewhat. After all, life without somewhat tension would just be downright boring. In the meantime I will just have to tolerate the boredom the best I can.

According to the Chinese calendar, the year 2010 is the Year of the Tiger. However, in my home, 2010 seems to be the year of educational pursuit. Allow me to bring you up to speed on things. My younger son, Caleb, is entering his senior year of high school. My older daughter, Shayna, has begun her final year in college as a psychology major. So, at the end of the year, I will have one child graduating high school and another graduating college. Needless to say, the cost of disposable tissues will skyrocket. That's fine; I know my wife will be there with a steady supply and a reassuring hand. In addition to this, both my older son, Tom, and my younger daughter, Brianna, are in the process of continuing their college education after working hard to overcome some personal setbacks. What can I say? I have never been a prouder father of my four kids. They all show great promise for their lives in the forthcoming year.

All of this wonderful change in my family can easily make my head spin. That's OK. I can always look to my darling wife and find some sense of calm in this great ocean of change. I had no idea that the tide had not quite come in yet. I was expecting my wife to help me hoist a sail. She didn't tell me I had to stand watch in the crow's nest. I guess I should just dispense with the ocean analogy and just get to the point. After all, I do not wish to bore you (and a pox on those who say "TOO LATE!")

After doing all of the administrative legwork for the kids and me, my wife decided that it was time for her to make a change in her own life. In some of the heaviest news since "Shane, I'm pregnant", my wife tells me that she intends to continue her own pursuit of higher education. My wife has decided to pursue a degree in Social Work so that she may counsel families with special needs children. This is an area very close to our hearts and I have no doubt that she will excel in her pursuit.

Still, it's kind of weird. All of my studies are online. I can't exactly carry her books for her. I won't have a pledge pin to offer her. I won't even have a letter jacket for her to wear (they don't offer varsity letters for blogging. I already checked). So, I figured I would try to find some other way to offer some support. She told me that for one college she would have to submit a 300 word essay. She asked me if I could help her with a 300 word essay. Clearly, she had forgotten about my prom night piece.

So to all of my family and friends, please allow me to apologize in advance for my lack of availability. For the duration, I will most likely be doing my homework assignment, finding out about my next homework assignment, or helping someone with their homework assignment. Someone please tell me the location of the tranquility Christopher Cross promised us all.

Shane Finally Goes to College (Again)

2010-09-01T04:59:00.000-04:00

Well, the day has finally arrived. You have heard me go on ad nauseam about admissions letter, class registration, and financial aid. True to the spirit of my writing you have read my random ramblings and mindless minutiae about my wife's unending support (and undying patience) and my daughter's many mantras. Actually, I think if she could, my daughter, Brianna, would press charges for the murder of her patience. I would like to reassure my wife and all four of my kids that such things are all behind us now. I'd LIKE to do that but I consider myself an honest man.

Today marks the first day of classes for my bachelor's program in Health Information Management. This is the start of a new adventure for me. I have set out to further my education and my career. I start this venture at the (relatively) young age of 44. It is my goal to finish this program before I am retired, dead, or too old to remember what I studying in the first place. In my mind, I envisioned the inspirational music playing in the background as I spoke about this. Alas, all I can hear now is the churning of my window air conditioning unit. I guess that will have to do since John Phillip Sousa is unavailable.

I am starting out slowly with two classes this semester so as not to get overconfident and overload myself with school, work, and watching the Atlanta Braves inch closer and closer to the playoffs (everything in its proper place).I am taking my classes over the Internet because my college is about 3 hours from where I live. The commute would be a bit rough on my van. I have all of my textbooks on the shelf and I can study at my own pace (within the confines of assignment deadlines). I can access my classes from anywhere I have Internet access. There is no dress code (provide that my webcam is not required). I don't have to raise my hand to use the restroom (the professors quickly tire of such phone calls). I can play music during my class. I might even whip out my harmonica during some classes and no one would know but yours truly (and my neighbors). The coolest part of all is that I can even chew gum and not have to supply it for the entire class. That's right, Mrs. Douglas in Life Science class in Room 80 at Quail Hollow Junior High School in Charlotte, North Carolina. I will NEVER risk having to write 500 sentences stating that I will not chew gum in class. HAH, I say. HAH!

I have started reading some of the course materials and have even completed some of the homework. One of the homework assignments was posting a discussion thread introducing myself to the class. I even restrained myself from my kneejerk reaction to tell my fellow students that I like long walks on the beach and men who aren't afraid to cry. Instead, I just stuck to the facts. Don't get me wrong. I don't personally have anything against long walks on the beach and men who aren't afraid to cry. They just aren't on my list of favorite things.

So there you have it folks. A lot of you are probably thinking that since all this college stuff I have been anticipating has come to pass, I probably move on to other subjects for my writing. To paraphrase Michael Corleone: "Who's being naïve?"

The Wait Vol. III: A Nice Credit Report

2010-08-22T22:05:00.000-04:00

I had finally received the admissions letter. Now, I just had to find out what credits had transferred from when I went to college for my two-year degree. I was trying my best at this point to take my daughter's advice and just "CHILLAX!" I wasn't QUITE sure exactly what that word meant so I thought, alternatively, I should just try to take it easy and wait patiently. By waiting patiently, this meant that I would ask my wife (on an almost daily basis) to please call the college on my behalf to follow up in my credit transfer issue as well as financial aid status, registration instructions, and anything else I might need to know to proceed further in the pursuit of my higher education. This proved difficult for my wife because she often had trouble reaching the college. This was due to the fact that the college was observing "summer hours". This basically meant that, during the summertime, the college had more limited hours of availability. In addition, apparently some of the staff that had the information I was seeking were on vacation. I mean, REALLY? Who takes vacation from a college during the summertime? This didn't matter however. My lovely wife has the tenacity of a bloodhound (she married me cause I am a smooth talker).

Several days later, I finally got a letter showing the credits that transferred from my two-year degree. I was kind of dreading this as I figured there might be some classes I would have to repeat. After all, while I did make the dean's list several times, I was not always a shining star in every class. I perused the list of classes that transferred to my four-year program. Some examples include:

College Composition – THAT was a cool class that I really enjoyed. The professor told me I was one of the strongest writers he had taught. You can blame him for being subjected to my essays.
Technical Writing – This one was a bit more challenging as I had to write in a more sterile field than I had been accustomed. As I recall, I drafted a memo to my wife that the class was over. She displayed it upon the refrigerator.
Astronomy – This was a class that really fascinated me (and still does). However, I discovered quickly that it is easier for me to look at the sky in awe than to know how many astronomical units it is from the Earth to the Andromeda Galaxy. I hoped to be a shining star in this class. I proved to be more of a neutron star (extremely dense).
Statistics – I can't begin to tell you how glad I was to know that I do not have to take this class again. This class occasionally had me in the corner reaching for my blankey. The teacher told me I was an average student but he was just being mean (Did you REALLY think I'd let that one go?)
All said and done, there were a total of 50 credit hours that transferred. I won't list them all as I don't wish to put you to sleep (and a pox on those of you that said "TOO LATE!")

So now, I pretty much have my financial aid in order. I have registered for two online classes for the fall semester. I will be ordering my books on the day after this writing. Now, I just have to enjoy the coming week as much as possible. In eight days from this writing, I will begin my online classes. At this point, I just need to enjoy my leisure time while I still have it. I think I will take my daughter's advice and CHILLAX! I think I'll just prop up my feet and listen to the radio. OH, MAN! It's THAT song AGAIN! Billy, in the name of all that is good; why not just break it off with the girl BEFORE the band comes down Main Street. GIVE US ALL A BREAK!

I Rocked Too Hard

2010-08-01T21:51:00.001-04:00

Some extended family of ours is in the process of moving. During that process, they weeded out and handed down some older belongings of theirs. Among these belongings were an older video game system, a collection of games compatible with said system, and some controllers. When my daughter, Brianna, was handed these items; her reaction is what many physicians and scholars have referred to as going gaga. She didn't actually make an audible gaga sound. Nonetheless, you could see the glazed look in her eyes and her unnaturally widened smile and know she had definitely been afflicted with gagas.

The next Sunday morning, Brianna had wasted no time in hooking the video game system to our television in the living room. It wasn't long before she and her brother, Caleb, were playing a game together. This wasn't just ANY kind of game. This game simulates playing guitar in a band before an audience. It even included a guitar shaped controller. I say because there are no strings and no pickups. There are several colored buttons on the neck as well as a toggle controller on the body where one would normally pick the strings. You choose from a selection of real classic songs. You then use the screen to cue you as to when to press which button on the neck. You must also simulate playing the notes by moving the toggle controller on the body. Anyone who knows me knows that the mere mention of the word guitar is enough to get my attention. So, I sat down and watched Caleb and Brianna do their thing.

I was watching Brianna choose songs from bands like Foghat, Mountain, and Pat Benetar among others. Many of these songs were songs I knew from when I was younger than any of my kids. This made it even more interesting to watch Caleb and Brianna try to tackle songs they had probably never heard previously. The song was cued up and Brianna started ripping through the song like a seasoned axe slinger. I figured some of this was due to the fact that Brianna can play a few chords on a real guitar. This theory was quickly proven wrong. Caleb's turn came up and he chose a Mountain song. Now this was a classic song but I had doubted Caleb had ever heard the song before. You'd have thought that I had Leslie West, himself, sitting on my couch the way Caleb was ripping through this. He wasn't familiar with the song and does not play guitar. That didn't matter because he had played this guitar game quite a few times previously. The kids were having a blast and I was having fun watching their virtual shredfest.

Brianna then held up the guitar shaped controller and said "You wanna give it a try?" Now, I not only had heard these songs many times over my lifetime. I actually knew the chords to a few of them. All the same, I chose the Pat Benetar song. It was a song I knew and I knew the chords. What happened next can only be described as a quick exercise in humility and humiliation. I didn't make it halfway through the song when I was told by the game that I failed and was booed by the virtual audience. Here I was thinking I could get Pat Benetar to fire her husband. Apparently, I wasn't even good enough to get an audition for Spinal Tap. I could actually see Nigel Tufnel shaking his head at me and saying I was "dreadfully, frightfully, bloody awful". I actually went upstairs and grabbed my red Squier Affinity Telecaster. I HAD to assure myself that I KNEW the chords to this song and the passage of time had not erased my memory of those cool power chords.

Caleb took the controller (once he and Brianna stopped laughing at me). He chose another song and started jamming. He was REALLY getting into it. He had his body hunched over and even had a cool grimace on his face. You'd have thought he was headlining a great summer outdoor concert. He suddenly shifted his body back. This motion tugged the controller cord connected to the video game system. Suddenly, the video game system slides off the bottom shelf of the entertainment center and onto the floor. The cool thing was that it landed face up and didn't cause a skip in the game. Caleb kept playing right through to the end. He then looked at the system on the floor and smiled. "I guess I rocked too hard". We all had a good giggle out of it. Caleb and Brianna kept playing the game. I remained content to just hold my red Tele. Pat Benetar still has her husband playing by her side and Spinal Tap STILL won't return my calls.

The Wait Vol. II: CHILLAX!

2010-07-14T23:46:00.000-04:00

The days continued. With each day that passed the ritual remained the same. I would wait for the time when the mail was due to arrive. The now seemingly scripted dialogue soon followed: "Did the letter come today?" "Not today, honey." "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?" "I dunno, honey. We'll see." My wife and kids had been very patient with me. They accommodated the daily questions. They would occasionally would pat me on the shoulder and tell me it would be okay. They even let me be when I ultimately began rocking myself in a chair (sans rocking chair) and repeating "They said it would be two weeks but it's been more than two weeks. Two weeks is FOURTEEN DAYS." They DID become a LITTLE concerned when I began marking each passed day on the wall with a chalk mark.

Finally, as much as they love me, my wife and kids had endured as much as they could take. They had grown tired of the daily questions and the rocking. My wife insisted that I clean the chalk marks off the wall. We had begun to incur legal costs as the postman had sued and filed an order of protection against my wife for her "unprovoked attack during the performance of the postal carrier's duties". Some people can be REALLY touchy I guess. Finally, I got up one day to discover that my daughter had written a message on my bedroom mirror: "It will come when it comes so CHILLAX!" So I decided to pull myself together. After all, my wife keeps telling me "Good things come to those who wait." I'll try to remember that the next time I am in the doctor's office waiting to undergo a "routine diagnostic procedure".

Then, one fine summer Saturday, I stood outside basking in the sunshine. My wife and daughter were both out of the house. I watched the cars as they passed by my house. I was beginning to embrace the day as a long overdue return to normalcy. It was around this point that this feeling began to overcome me. It was a good feeling but, all the same, it felt unusual in light of the self-induced near catatonic state from which my wife and daughter had all but forcefully ejected me (though they use the words "gently nudged").

Out of the corner of my eye, I began to see a shade of blue. I had seen this shade before but couldn't place why it was so familiar. As I turned my gaze to finds the source of the color it became clearer. A nice man in a blue uniform toting a satchel on his shoulder approached me. He seemed REALLY nervous. "Your mail, Sir", he said. I thanked him as I accepted the delivery from his trembling hands. This guy was shaking like Don Knotts in a deep freezer. "Your wife's not here, is she?" I told him she was out and he went his way. For the life of me, I don't know what it was about my wife that apparently made him so nervous.

I took the mail inside and began to sort out the bills and the mail that goes directly to the recycle bin (addressed to "Current Occupant". Suddenly, as I looked at the last piece of mail, the good feeling that came over me turned to ecstasy. IT CAME! IT FINALLY CAME! The letter read: "Congratulations, you have been accepted….into our BS in Heath Information Management program for the Fall 2010 semester….A transfer credit evaluation including the number of credits accepted will be sent under different cover." I'M IN! I'M IN! I'M IN! I whipped out my handy dandy cell phone and took a picture of the envelope. I then sent to picture to my wife's cell phone. She called me right away and proudly congratulated me.

Alas, the next few days passed by and I began to wonder: "Hmmm, what about that transfer of credit letter?" Then, it began again. "Did the letter come today?" "Not today, honey." "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?" "I dunno, honey. We'll see." My wife was kind enough to call the college and inquire today. They said the transfer of credit letter had been signed off by the director. I should receive the package in about a week or so. I have decided to NOT panic over this (thanks to the advice of Douglas Adams). After all, the postal carrier was kind enough to drop the suit. I think I'll relax and listen to the radio. OH, MAN! The radio station is playing Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods AGAIN! UGH!

The Wait Vol. I: Wait A Minute, Mr. (or Miss) Mail Carrier

2010-06-27T20:07:00.001-04:00

    I have found myself at the figurative crossroad recently. I have a hard time speaking about a crossroad without hearing Eric Clapton playing an A chord riff; but let's stick to the subject. I spent two years serving as a Hospital Corpsman in the United States Navy. When I got out in 1986, I worked in several hospitals over the next ten years as a phlebotomist (the guy in the lab coat that draws your blood for testing). In 1998, I was no longer in that field and, with the encouragement of my wife and a few loved ones, decided to go back to college.

   I completed my degree program in 2001. I spent most of the next eight years working in software/hardware quality testing. I now currently work in technical support. There have been some bumps in the road along the way (i.e. layoffs). Overall, I would definitely have to say that it has definitely been worth the investment of my time (and my family's time) to pursue that degree. Nearly ten years later, I find myself in my mid-forties at the aforementioned metaphorical crossroad. I know that it is MY crossroad because I can look up and see a pair of sneakers hanging over the power line. I could continue to maintain my current career in Information Technology (while picking up new skills along the way via experience). Alternatively, I could begin to move things in a different direction in the interest of acquiring new skills and becoming a better-rounded individual (and feed people a straight line about my physique). The one option I knew I did not have was to just stand at the corner and watch life pass by. I had to follow the wisdom of Yogi Berra: "If you come to a fork in the road, take it."

   My family has been telling me for years that I needed to find a way to mesh my hospital experience with my information technology experience. I finally found a degree program that appeared to do just that. Further research (with the assistance of my wife, Renee) showed that I could even pursue this degree entirely over the Internet (with the exception of internships). In the space of less than two days; my wife had called the college, we had filled out financial aid forms, and I had applied for admission to pursue a Bachelor's degree in Health Information Management. The college told my wife that they were waiting for my transcripts from my two year college. They told her that in approximately two weeks, I would receive a packet that would confirm my admission and tell me how many credits transferred from my two year college.

   I patiently waited a few days before I decided to get antsy. Mind you, my wife would probably suggest that I am apparently working on a different solar cycle (with much shorter days). I became the kid in the back of the station wagon destined for the family vacation spot. Every day I went by I would ask my wife if the acceptance letter had arrived. Very day she would patiently respond with "Not today, honey". Another day would arrive and the process would start again. "Did the letter come today?" "Not today, honey." "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?" "I dunno, honey. We'll see." If my wife was not available, I'd ask my daughter. Some days, Brianna would anticipate the question and just say "No, Dad. It didn't come today" You could almost FEEL Brianna rolling her eyes when I asked her.

   This waiting game is only exacerbated by the fact that I am beginning to notice there are a lot of artists singing songs about sending or receiving a letter. These artists include (but are not limited to): REO Speedwagon, The Box Tops, The Marvelettes, Brad Paisley, Pat Boone, John Prine and Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods. Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods have prompted me to get something off my chest here. So, please forgive me while I go down a brief bunny trail. Billy, I don't know who you are. What I DO know is that your young and lovely fiancée does not wish for you to be a hero. Can you please just tell the little lady that you WILL be a hero and to go on with her life? Otherwise, she is just going to get a letter and throw it away and we will still be hearing about it 35 years later. Therefore, I ask you, Billy. PLEASE cut us a break.

So, the days pass (as well as two weeks) and still no letter. The daily call-and-response continues between my wife and me. I know that any day now, I am going to ask my wife about the letter. My wife is going to turn to me with those gentle eyes and say: "NO! NO, YOU DID NOT GET YOUR STINKIN' LETTER! AS A MATTER OF FACT, WHEN THE POSTMAN CAME TODAY, I PUNCHED HIM IN THE MOUTH FOR NOT PROVIDED THE ONE THING THAT WOULD GET YOU TO SHUT UP!" When this happens, I will just have to lovingly look at my wife and ask: "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?"

   I did follow up with the college. They confirmed they DID (finally) receive my transcript and should receive something "any day now". I guess they work on a different solar cycle too. I think they have shorter days in the Arctic North. I guess I will just try and relax for now and maybe listen to some music. OH, MAN! They are playing that song AGAIN. Come ON, Billy. I can't take much more of this.

Georgia Trip 2010 Vol. II: Home of the Braves

2010-06-07T22:36:00.002-04:00

I had settled in my sister's house quite nicely. My sister and her husband have a very nice finished basement which includes a TV with two recliners, a separate room with a nice pool table, and another separate room that has couple of dressers, a few knick-knacks, and a bed. The bed rests on a bed frame that has been in the family since around 1973. I can still vaguely remember when my parents bought it. Over the years, it was handed down to my sister who has had it ever since. The wood is painted dark black. It seemed gigantic when my parents first got it. That may have been because I was 7 years old and a runty kid. The bed frame looks nearly the same as when my parents bought it. I say nearly the same because there is one difference. The frame came with a post in each corner that is about 7 feet from the floor at its tip. About two years ago, my Dad was putting some things away in that room. Dad lost his balance and grabbed at one of the bedpost to break his fall. He not only broke his fall; he broke the bedpost. In the end, my father was unharmed and the bed became asymmetric. I still envision my parents putting it together whenever I look at it.

I spent the next day with my brother from another mother — Stephan aka "Happy". Happy and I hugged when I got to his place. We hugged again when I left. We spent pretty much every other second between those two points reminiscing about old times, bragging about our kids (whom are bound to collectively save the world), and point out how much the other has begun to age. After all, only a loving brother would point out that some apple juice, hair treatment, and some iron supplement would be worth some consideration.

The following day was just as eventful. My sister has scored some tickets to see the Atlanta Braves play against the Pittsburgh Pirates. We left to go to the game. I couldn't help but notice that my brother-in-law, Larry, was driving in the opposite direction of Turner Field. They eventually pulled into the parking lot of a hotel. My sister, Marlene, got out and entered the lobby. I patiently waited and chatted with Larry in the car. I saw Marlene coming out accompanied by a young lady. She opened the door and said: "Jenny, this is my brother —Shane." Jenny graciously shook my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Shane." Suddenly, in the backseat next to me sat a man who looked me in the eye and "SURPRISE!" It was one of my closest friends from high school — Bill. Bill and I had not seen each other face to face in 25 years. Jenny, it turns out, is Bill's lovely wife. My sister had planned to surprise me by having Bill and Jenny come to Savannah and visit with me. I say she planned because I already knew about it. For starters, Bill had inadvertently let it slip when we chatted over the Internet the previous week. Also, I had recognized Jenny from pictures Bill had sent. I just wasn't about to tell somebody's wife that I recognized her from the pictures I saw on the Internet. Bill and I kept mum until we were about half way to Turner Field. After all, I didn't want to ruin the surprise for Marlene.

Now, I had looked forward to this game since I bought my plane tickets 3 months prior. Reuniting with Bill was icing on the cake. We even took a picture together with the bust of Hank Aaron. I mean, c'mon. When you have three Georgia legends side by side, you MUST get a picture. It was shortly after this that things changed. A few drops began to fall. Suddenly, it was pouring. We ran to the gift shop and Bill scored us all some rain ponchos. 81 minutes later, we all headed to our seats. A talented chorus of kids from Dacula Middle School sang "The Star Spangled Banner". The Braves lineup was introduced. The stadium was full of fans waiting with bated breath for the game to start. Then, it happened again: drip, drip, drip. The grounds crew began covering the field with tarp again.

The game resumed a short time later. Chipper Jones, Martin Prado, Yunel Escobar, and the rest of the Braves were in top form. We were riding the wave of this great game. Perhaps I should have not let the image of a wave enter my mind. It was the top of the 9^th inning. The Braves were ahead 7-3 and had already given the Pirates one out. Then, it started again. Rain came down fiercely and suddenly. The raindrops were as big as your thumb. People got up in droves and made a mass exodus to leave their seats. We tried to hold out and keep hope alive. I was very thankful for the poncho Bill provided. A couple sitting in front of me whipped out umbrellas. Had it not been for the ponchos, the runoff from the umbrellas would have soaked my pants. We finally relented and began to make our way out. An announcement came over the PA system: "ONLY TIME HAS BEEN CALLED. WE STILL INTEND TO RESUME THE GAME. WE THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE."

About halfway to the hotel where Bill and Jenny were staying, we found the game on the radio. It was clear the commentators were getting quite tired as they kept fumbling their words. Finally, at 12:32 AM, the Braves finished the inning and finalized the score of 7-3. As of this writing, the Atlanta Braves are at the top of the National League East. I knew there was something special that night when Bill and I took that picture with that bust of Hank Aaron. When you get three Georgia legends in the same place, you KNOW it's going be fun.

Georgia Trip 2010 Vol.I: Defy the Slaw

2010-05-28T14:53:00.001-04:00

Well, folks, the day have finally arrived. I am now in transit to the great state of Georgia to visit my friends and family. I am typing this from an altitude of about 10,000. You may wish to drink some water or chew gum to adjust to the pressure change while reading this.

I was a bit tense going into the flight. I love to fly. In spite of this, I am always expecting something to go wrong. Nothing tragic, mind you, I just always expect some kind of inconvenient snag. It's those three laws of inconvenience that hover through my mind:

Murphy's Law – "If anything can possibly go wrong, it will"
Sod's Law – "Murphy was an optimist"
Cole's Law – Cabbage mixed with mayonnaise (which I detest)

First of all, I'd like to publicly thank the kind lady who happened to find my driver's license on the floor while we were both standing in the line for the security checkpoint. I heard someone behind me say: "Someone dropped their license". This was also the point when I noticed that it was no longer in my hands. That could have easily brought my flight to a grinding halt. BAD LICENSE! BAD! BAD! For the record, I did NOT reprimand my license in public. Such behavior would have surely resulted in some additional "processing" at the security checkpoint. I typically have no problem allowing my warped mind to generate suspicious stares from people. Nevertheless, as much as I support the efforts of the Transportation and Security Administration, I'd rather not add to their workload if I can avoid it. Thankfully, the screening went smoothly without a hitch (and more quickly than I anticipated). I had a quiet talk with my license in the men's room afterward. After all, a firm talking to seemed to be all that was necessary.

I arrived at my gate and waited for the boarding call. Since the screening at security checkpoint went so swiftly, I had about 90 minutes to spare. I went online to speak to my wife. I even sent a link to my wife so she could check on my flight status. Then an announcement came over the PA system: "ATTENTION AT THE GATE. THIS FLIGHT IS OVERSOLD. WE ARE LOOKING FOR VOLUNTEERS TO GIVE UP THEIR SEATS SO THAT NO PASSAENGERS WILL HAVE TO BE BUMPED." GREAT! HERE WE GO! I get the security checkpoint and NOW they lower the boom on me. Fortunately, several folks quickly gave up their seats in exchange for a voucher on a future flight. Another crisis has been averted.

Once I was in my seat upon the plane. I noticed a little girl in front of me about 5 years old. Her name was Hannah. Girls named Hannah always bring joy to my heart. It was her birthday. She was thrilled to pieces when the aircraft took off. "THIS IS AWESOME!", she exclaimed. It took a little girl to remind me that I just needed to chill and enjoy the wonders of flight. Thank you for that, Miss Hannah and Happy Birthday. I hope they aren't serving cole slaw on this flight. I REALLY despise that stuff.

Come Out and Play

2010-05-14T21:33:00.003-04:00

It is known that you can give two boys a stick and a rock and they will create a game within minutes. They will then spend another 45 minutes deliberating over the rules. What can I say? We males really dig games. I realize women do as well. After all, my wife could probably teach Marv Levy a thing or two about the history of the Buffalo Bills. She probably also has a better chance of throwing a completed pass but I digress. Sports and games are a huge part of American culture. Sports can bring out an esprit de corps that inspire people to shout at the top of their lungs, consume untold quantities of junk food, and spend a week recovering from the horrendous cold brought on by parading around while shirtless and painted in 12° weather. For example, I live in Western New York. As a native Georgian, I LOVE watching the Atlanta Braves (I know, who am I to take shots at the Bills?) I can walk the perimeter of the local mall wearing my Braves hat. There is a good chance that a random stranger will see me and shout: "CHIPPER JONES RULES! GO BRAVES!"

However, it should also be noted that sports are not just for the armchair athlete. You can't go to school, church, or work without hearing somebody talk about their fantasy league. They have fantasy leagues for about any sporting event that come to one's mind: baseball, football, basketball, hockey, soccer, auto racing, lacrosse, disc golf, croquet, bocce, darts, jai alai, or synchronized swimming. Actually I am not sure about all of those. I don't think there is really a disc golf fantasy league.

Then you have the world of intramural sports. Most people have jobs that include some kind of sports league. This is designed to bring out that aforementioned esprit de corps amongst you and your co-workers. You may scoff about that funny, geeky guy on the other side of the cubicle wall. So what if he has the strange laugh and the annoying habit of clearing his throat. This doesn't change the fact the he has a left hook that brings the company's bowling league to a certain victory. Let the jerks from Ignoramacorp® continuously drink the last of the coffee in the break room. You'll get even at the next paintball tourney. I even had one of my colleagues do some recruiting for a league at my job. He asked: "Shane, do you like kickball?" "Say WHAT?" I politely responded. He repeated: "Do you like kickball?" I responded: "I did in third grade." He didn't need my snotty remarks anyway. He quite successfully recruited enough co-workers to form a team without me.

While I am glad my colleague found a way to have fun and promote camaraderie, I can't help but wonder — Where does it go from here? We have grown folks playing kickball on a self-formed league. You can even watch a spelling bee on a sports network. The worst part is, I run across this bee on the TV and suddenly I am unable to change the channel. I am suddenly shouting at an 11 year old girl for misspelling "colloquialism". Next thing you know, there will be a commentator giving a play by play on a marbles game: "Welcome back from the commercial break folks. Tommy Smitherson is still dominating this round. We now have Scotty Jamison at the taw line. Jamison is returning after a histing controversy in 2008. He seems a bit rattled by Smitherson's perfor…OH MY GOODNESS! JAMISON HAS LOFTED HIS AGGIE AND TAKEN THE TIGER'S EYE! THIS PLAYING FOR KEEPS TOURNAMENT HAS COME TO A SHOCKING AND SUDDEN END, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Great, I had Smitherson in my fantasy league.

DADDY, I WANT THAT!

2010-05-07T21:38:00.000-04:00

As a father of four, I am no stranger to the fact that rearing a child is full of challenges. There were many times during my children's younger years that I would consult my parents on situations that seemed earth shattering at the time. Once, my son Caleb opened a brand new bottle of laundry detergent. He then poured about half of its contents into our carpet and ran his fingers through it. I relayed this story to my mother and frantically asked: "WHAT DO I DO?" My mother stifled her laughter and told me to thank my son for cleaning our carpet. I couldn't believe I didn't see the connection. Soap CLEANS fabric.

Sometimes even teaching simple manners to your child is a frustrating exercise. I am American by birth and Southern by the grace of God. That meant when I addressed an adult, the proper responses included the words Ma'am or Sir. Anything short of that resulted in a firm reprimand. Unfortunately, many Northern parents judged such a practice as a bit too militaristic. When my son, Tom, was about 4 years old, he was misbehaving. I called him over to correct his behavior. When he walked over to me, he said: "What?" I corrected him by saying: "SIR!" Tom then tried to correct his error by saying: "What, Sir?"

While it's true that my wife and I would face challenges much greater than I just demonstrated; a great many of them are behind us now. The aforementioned Caleb is our youngest. He will be 17 in a few short months. My three older kids have all graduated from high school (two are in college). As parents, my wife and I have experienced a similar transition. We have graduated from being rookie parents to being seasoned professionals. This allows us to enjoy the memories we have gained from rears of child rearing. It could just be that we are older now forget the fact that our kids are part of the reason we dye our hair. Such seasoned status allows us to worry less how we handle our kids. Now we do what every other parent does in our position — critique the behavior of other people's kids and their parents' reactions to them.

My daughter, Brianna, and I were in a department store recently shopping for a few items. We were browsing shampoos and conditioners when we heard the voice of a screaming child. This young boy was not being harmed. He was with his father and sister in a nearby section. His father was trying to browse the display of bicycles, skateboards, and other such items. The little boy would see an item such as a bike helmet. He would then loudly shout: "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" He would then put that item down and pick another one up. "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" This little boy did this over and over again. "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" My daughter saw (and couldn't help but hear) this child. This little boy was clearly getting on my daughter's last nerve. After all, when you've not yet had any children, you're not as thick skinned.

It was at this point that the little boy found a toy car. It was one of those toy cars big enough for a kid to sit inside it. This provided with the child with a point of focus. He no longer said: "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" He now announced: "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" My daughter and I began moving to another section of the store. We walked through the cookware department. "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" We walked through the bedding department. "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" We even browsed through the electronics section "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" This curtain climbing orator could be heard throughout the store. If the TV networks were to go under, this kid would be a shoe-in for Town Crier. "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" I couldn't help but wonder if the kid was thinking it through more than it appeared. He may have been banking on the idea that if he said "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" enough times, parents throughout the store would take up a collection to shut him up. Personally, I was hoping that his father would provide this carnival barker of a child with a nice woodshed. My daughter and I would have gladly paid for the lumber.

Motivation for Recreation

2010-04-18T20:00:00.002-04:00

   I currently work in technical support. It's a decent job that has provided me with learning opportunities and new experiences. Having said that, like any other hard working, red blooded, dyed in the wool Southern American man; I support the old adage that a bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work. I take no shame in admitting that I work for the weekend (insert three cowbell notes here).

   Most weekends, I prefer to do nothing (and I don't get around to that until about noonish). This past weekend, however, provided a rather unique opportunity for me. My wife and younger daughter were visiting family in Florida. This left my younger son and me with a unique chance for some one-on-one time. I had already purchased tickets for the home opener of the local minor league baseball team – the Rochester Redwings. I got home on Friday evening and was looking forward to a movie night with my son at home. I happened to read a post from a friend online. She posted that she had just finished watching "Rocky" and was getting ready to watch "Saturday Night Fever". I admit, a Knuckle Dragging Protagonist Double Feature sounds pretty cool. You could even go for the trifecta and add "Terminator" to that lineup. Caleb and I had other plans in mind for our movie night. We burly he-men decided to watch "Wall-E". After all, it had robots and gadgets in it. That makes it a guy movie (am I right, guys?).

   Day two of the weekend was the aforementioned baseball game. I have spent the most part of 22 years living in the Rochester, New York area. You'd think I'd be used to the colder weather and enjoy the two weeks of summer that start around July 4^th. You'd have thought incorrectly. There had been rain in the forecast and it had rained the previous day. It was 41° outside when we arrived at Frontier Field. Forgive me, but there is just something wrong about such weather at a baseball game. Sadly, I have no control over the weather. Given that the game went on without a hitch, I am not about to complain to the One who does.

   Caleb and I hooted and hollered throughout the game. We feverishly shook the complimentary cowbells we were provided. Given the temperature, the shaking came pretty easily. We ate like kings. Caleb took on a ½ pound burger with fires and a drink big enough to revive a dehydrated bull. When my 16 year old finished his meal, he loudly proclaimed: "I AM A MAN!" It's hard to argue with someone who took on a meal like that. It was 36° by the time we left (That's Fahrenheit folks. New York isn't on the metric system). The Red Wings pulled a sweet double play in the top of the 9^th that made it worth every bone chilling minute.

   Day three was spent watching the tube and catching up on some housework. After all, there is nothing wrong with living like men. The house just can't look like it when the wife gets back. Caleb and I then watched a show that may change my view about reality shows (probably not). "Billy the Exterminator" is about a deep Southern exterminator who can get rid of just about anything. If it has more than two legs (or no legs), and crawls, flies, or swims; Billy's your guy. Billy wears a lot of leather and spikes that look like he didn't quite get the gig with Judas Priest. The reason for this was quite evident when he was bitten by one of the creatures he was catching. Billy was unharmed. He worked on a catch and release policy. He capture (and released) a 5 foot alligator. He captured (and released) an armadillo. Much to my relief, when he came to a house infested with roaches, he eradicated them. I would have freaked if he found a way to release those vile creatures into the wild. Actually, Billy only did one thing I found questionable. He caught (and released) a beaver. The thing is; he took the beaver to a petting zoo. Pardon my ignorance; it just seems that an animal that can take down large trees with its teeth hardly encourages petting by human hands. I wouldn't even pet it with a stick. I'd have a pencil in less than 10 seconds.

   Alas, my weekend is coming to a close and my wife and daughter are due back in 3 days. My son is on a break from school through the coming week. I, on the other hand will be back at work. Still, I will work through the week until I can hear those three cowbell notes once again. Thank you, Loverboy for giving me the motivation to get to my recreation.

Nice To Meet You, Warren

2010-04-10T15:14:00.001-04:00

A lot of times, when I write, topics just fall into my lap like a spaghetti dinner on a white sport coat and a pink carnation (Forgive me, Mr. Robbins). Other times, it can be like typing the closed captions of a televised Bob Dylan speech — slow, unpleasant, and I usually wind up confused and frustrated. At times, when the latter is the case, I like to go somewhere public. I usually prefer to go the mall. There's a simple reason for this. I tend to write about things that I find absurd or laughable. Simply put, people provide the best material and the mall provides a lot of people. Napoleon I once said: "There is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous." At the mall, I can find both of those elements.

It was a great day to go to the mall. It was an almost unseasonably warm early April day here in Rochester, New York. It was nearly 90 degrees and the sun was beautiful and bright. I was wearing this really cool t-shirt. My wife got me the shirt. It has guitars on it that are painted all different colors. It looks like the paint is dripping off the guitars. It's a really cool shirt. It was a great day to drive anywhere. I was elated by the fact I actually has to turn on the air conditioner in the van. That's right, folks; 255 air conditioning wasn't going to cut it. [For the unlearned, that is 2 windows down while driving (at least) 55 miles per hour. I'd appreciate it if my Canadian friends can provide the metric counterpart]. I saw an open parking spot and eagerly headed toward it. Unfortunately, a compact car coming from the opposite direction beat me to it. I let out a barely audible sigh. I figured I'd find another spot soon enough. It turned out that the driver of the compact car had an open spot directly in ahead of the original spot (leaving said spot open for moi).

I stepped out of my van and could not help but be overcome (once again) by how beautiful the day was. Apparently, the driver of the compact car had the same feeling. He approached me and said: "Is this a beautiful day in Rochester or WHAT?" He was a bald African American man about my age and height. He was quite muscular. This fact allowed him to offer a very hearty and firm handshake. He then complimented me on my t-shirt (I TOLD you. It's a COOL looking shirt). He then explained that he was a drummer and also enjoyed playing acoustic guitar. This proved something I have observed many times. There are three things that can cause an instant bond between two men that have never met: gadgets, outdoor grills, and a love of music.

We engaged in a great conversation about music. We talked about different artists in a variety of genres: jazz, blues, rock, hip-hop, reggae, country. We talked about the unplugged craze of the early 1990's (one of the best things to happen to the music industry). We talked about some of the great musical acts of the 60's and 70's. We went on and on about the great riffs of Cream, Blood Sweat and Tears, and James Brown (and that beautiful ninth chord he used over and over again). We actually sang lines to each other from acts like Stevie Ray Vaughan and Grand Funk Railroad. People passing probably thought we were freaks (so you KNOW we were having a good time).

We then decided to walk into the mall as we continued our impromptu chat. He asked me if I still played. I explained that tendonitis had, unfortunately, rendered me very out of practice. I then explained that I primarily spent my free time writing for my blog. We could have gone on for quite a while longer. Instead, we mutually agreed to get on with our day. He extended his hand again and shook my hand firmly. "I'm Warren Elliot. It was really great talking to you, man." "I'm Shane McAfee. The pleasure was mine."

I retreated to the food court to try and focus on a writing topic. I then stared at the people riding along on the carousel. My mind went back to my conversation with Warren. I couldn't get a Hollies tune out of my head. I STILL can't get it out of my head.

Sunshine Award

2010-04-07T19:47:00.001-04:00

The ever-wonderful Megan at A Dash of Nutmeg has made me a very happy blogger today by giving me my very first blog award, the sunshine award!

If you haven't yet visited A Dash of Nutmeg I highly recommend it! Megan presents some very delicious recipes (which I have personally sampled once or twice).

Now, along with the award comes the stipulation that I have to pass it on to some others, so without further ado, here are my Sunshine Award Nominees (in no particular order):

David at The Occasional Humorist - A great humor blog from a very talented Canadian columnist.
Dr. Jeff Sanders at A Moment in History - I have known Jeff for nearly 30 years. He is a great and and a great historian.
Mignon Fogarty aka Grammar Girl - Great tips to improve your writing and grammar. Check out her book The Grammar Devotional.
Kevin Cummings at Short Cummings Audio - I love Kevin’s writing. BDGJM would not exist with his influence and mentorship. I have the honor of having an autographed copy of his hilarious book Happily Domesticated.
C. Hope Clark’s blog – This is a great source for upcoming writing contests. She sometimes offers a different perspective for writing. Besides, she’s a middle name person like me.
J. Timothy King’s Blog - Another great middle name person who is an independent romance writer. His blog isn’t only about romance writing. I love his work. We had had somewhat similar career paths.
Bonnie Trenga aka The Sentence Sleuth – another great authority on better writing and grammar. I highly recommended her book The Curious Case of the Misplaced Modifier.
My dear friend Megan at A Dash of Nutmeg. Megan is like a little sister to me. Her cookies are phenomenal.
Comedy4Cast – a hilarious podcast by Clinton Alvrod.
On The Front Porch – Another great blog with funny stories that often revolve around the writer’s family. I love Wendy’s blog.
Hey, It’s Free! This is a great source to get free samples and giveaways.
Closet of Free Samples - Another great website for giveaways and free stuff!

Congrats to the winners. Now here's what you have to do:

Put the award logo on your blog or within your post
Pass the award to 12-well-deserving bloggers
Link the nominees within your post
Let them know they received this award by commenting on their blog
Share the love and link to the person from whom you received the award

Shane

Stop Laughin’ Momma!

2010-03-29T22:05:00.001-04:00

I have often written about my mother. I could go on and on about her many enduring qualities. She was incredibly wise, unbelievably supportive, and the most loving creature you'd ever meet. However, of all the positive traits that I saw in Momma over and over again, there is one attribute that constantly comes to mind. Momma was a good sport. I'd like to think that she was that way all of her life. It's quite possible that she was. However, by the time I met her she was already 25 years old (I'll have to go into the day we met some other time). The truth is she most likely HAD to be a good sport just to endure the average day in the McAfee home.

My father is a man who, like me, has a very warped sense of humor. My father uses this trait to do many things. We have all fallen prey to Poppy's practical jokes, southern sarcasm, and zingers that became a staple in our house. This sometimes meant that my Dad would exercise his humor at my mother's expense. Momma took this all in stride. She usually gave Poppy a dirty look or sometimes laughed as much as he did. The downside of this is that my parents saw fit to reproduce. This meant that while my brother, sister, and I inherited our mother's diplomacy, we inherited our father's warped sense of humor. We all took playful verbal jabs at each other. We also would occasionally set out sites on Momma. So, along with tolerating my father's antics, she would bear the behavior of her three darling children (who were just like their father). Like I said, Momma was a good sport.

Momma was a little over a year older than Poppy. In addition, her hair greyed prematurely. Momma got her first grey streak at 12 years old (it's not ALL my fault). This meant that Momma was subjected to a lot of jokes about her age. Most of these jokes were at the hands of her loving husband and offspring. For example, my sister, a high school senior at the time, was making decorations for the homecoming senior float. She asked Momma to help with the decorations. My mother replied: "I'm not a senior." My sister quipped: "Yes, you are. You're a senior citizen." I was beet red with laughter. Mind you, it was my sister that made the snide remark. It was me, however, that got the dirty look (for laughing so hard). I once asked my mother if Methuselah was her prom date (read the book of Genesis if you don't get that joke). My Dad would get his jabs in once in a while as well. My mom knew that, one day, she would get to see all of us have our comeuppance. Once, in a restaurant, Poppy was teasing the waiter. The waiter playfully (but unexpectedly) returned the fire. My mother not only laughed at the waiter's response; she applauded.

These days, the tables have turned. I am 44 years old as of this writing. I am older than my mother was when SHE was getting jokes about HER age. I work in a technical support environment. Most of my nearest co-workers are at least 15 years younger than I (some are more than 20). Needless to say, the old people jokes fly left and right at my expense. I get jokes about enjoying movies with sound. I get jokes about not being able to use my mobile phone because it has no crank. I even get jokes that it's OK to tell these jokes because I'll just forget them 5 minutes later. Today, however, my comedic colleagues hurled this greatest jab of them all. It went like this: "Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Neither, SHANE did". I couldn't help but hear Momma laughing and applauding.

Mr. Watson, Come Here, I Want To Text

2010-03-21T11:32:00.001-04:00

Today was a milestone day for me. My younger colleagues may scoff at me and think of me as an old geezer who graduated from Pangaea High School in a year that had a 19 in front of it. Let them scoff I say. For today, I became an integral part of the 21^st century. Today, I acquired for myself a mobile phone. Now, I can go anywhere in the world I wish. As long as I have my mobile phone with me, I am easily accessible for people to bug the ever living tar out of me. That's OK, because with my new phone, I can also call anyone I wish and return the favor. This is provided that I stay within the minutes allotted in my monthly plan, OR call between 9:00 PM - 6:00 AM, OR call during the weekend, OR call someone one the same mobile phone carrier. Other than that, the sky's the limit.

I felt pretty good about my new acquisition. That is until it was time to start using it. I sat there as my two daughters, Shayna and Brianna (along with Shayna's boyfriend Mike), came to my assistance. They pointed out that the first thing I needed to do was add people to my contact list. That sounded simple enough. You just select "Contacts". Then you select "Add Contacts". Mike then explained that I now need to type in the name of the contact I was adding. Ok, I could see this little box with its cursor blinking as if to taunt me. How, I asked, do I "type" anything? Mike then took my phone and pushed the side of it upward. I thought for a moment he had demolished my phone. It turns out, opening the phone up to expose a nice miniature QWERTY keyboard. "TOO COOL!", I said. Shayna rolled her eyes and told me that NO ONE says "TOO COOL!" anymore. I pressed onward. I am ready to add my Dad's mobile number to my contacts. Yes, I understand that my 68 year old father had a mobile phone YEARS before me. Now that we have all had a pleasant giggle over that, let's get back to the story. I decided I wanted to type "Poppy's Cell" for the contact name. I slowly, but persistently navigated my buffalo fingers over the tiny keyboard. I got as far as "Poppy" and started to panic. I couldn't find a way to add the apostrophe in "Poppy's Cell". After all, even in today's technology, punctuation is still important. "Poppy's Cell" is completely different from "Poppys Cell". There is only ONE Poppy. MY KINGDOM FOR AN APOSTROPHE! Brianna chimed in: "It's right there, Dad. You just have to press the Eff-En key." YOU WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE, BABY GIRL! As everyone was now laughing uncontrollably at me, Brianna gently pointed to a key labeled "Fn". I simply pressed that key then another key. My long sought apostrophe finally appears. I was then able to save my Dad's contact information successfully. Shayna, Brianna, and Mike were extremely proud of me.

The next step was to get an earpiece to allow me to safely drive and use my phone simultaneously. I went to an electronics store and a nice young salesman offered assistance. I told him that I needed an earpiece to do hands free driving on my new mobile phone. This way I can use my phone and not be cast into next year's defensive driving video. The salesman then gave me the device I needed. This doohickey was barely large enough to fit into my ear and stay in place. The nice young man showed me how to get this device to "pair up" with my mobile phone. I got that little thingamabob home and immediately tested it out. It allowed me to use voice commands. I said "Call Wife" and my phone did exactly that. Man, that was TOO COOL. I felt like Captain Kirk and James Bond rolled into one.

So look out, folks. I am a mover and shaker. I have a new mobile phone and a new earpiece whatchamacallit. I even have a custom ringtone. I can now be reached by friends, loved ones, and collection agencies anywhere in the world. Hello, 21^st century. Sorry, I'm late.

Fly On, My Fine Feathered Friends

2010-03-07T21:19:00.000-05:00

It has come to my attention recently that there are actually people who enjoy my writing. I'm not just talking about my wife saying "That's funny, honey". I'm not even talking about my daughter Brianna who has shared my writing with friends on occasion. I am talking about people outside of my house. I must admit that I find this gratifying. I feel something of a bond with those who follow my writing. It is with that very bond in mind that I feel the need to once again inform and (hopefully) entertain.

I am going to use this particular writing so that I pay tribute to one of God's finest creatures. I do not know exactly when it was that this creature earned its rightful place of respect in my life. I just know that over the years, it has made its way into many areas of my life. I speak of none other than that great majestic waterfowl —the duck. That's right, I said it; the duck. I am not ashamed and I feel better for getting it off my chest. The duck has made its way into many parts of my life. From as early as I can remember, I have referred to my four kids as "the ducks". I don't know why I started doing that. Maybe it was the vision of a drake with four ducklings marching in line (or thinking of myself as a drake). All I know is that it became a term of affection toward my kids that stuck. I have even referred to my kids individually as Duck I, Duck II, etc. If I call for Duck I and Duck IV, Tom and Caleb will acknowledge me. Shayna and Brianna will go about their business (as they are Ducks II and III respectively).

About a year ago, my son Tom was shopping with his girlfriend in a party supply store. Apparently, they had a clearance sale on miniature rubber ducks. Tom's girlfriend then graciously gifted with about 10 of these cool collectibles. I have a trucker ducky, a hunter ducky with a pith helmet, a pirate ducky, a nurse ducky, and even a Hawaiian ducky (wearing a very nice lei). From there, the collection has grown quite nicely. I have duckies that light up when you tap them. I even have a game of "Duck, Duck, Goose" that my son, Tom, got for me. I don't know who it was that said this but it's true: "With a rubber duck, one's never alone".

Now it would be easy for anybody on the outside to say that I am just suffering from a duck obsession. I would contend however that my duck fixation is kept in a healthy balance. After all, I am certainly not above eating of those fine feathered creatures. I rather like a fine roasted duck. Nonetheless, the idea of how they make duck sauce keeps me awake at night. In addition one cannot ignore the way the duck has permeated our popular culture. We have ducks as cartoon characters (most of which have a speech problem; bless their hearts). There is even a sports team named after ducks. I am not too sure about that one. I'm sorry, Anaheim. I just don't find a duck to be a very intimidating creature. Then again, neither is a maple leaf (forgive me, Toronto).

So, mock me if you wish. I can take it. I shall continue to find great delight as I stare at my rubber ducky collection. All I can do is look to the skies and see this fine creatures flying in a fine V formation. Fly on, my fine feathered friends. I salute you. Now, if you fine readers will pardon me, I am going to call for some take out.

My Awards Speech (Just in Case)

2010-03-05T18:56:00.002-05:00

I really like watching awards shows. Sometimes it doesn't even matter what kind of awards they are. They could be movie awards. They could be TV show awards. They could be awards for written works such as plays or books. They could be music awards. Well, actually, I might have to split some hairs there. There are WAY too many music awards shows. These include but are not limited to the following: American Music Awards, Grammy Awards, and MTV Video Music Awards (which is audacious given that they haven't played any music in at least 10 years). I have even been known to watch award shows for commercials (which is challenging because it's hard to tell when you can go to the bathroom).

Awards shows have some historic moments. I have made no bones about the fact that I am not a huge fan of soap operas. Nonetheless, it was beyond cool to watch the Daytime Emmy Awards in 1999. Shemar Moore stood at the microphone and opened the envelope and yelled "THE STREAK IS OVER! SUSAN LUCCI!" Susan Lucci had been nominated 19 consecutive times and had finally won. I enjoyed watching Michael Bolton accept his Emmy. That was a very noteworthy moment. Michael Bolton has recorded numerous cover songs. These covers range from a soulful recording of "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay" to an insulting interpretation of "Georgia on My Mind". But on that night, Bolton got an Emmy award for a song HE WROTE. It's a shame he never got the hint. Mind you, Mr. Bolton has won other awards since then. I doubt my opinion will cause him to lose any sleep (or royalties).

Then, of course, there are the speeches. We have cherished the moment when Sally Field enjoyed the fact that we really, really, really liked her (which is actually a legendary misquote). I was ecstatic to watch Cuba Gooding, Jr. literally do acrobatic stunts and tell everyone within the sound of his voice: "I LOVE YOU!" Then there was that poignant Grammy Speech by Bob Dylan when he said…actually I have never been able to make out a blessed thing he has EVER said.

Now is the time for me to be honest with myself. Sometimes, I would like to have the experience of making an acceptance speech. I guess it is just a fascination with the idea of such public acceptance (because a handpicked committee of judges has told the public that my work is acceptable). The reality is that my writing is not intended to set the world on fire. I will probably never even be present at an awards show for my writing unless I happen to be the guy printing up the tickets that year. But, just in case, I have included below my award acceptance speech. Give me a second please to find that napkin I had in my coat pocket. AH, there it is.

My Award Speech (Just in Case)

Thank you all very much for that warm (pre-recorded) round of applause. It is truly an honor to be, not just nominated, but standing here today accepting the award for Best Use of Parenthetically Enclosed Phrases (and Bulleted Lists). There are many people for me to acknowledge and thank. I wish to apologize, in advance, for anyone I unintentionally omitted. For anyone I have intentionally omitted, if I went on any further you would not be omitted (DUH!).

I'd like to thank my dearly departed mother — Norma Jean McAfee. You are the greatest steel magnolia to bloom from God's garden. While my writing did not truly kick into motion before you passed, your influence is in every piece I have written. Thanks for not becoming a nun all those years ago.
I'd like to thank my father — Lawrence Hugh McAfee. Thank you for all your encouragement over the years. Your gift of warped humor and sideline sarcasm has clearly been inherited (by my four children).
I'd like to thank my wife Renee and my kids: Thomas, Shayna, Brianna, and Caleb — Thank you for all the times you told me you liked my writing (and all the times you told me you didn't). Thank you also for all the times you pointed out typographical and spelling errors (often after I have already posted it on the Web).
To my former English teachers: Sandra Bath and Mary Thomas Arbee; and to the great guru of grammar Mignon Fogarty (aka Grammar Girl) — Thanks to all three of you for introducing me to a world of great writers and proper writing. I'd also like to apologize to all three of you for giving the appearance that I've apparently not learned a thing from any of you.
To everyone has followed my blog and continues to do so: Thank you very much. It is a pleasure to share my work with people who obviously have exhausted any other form of possible entertainment.
To a person I consider to be a mentor and a friend: Kevin Cummings………..

Oh, I am SO sorry they are asking me to wrap it up and I can barely hear myself over this infernal orchestra. Oh but I have to be sure and thank [segues immediately to a commercial].

Well, there you have it folks. Thanks for indulging me. This way, if the napkin winds up in the laundry, I won't feel so bad.

Even Toast Has a Purpose

2010-02-20T21:18:00.000-05:00

I enjoy writing. Honestly, I do. There is just something a bit cathartic to me about looking at life via my warped perspective and sharing it with the world. Admittedly, I also feel blessed when family, friends, or (on occasion) other bloggers/writers tell me that my writing is funny or that they can somehow relate to what I have written. My mother was an avid reader. She also, in her later years, wrote short essays as a form of pleasure (and perhaps also a bit of catharsis*). If there is anything I regret about my writing, it is that I did not begin doing so while my mother was still here on this Earth. That's OK, though. I find a lot of my mom's writing style in my stuff. So, if you find that some of my writing to be poignant** or insightful, the compliment does not belong to me at all. One only needs to give credit where it is due and say "Nice work, Norma Jean".

Unfortunately, I am often quick to post my essays before properly proofreading them. This results in some overlooked misspellings or incomplete phrases that I have to correct in an essay that has already been posted for the whole world to see. Given that unfortunate trend, I try to have my younger daughter proofread my pieces before I post them. She is typically very accommodating about this. However, there are several comments that I hear from Brianna over and over again:

"Dad, why do you always use such big words when you write? I feel like I always have to ask you what something means and you just tell me to 'Look it up'".
"Dad, your writing is so dry. It's like toast. You just ramble on and on about whatever random topic pops into your head."
"Dad, why you use so many bulleted lists in your writing?"

Imagine my surprise when, one day, my baby girl approached me with that puppy dog look in her eyes. That is a look that always indicates that she needs something from Daddy. Apparently, she had a writing assignment for a college English class. Even more strangely ironic, she felt that I was an appropriate person to assist her in this task. I could help but feel my mother pointing something out to me as if she were right there in the room. You can go to any greasy spoon diner in the world and order breakfast. As you enjoy your meal, remember this: even toast has a purpose. Also note below are two words that you won't have to look up their definitions.

* Catharsis -a: purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear) primarily through art b: a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/catharsis)

** Poignant - a: pleasurably stimulating b: being to the point. (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/poignant)

Curling Up to the Olympics

2010-02-16T20:51:00.002-05:00

I'll be honest here; I'm not much of an athlete. Actually, to be truly frank, I'm barely qualified to be an armchair athlete. Like many red-blooded American men, I enjoy living vicariously through somebody else doing all the athletic work. I was thrilled to see the New Orleans Saints win their first Super Bowl. I have even experienced the thrill of seeing my beloved Atlanta Braves play at Turner Field. I have even taken my kids to see our local minor league baseball team (Rochester Redwings).

On top of all those great aforementioned experiences, I would be remiss if I did not speak of the Mardi Gras of sporting events; the grand-daddy of them all — The Olympics. This is the great armchair event to which our eyes, hearts, and spirited are treated every four years. Well actually, it's every two years. You see, you get the Summer Olympics then you get the Winter Olympics two years later. Two years later, it's the Summer Olympics again etc. This writing takes place in 2010. Therefore, I get to watch the Winter Olympic Games which are hosted in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. I get to experience watching such great medalists as Apolo Ohno, Johnny Spillane, and Bode Miller. My blood pumps and my adrenaline flows at the thrill of watching the biathlon, the luge, and (wait for it) curling.

For the unlearned, curling is not an Olympic sport for cosmetologists. It is not even a form of weightlifting. Curling takes place on a flat sheet of ice. One player slides a big rock on the sheet of ice toward the center of a bull's eye target. While this rock (actually called a stone) is sliding toward the target, two other players, each holding a broom (Honest, it's a broom) sweep the ice ahead of the stone's path in an effort to guide it toward the center target. These athletic sweepers can even guide the stone to knock their opponent's stone away from the center target. By the way, did I mention that this is an Olympic sport that has many countries competing for a medal? If I had known I could rise to THAT kind of greatness, I would have been quicker to clean my room as a kid. I could have stopped my parent's nagging and trained for the Olympics simultaneously.

As I sit and watch this sport (so deemed by the International Olympic Committee), my mind is full of questions:

Why is it called curling in the first place? It's bad enough we have athletes with brooms. Couldn't they have called it something like Nordic Rock Ice Sliding or Highland Floor Darts?
Are there kids somewhere with a poster of a curling team on their walls? Are their curling trading cards? Is there some kid trying to negotiate a trade for a 1976 Gery Kleffman (which will probably cost a 1981 Jürg Tanner and a 1979 Morten Sørum)?
Are there endorsement deals for curling athlete? Is there a box of cereal somewhere bearing the likeness of a curling champion with a wide grin and thumbs up pose?
I noticed the player wearing protective eyewear. WHY? Forgive my ignorance but it's not exactly a contact sport.
What happens in the off season for curlers (is it OK to call them that?)? Do they audition for a role in "Stomp"?

I don't know if any of these questions will be answered. I may have to just sit and enjoy in silent ignorance. After all, it will all be over soon for another four years (or is it two?). I'd like to take a moment and apologize if I have unintentionally maligned or offended any curlers (that is hard to say with a straight face). May you all play your best and sweep your competition (Did you really think I was going to let that one get by?).

And Now, A Word From (insert product here)

2010-02-07T13:14:00.004-05:00

I have written about media entertainment (in one form or another) on occasion. I have spoken about reality shows, soap operas, and classic songs. I have rattled on about my dependence upon my laptop (which is currently in the shop). I have spoken about how my portable media player acts as my own soundtrack. Even as I type this, "Green Onions" is playing in the background. I have sometimes even silently wondered how my life would sound as a movie trailer. You know, those cool trailers where Don LaFontaine describes something really cool and it ends in some kind of O. Henry ironic twist: "In a world where a man is seated at the table by his beautiful wife. She stands in a beautiful red dress and serves him the best homemade lasagna known to mankind. She kisses him lovingly on the lips. Life SEEMS wonderful. Sadly, [sound of vinyl record abruptly skipping], he can't get the seal off the romano cheese. [man screams] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Anyway, I digress.

It is no big secret to anyone that knows me that I love classic television and radio shows. I have enjoyed many shows that take me into an alternate reality ("Alien Nation"), allow me to witness a top-notch cop solving a case ("Dragnet"), or make me laugh and cry at the same time (the 6 O' Clock news). However, there is a sub-genre of entertainment in television in radio that people tend to dismiss, ignore, or tune out. That's right, folks. I am talking about commercials.

I have heard many people go on and on about how much they despise commercials. My wife typically holds the television remote in her hands with her right thumb literally hovering over the buttons. If it is a show that was recorded on our DVR, she fast forwards through the commercials with the speed and execution of an Olympic fencer. If it is a live show, she will switch to another channel. There have been many nights throughout our marriage where I have missed 10 minutes of three different shows due to her incessant commercial dodging. I admit to savage amusement when she changes to several different channels and they are all airing a commercial. It's even better for me if more than one of them is airing the SAME commercial.

For the most part, I am on the other side of the fence from my wife. I love watching commercials. I think part of it is due to one fact that is as old as television and radio themselves. Television and radio shows would not exist without corporate sponsorship. No commercial, no show. In the early years of television, this was very transparent. Most TV and radio legends such as Jack Benny, Bob Hope, and Abbott and Costello starred in shows that were named after their shows sponsor. Commercials were incorporated into the script. To a point, such product placement still exists.

Nonetheless, commercials for me have the same effect sometimes as full length shows. Commercials have shown how we have changed (for better or for worse) as a nation. Personally, I am grateful for the fact that we no longer see celebrities advertise tobacco products. On the other hand, we still see people describe embarrassing medical conditions to their friends in a public restaurant. Personally, if I go out to eat with a friend and he happens to have anti-diarrheal medication handy, I question his taste in restaurants. Some commercials entertain me due to their placement. I personally think a conspiracy is afoot whenever I see a commercial for diamonds during a sporting event. Sometimes, I get to see an advertisement for prescription medication followed by an advertisement for a lawyer willing to take your case if you actually take this medication.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the icons commercials give us that we all take for granted. People are prompted to buy car insurance because a) a caveman tells us NOT to buy it or b) a hyper-caffeinated woman wearing too much makeup is willing to guide us through the process. Exotic animals urge us to buy breakfast cereals, snack foods, and the same car insurance provoking a caveman hissy fit. We even, on occasion, see a diaphanous, scantily clad model advertising a triple bacon cheeseburger (I don't know about you, but I am hungry all of a sudden).

Today, on the day of this writing, we get to witness the event that brings the best commercials have to offer: the Super Bowl. My wife is not even allowed to hold the remote during the Super Bowl. Man, there have been some great ones to debut during the Super Bowl.I still get a warm and fuzzy feeling when I think of the commercial with "Mean" Joe Green throwing a kid his jersey. The kid got the thrill of his life during that moment and you can see it in his eyes. These days, that same kid would auction the uniform to the highest web bidder. But hey, that's free enterprise. He could probably get that stock trading baby to help him invest the proceeds of the sale.

Feast Your Eyes (and Guard Your Wallet)

2010-01-16T20:40:00.001-05:00

I went to the mall today with my wife, Renee and our younger son, Caleb. Our primary purpose was to pick up a ring my wife had to have repaired. Caleb and I were fine with that because it allowed us to look at some beautiful men's watches. I gave Caleb tips about fashion and function as it pertained to picking out such a fine watch. I wanted to make Caleb's eyes bug out by showing him how much these watches cost on average. Unfortunately, I was unable to do so. Apparently, all of these watches were on hold for someone. I know this because right where they usually put the price, they had apparently put someone's phone number (including the area code and country code). My wife picked up her ring then helped Caleb and me recover from our agape astonishment. This took a couple of minutes as Caleb and I kept pointing to the price tags on the watches and asking each other in unison: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

As we proceeded to go from store to store looking at this, that, and the other; we passed by numerous kiosks. This is roughly equivalent to having a county fair barker in the middle of the mall. There were people offering to give me piercings (no thanks), sell me a cell phone (no thanks), or sell me tickets to a Chinese acrobatic performance (that actually sounded pretty cool but maybe next time). I even got to witness something I had never seen before. There was a kiosk that demonstrated a woman getting an eyebrow threading. I saw the sign for this and got the image in my head of a woman (somehow) willingly getting her eyebrows sutured. However, it is apparently a grooming technique for women. I can only describe it by saying it's kind of like mowing your lawn with dental floss but only slightly less time consuming.

It was at this point that I needed to go to the men's room. This required me to pass through the food court. This made me glad that I had already eaten before I got to the mall. My eyes and nose were taunted by aromas and advertisements of tacos, cookies, Chinese dishes, burgers, and enormous slices of pizza. Any of these selections come with a beverage in a container so large, you could flush a camel's kidney's in less than two minutes. I find the offering of a beverage that size to be downright cruel because they offer this to a person then make them walk nearly a quarter mile to the nearest restroom.

I met up with my wife and son then we continued browsing. We ogled overpriced sneakers, eyeballed expensive books, and peeked at t-shirts pushing a premium price. Again, it was a nice way to spend an afternoon. If I wasn't already broke before I got to the mall, I surely would have been by the time I left.

Harmonic Happiness

2009-12-31T21:45:00.002-05:00

I have always enjoyed music from as far back as I can remember. I enjoy many different styles of music: rock, southern gospel, country (especially the older stuff), classical, blues. With very few exceptions, the one thing that ties my love of the genres together is the role of the guitar. The guitar is not just a beautiful, expressive, and versatile instrument. For me, the guitar is the primary element that makes a musician look cool and makes a song sound cool. It doesn't matter whether it's Marty Robbins falling in love with a Mexican girl, Stevie Ray Vaughan walking a tightrope, or the Everly Brothers trying to wake a girl at 4 AM (some 25 or 6 minutes after Chicago was searching for something to say), there would be a serious void without those strummed strings in the mix.

I have had a guitar around the house since I was about 13. My Dad would hang with his friends and sing old country and western songs. My Dad has even written a few songs over the years. It amazed me to watch my Dad strum those chords and sing songs like "Long Black Veil" or "Because He Lives". I, on the other hand, would sit in my room and struggle with that open C chord. One day, I finally got that chord to ring clear with no thudded notes. I then learned G, F (that was a toughie), D, E, A, and even a couple of minor chords. Some time after, I was not only playing along with my Dad, I was learning songs by Paul Simon, Bob Seger, and the Everly Brothers. I would even, on occasion, plug in, crank my amplifier, and bang out some power chords. In my mind, I was the next Paul Stanley. In reality, it only resulted in the windows vibrating and the neighbor's dog contemplating suicide.

I am now into my forties. My 70 watt amp is gone as well as the Les Paul I got at 17 (it was stolen 2 years later). I still have a very beat up late 1930's Gibson L-00 acoustic that my father gave me. Unfortunately, due to a nasty case of tendinitis (especially in my left hand) and the guitar's very wide neck, it is very difficult to play for more than 10 minutes at a time before the pain gets too bad to play. As a result, I am very out of practice and my older son is a better player than I was at his age. Nonetheless, I still pick up that old guitar and I start playing the chords to "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground". I never get tired of that song or playing those chords. Still, it does get heartbreaking sometimes that I can't play it for hours as I did when I was younger. I am sure, at some point, I will invest in another guitar that is a bit friendlier to my wrists. In the meantime, I just grin and bear it as I struggle with that nasty B7 chord.

This past Christmas, I got some really nice gifts. I got some rubber ducks to add to my collection. I got some DVDs of "30 Rock" (I love that show). In addition to these, I got a really cool gift from my older daughter. She got me a set of harmonicas in 7 keys. She told me that this would allow me to play something that would not be so hard on my wrists. As a result, I have been scouring the Internet for online lessons and tabs. So far, I have been practicing songs like "Love Me Do" and "Amazing Grace". Maybe over time, I can learn the harmonica part for "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground". At this point, however, I could have sworn I saw one of my cats updating his will.

Building the Bubble

2009-12-07T20:57:00.002-05:00

More often than not, when I write for my blog, the hardest part is putting myself in front of my laptop computer and opening the word processor. Usually once I get started, the words start to flow pretty well. I become incredibly focused and tune out the world around me. It is really a great place to be. It is just me and the work. As each word transfers from my mind to my fingers to the keyboard to the page, a wall begins to form around me. I become encased inside a great big bubble.

Sadly however, a bubble is not an impregnable fortress. A bubble is actually a very fragile barrier. It takes just the softest projectile and POOF; it is gone. Many a time, I have told my family that I am about to write. They allow me to get started. They are even kind enough to let me get my bubble formed. You can almost see the rainbow colors shimmering all around the bubble as I type. I am in the groove. I am in the zone. I am in the bubble. The words are flowing in a feverish frenzy (in spite of the fact that I have been advised to avoid alliterations altogether). The keyboard and I are one. We are a powerful locomotive — The Literary Limited.

Without warning, a voice emanates from outside the bubble: “Daddy, what is the formula to determine that two consecutive integers equal to eighty-seven?” POOF! My mighty bubble is gone. I take a deep, cleansing breath. I try not to weep in front of my daughter as I mourn the loss of my precious bubble. “Are you OK, Daddy?” Yes, Baby Girl, I’m fine. Try x+(x+1). “Thanks, Daddy.” She kisses my cheek and leaves the room with her ponytail swinging like a pendulum.

I take another deep, cleansing breath. I read over what I have typed thus far. I attempt to get back aboard that train of thought known as The Literary Limited. I slowly peck out more words. Tap. Tap. Tap. With each word the wonderful bubble begins to form again. I am back at the breathless, breakneck pace (while continuing with alluring, alliterative phrases). The bubble is not only back; but it is bigger and better than before (Oops, there goes another one).

There is another unfortunate fact about a bubble. As it becomes larger, it also becomes more easily penetrated from a greater distance to its center. “Honey, I lost another 4 pounds today!” POOF! The bubble is penetrated with such force that I can almost feel the liquid on back of my neck. I take some more deep cleansing breaths. I am actually trying to avoid hyperventilating at this point. I look her into her eyes and state: That’s good news, Baby. You look great. “AWWWWWW!” After all, she means no harm. I am writing for pleasure at this point in my life. This is not the time to turn into Jack Torrance. Besides, she really DOES look great.

I close my eyes for a moment. I gather my thoughts. I look over the words again. Tap. Tap. Tap. I do my best to build the bubble once again. I must remember, however, that a bubble is a very delicate container. Its use is only meant to be temporary. It is great to be inside the bubble. But, I must also be thankful for the elements outside of the bubble. Without them, there would be no reason to write in the first place. Now, where was I? Tap. Tap. Tap.

Weak Scrod and Parachute Pants

2009-11-29T18:19:00.003-05:00

There are some things in life that while being theoretically possible, their pursuit often seems to be an exercise in futility. You can only pursue them and hope for the best. The three best examples are: planning the next Buffalo Bills Super Bowl Party, explaining the plot of "Eyes Wide Shut", and getting a benefit from a warranty or insurance claim. I am going to explore the last of these items.

In April of 2008, I purchase a computer bundle which included the computer tower, a monitor, and a printer. In addition, I purchased an extended warranty. I purchased the extended warranty because, like the parachute pants I bought in 1984, it seemed like a great idea at the time. After all, this warranty was being backed by a reputable company which had gained a reputation for its customer service. In an effort to practice good taste, I will not mention the company by name. Let's put it this way, if you are in a seafood store, you don't want to get the weak scrod. In other businesses, it is probably best not to buy services from an agency that happens to rhyme with weak scrod.

We enjoyed our computer system greatly over the course of the coming months. Suddenly, without warning, the monitor gave up the ghost. It just stopped working. My wife called the company servicing our extending warranty. They told my wife that our monitor was covered under warranty until April 2010. That was really good news because it was the day before Thanksgiving. April 2010 gave us plenty of wiggle room to get our monitor repaired or replaced free of charge. My wife took the monitor to the store to return it. The man behind the counter then informed her that the monitor was not covered. Doing her best to maintain a cool head, my wife demanded to speak to the manager. The nice man (whose breath reeked of weak scrod) told my wife that when we purchased the warranty, it only covered the computer tower. Neither the monitor nor the printer was covered. My wife explained this to me on the telephone. I looked down and was sure that, for a minute there, I was wearing the parachute pants I bought in 1984. In the end, they wound up recycling our monitor and giving us a $10 gift card.

I shouldn't be surprised about this. Such things have happened many times throughout history. Scholars uncovered a record of an insurance claim. It appears that a man was looking to receive a benefit from Galilee Mutual Insurance. The man's claim asserted that while feeding his pigs, he dropped bag of pearls he was holding. The pigs began to eat the pearls and spit them out. The man was then severely hog cut. In addition, a wind storm blew in and destroyed the cages holding his sacrificial turtledoves. The turtledoves flew out and the man's dog ate them. Sadly, Galilee Mutual Insurance did not cover the man's claim. Galilee Mutual cited an exclusion in the policy: Matthew 7:6 – "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you." They also stated that the cages for the turtledoves would not be replaced as the windstorm fell under the Acts of God exclusion.

Another historical account tells of a man in 1588 that purchased a sextant. The sextant came with a 30 day no questions asked money back guarantee. The man filed a claim to get money back to return the sextant and repair damages to his ship. However, the warranty clearly stated that the sextant (a Vespucci 1600 model) was best used in conjunction with a map and a compass. The man used the Vespucci 1600 by itself and misinterpreted the readings. His ship wound up sailing right in the middle of the Spanish Armada fleet. This accidental placement in battle caused severe damage to his ship. The warranty also stipulated that the sextant is ineffective in British territory. The reason for this is that a sextant is designed to be used at night and the sun never sets on the British Empire.

As anyone can see, history clearly stakes the deck against a successful claim. All we can do is to get everything and writing and read the fine print as they say (whoever THEY are). Otherwise, you may be caught with your parachute pants hanging down and smelling of weak scrod.

What a Wonderful Word

2009-11-17T21:33:00.003-05:00

I have always enjoyed learning new words. Some of this is due to the fact that from as early as I could remember, my mother would advise me to "look it up". I'd grab the family dictionary. This great tome of reference was handy for increasing vocabulary and killing cockroaches. I think my parents figured I would either acquire a large vocabulary and become a great orator or develop huge biceps and play running back for the University of Georgia. Let's just say no one's ever confused me for Herschel Walker.

There are some words that I just find amusing. They are legitimate words with legitimate uses. Nonetheless, they sound funny to my ears. Some words even sound like you are deliberately trying to be funny when you use them. I have asked some close family and friends what words sound funny to them. I had no idea such a subject would result in sitting with my two sons; one holding a dictionary and the other holding a thesaurus. My older son even noted the irony that A-OK, alley-oop, and wassup are all in the dictionary but newb is not. I therefore present the following words with the reason why I find them amusing.

Annotate – This word came up because my daughter coincidentally called while my sons and I were involved in our vocabulary summit. The word simply means to provide explanatory notes on a subject. Still, I get the image of a 1970's medicine commercial: Having trouble remembering things? Talk to your doctor about Annotate. Write it down.
Behoove – This word simply means that something is potentially advantageous or beneficial. I hear this word and get one mental image: insect shoes. Would it behoove a bee to wear shoes? How can a bee be behooved?
Carafe – This word sounds funny to me because a carafe typically has a long neck. It is defined as "a bottle with a flaring lip used to hold beverages" (according to Merriam-Webster). I don't know what sounds funnier; the word or its definition.
Defenestrate – This means to throw someone out of a window. It sounds like a health condition. Mind you, one who has been defenestrated quickly acquires a health condition.
Guano – The word simply means bird droppings. I guess the scientific powers that be thought it would not sound offensive if they used a Spanish word. They were right. Now, it just sounds funny.
Juxtapose – Come on, now. Why not just say "side by side" and be done with it?
Ointment – Chicken pox is not funny. You should at least get a giggle trying to relive the itching. Salve just isn't funny enough.
Onomatopoeia – This is the use of words to represent a sound (The thunder crashed. The snake hissed). Go ahead. Say it to yourself. You just giggled didn't you.
Persnickety – This implies someone is fussy about minor details. If you don't find this word funny. I might suggest you are a persnickety, picayunish, fussbudget. Say THAT without a giggle.
Phlegm – I don't know why this word sounds so funny. It just does. It's not a shame to have phlegm. It's just a shame to share it.
Pomegranate – This is a tasty fruit. It brings the image of a magic trick. The magician made the rock disappear when he learned how to pomegranate.
Quiche – Real men don't eat it because they can't stop laughing.
Rubric – A rubric is the way that something can be categorized. To me, it sounds like a word you'd hear Scooby Doo say.
Scabies – Once again, the scientific powers that be went for the funny bone. It sounds a lot funnier than saying someone has parasitic mites. Those jerks are snickering as we speak as they develop a new ointment for scabies.
Similarly – OK let's review some of what we covered so far: After insisting that the pomegranate and the ointment be shelved similarly, the persnickety store manager was defenestrated.
Spelunker – This hilarious sounding word defines a cave explorer. What strange however, is that in spite of what the word implies there is no verbal component to this noun. A spelunker does not spelunk. He can however be defenestrated.
Sycophant – A sycophant is a social parasite; a person who users flattery or a self-effacing appearance to gain an advantage or favor. Again, this word brings a twisted mental image to my mind. The college-aged pachyderm told his parents: Mom, Dad, I'm a sycophant." OH NO! WHAT WILL THE NEIGHBORS THINK?
Wiki – A wiki is a web site that allows visitors to make contributions or corrections for the purpose of reference on a particular subject. From what I understand, the word wiki is Hawaiian for quick. Of course, I read that on a wiki web page so that's probably not true.

There you have it folks: a list of words which sound funny to me in spite of their legitimate usage. I am certain as time goes on. People will point out words I omitted. They're just being persnickety.

Hey There, Sunshine

2009-11-08T16:39:00.002-05:00

My work day usually starts off with a variety of routine sounds. The first sound comes from one of the four cats that roam our house. It is always the same cat of the four — Sonic. Sonic unfortunately has more respect for routine that he does for the sleep patterns of my wife and me. He jumps on the bed and emits what I have dubbed the Marge Simpson meow. In short, he meows at us; but is so apathetic he doesn't open his mouth to produce this sound. Sonic then feels it necessary to climb on my pillow and begin nuzzling my face. It's is usually at this point when I give the cat lessons in Newton's Law and the Laws of Aerodynamics simultaneously. All of this usually happens about an hour or two before the next sound of the day.

My alarm clock lies across the room. The reason for this is simple. If I have to get up and go across the room to shut off the alarm, I'll stay out of bed (WRONG!!). I reset the clock to go off in another hour. After all, I should have no problem going back to sleep and that extra hour will make all the difference in the world (WRONG AGAIN!!). The alarm clock emits a sound reminiscent of the Emergency Alert System tone as recorded by a mid – 1980's punk rock cover band. In spite of this, I endure this sound twice every morning; 5 days a week. What can I say? I can be as much a slave to routine as Sonic.

I then place my hopes upon my bathroom sink. Every morning, I approach the sink with the firm belief that my soul will be revived by the brushing of my teeth and the splashing of water on my face (Morning 3, Shane 0). I head downstairs to the smell of coffee and breakfast lovingly prepared by my wife. I walk into the kitchen to grab my coffee. It is at this point that I hear an ominous growl emanating from the kitchen counter. The coffee maker is hissing at me. It's almost as if my coffee maker doesn't like to do mornings and is in need of…well…a cup of coffee. I leave the room. After all, I already HAVE coffee. I am not going to tolerate such a contemptuous tone from a machine (I know; why stop now?).

Finally, I sit on front of the TV to look at some very important developments in the world. Once I see that the roadrunner has AGAIN eluded the otherwise intelligent coyote, I turn to the news and watch for the traffic report. Mind you, I take the same route to work five days a week. There isn't much short of a black hole in the middle of the interstate that will make me change my route. This is not an issue of routine. It is due to the fact that any alternative route will only further delay my trip. I view the map on the TV and listen to the reporter speak of accidents and construction work. Some roads are red (very slow traffic) and others are yellow (traffic just slightly faster than a funeral procession). Suddenly, something very out of the ordinary happens. The interstate that I take to work is GREEN. Things are looking up.

My dad used to greet me every morning by saying: "Hey there, Sunshine. BOY, DO I FEEL GOOD THIS MORNING." I decided to try this approach in light of the unusual traffic news. I stood in front of the TV and shouted: BOY, DO IFEEL GOOD THIS MORNING. At this point, the cat and the coffee maker let out a guttural groan. This is followed by the traffic reporter announcing a "rubbernecker delay" on the interstate that I take to go to work. Nevertheless, chanting my Dad's mantra felt good. Final Score: Morning 4, Shane 1.

Class Dismissive

2009-11-01T19:13:00.005-05:00

As young children, we are taught to abide by a set of rules. These rules may pertain to playing a game (spin the dial and the highest number gets the first turn), behavior in the classroom (raise your hand to ask permission to go to the restroom), or addressing an adult properly (Miss B, may I please call my mother for a change of clothes? I REALLY needed to go to the restroom). This leads to the use of words such as etiquette and chivalry. Most people in today's society refer two these two words as bygone behaviors ("That boy has no manners") or extinct entities ("Chivalry is dead"). I am here once again to inform and entertain. That being said, let's examine these two words: etiquette and chivalry.

Etiquette is an unwritten code of behavior for polite society. Many of these are determined by one's community. The word has a rather unique origin. The word literally translates from the French as "ticket". Apparently, Louis XIV had a gardener who became quite miffed at passersby who would walk on the lawn as a thoroughfare and even through the garden. The gardener began putting up signs (or tickets) to ward these rude people away. The gardener was apparently not privy to the use of rock salt in a pellet gun. Then again, some would have regarded such a response to be equally rude. Anyway, this lead to signs being posted in French courts as to where people could stand and when they could speak. This would lead to the first formation of the Polite Police. Legend has it that speaking out of turn could get you three days in the Polite Pokey. I find this all interesting because; in modern society disobeying a posted sign ("No Parking This Side…Monday – Wednesday - Friday 8:27 AM – 9:12 PM), you are issued a ticket. Then, you have to go to court and obey more signs as the risk of getting another ticket or worse.

I had a science teacher once who found it extremely rude to chew gum in her class. Any student guilty of such an infraction had to write the following sentence 500 times: "I will not chew gum in Mrs. Douglas' Life Science class in Room 80 of Quail Hollow Junior High School in Charlotte, North Carolina". Needless to say, I never chewed gum in her class. After all, I may have flunked her class but I was not a barbarian.

Chivalry is basically another form of etiquette (without as many posted signs). Chivalry derives from French word chevalier ("one who sings in a 1959 Academy Award winning musical"). Chivalry is simply a code of conduct that teaches (and expects) men of all ages to act as gentlemen. People often associate chivalry with a basic level of respect toward women. In short, a gentleman is to treat a woman like a lady (thank you Eddie Cornelius). I took a girl to a dance once when I was a kid. I believe I acted as a gentleman. I presented my date with a corsage. I complimented her about the mint green dress she wore. I then politely asked her mother to pin her corsage for me so that my nervous shaking would not risk given my date a collapsed lung.

Unfortunately, chivalry and etiquette can often result in a frustrating stalemate. It is not uncommon to see two fine Southern gentleman engaged in a fistfight because each insisted on paying the check. After all, the only alternative would be for one of them to compromise their chivalrous integrity — HORRORS!

It is also worth noting that geography sometimes dictates etiquette and chivalry (even in the same country). Back in the 1990's, I was working in a hospital and approached a nurse I had not met previously. I said: Excuse me, Ma'am. She indignantly responded: "WHAT did you say?" She then ranted about how she hated to be addressed as Ma'am. I explained that it was merely a form of Southern chivalry. She then explained that in the Northern United States, many women interpret being addressed as "Ma'am" as an indicator that they are old. Embarrassed by my faux pas, I said: Duly noted, Toots. It won't happen again. After all, I AM a Southern Gentleman.

A Writer and a Gentleman

2009-10-18T16:21:00.003-04:00

I have been spending at least one day per week working on my laptop writing essays for my blog — BDGJM. I have many times sought the counsel of fellow writers or done some research in how to deal with writer's block. Simply put, writer's block is the inability of a writer to produce new work. This has frustrated some writers to the point that they stop writing for long stretches of time or permanently. Fortunately, for me, the block is only temporarily frustrating (but nonetheless VERY frustrating).

A lot of times, the hardest part is actually opening up the word processor to get started. If I already have a topic in mind, the words can flow like a river. When I am blocked, I have to let my warped mind jog around the mental track and see where it goes. This can be even more frustrating sometimes because I hate jogging. I tend to associate it with the training I went through in the Navy. So, in my mind, Louis Gossett, Jr. shows up wearing his Gunnery Sergeant uniform.

I stand there as he gives his introduction: "You are coming to me because YOU want to be a humor writer. I am an Oscar winner for Best Actor in a Supporting Role. I am going to use any means, fair and unfair, to trip you up". Then he stands before me eye to eye. "Are you eyeballing me, boy?" No sir; I am not eyeballing you. "Did you just call me a ewe? A ewe is a female sheep. ARE YOU LOOKING TO WRITE A ROMANCE NOVEL, MACK-UH-FEEEEEE?" NO SIR! "Better watch your step, Mack-uh FEEEEEE. Ain't no virus program to protect you from ME!" I try to catch my breath and stay focused.

Then, the drilling starts. "OK Mack-uh-FEEEEEE, let's see how your mind works. You answer my questions and spit them right out." YES SIR! "Give me the quadratic formula." x = -b ± (√ (b²-4ac)/2a) SIR! "Factual, but not funny Mack-uh-FEEEEEE. Just give up now." I'M NOT GONNA QUIT! "Who was born Nathan Birnbaum?" George Burns and Nathan Birnbaum, SIR! "Is that the best you got, Mack-uh-FEEEEEE? Tell me the three greatest disasters in human history." The release of "Enemy Mine", "Iron Eagle 2", and "Iron Eagle 3" SIR! "OHHHHHHHHHH! You MUST be a humor writer. You've got JOKES all of a sudden!" I can tell by the gleam in his eye I have gained his respect; but he's not going to tell me that.

The words begin to flow and the work gets finished. I stand before him and hand him the essay. He gives me a sharp salute. "Congratulations, Humor Writer McAfee." Thank you, sir. "Gunnery Sergeant, Humor Writer McAfee." I'll never forget you. "I know that. Now, get out of here." I then walk up to my wife and pick her up and carry her off. I have no idea where we are going but that's okay. Don't over think and spoil the moment. My wife takes off my Atlanta Braves hat and puts it on her head. Suddenly, I can see a British blues rock singer going into numerous contortions as he sings a love ballad with what's-her-name.

The End

Pandora’s Library

2009-10-11T18:55:00.002-04:00

I wrote a series of essays recently that revolved around books and reading. An organization called The National Association of
Independent Writers and Editors (NAIWE) celebrated Great Books Week (October 4 – October 9, 2009) by hosting the Great Books Week Blog Tour. NAIWE invited bloggers to post one blog entry per day on topics they provided. I posted essays for four out of the five days (I got sidelined by an illness that laid me up too much that last day).

The first essay for this series was entitled "Seven Books, A Desert Island, and Me". The basic premise was to list seven books to take if stranded upon a desert island for a few years. The last book on this list was Billy Sunday by Rachel M. Phillips. I listed this one because it was a book I had always wanted to read but I had not yet read. Coincidentally, I had just purchased the book before getting wind of NAIWE's challenge.

This lead to some conversations between my sister and me about books we had read. Our mother was an avid reader who frequently gave books as gifts. Our father on the other hand is not as much of an avid reader as our mother (to be fair, I have met few people who were). That being said, if you gave my father a book, he would read it. If he found a particular book insightful, he would take you to school about it. My sister began to talk about a particularly moving story called The Shack by Wm. Paul Young. This was one of those books that turned my father into Professor McAfee. Trusting my sister's insight (as well as my father's), I put this book on my online wish list.

The conversation then turned to another book called 90 Minutes in Heaven by Don Piper (with Cecil Murphy). My parents were involved in a severe automobile accident in 1999. It was by the grace of God that my mother not only survived the accident but lived for another seven years. My parents shared a house with my sister and her family starting in 2002. My sister told me that 90 Minutes in Heaven was a book that my mother felt was required reading. Apparently, it provides a very accurate portrayal of my mother's experience immediately following the 1999 accident. So, once again, I updated my online wish list.

In addition to this, one of my favorite writers/podcasters, Kevin Cummings, is promoting his new book called Happily Domesticated: Musings on life, love, parenthood, malfunctioning appliances and marital bliss. I love Kevin Cummings' work. In addition to his book he runs a podcast called "Short Cummings Audio". If you haven't read Kevin' work or heard his podcast, you are truly missing out. Needless to say, Kevin's new book is part of my wish list.

The days that followed became more and more interesting. I received a copy of The Shack in the mail. My sister went to my online wish list and ordered the book as a gift. I haven't even started Billy Sunday yet and now I have another book to add to my reading list. Several days later, I received 90 Minutes in Heaven arrived for me (once again due to the generosity of my sister). On top of all this, I received an email from Kevin Cummings. Kevin ran a contest to promote his book. I entered the contest and added an online link to his book onto my blog site. Kevin decided to award all five people who entered the contest an autographed copy of Happily Domesticated: Musings on life, love, parenthood, malfunctioning appliances and marital bliss. I am thrilled beyond words to receive something like this from someone whose work I admire so much.

I started this week by responding to a challenge of writing daily for several consecutive days (something I had never done previously). This helped to remind me that I am the conduit of my writing, not the source (a wise writer once told me that). My week ended with four new books to read. Three of these books were given to me by people I respect a great deal. My writing this week opened Pandora's box. I am delighted to find it full of books.

Now That I Understand It….

2009-10-08T21:45:00.003-04:00

The first week in October marks an annual celebration called Great Books Week. To honor this week, The National Association of
Independent Writers and Editors (NAIWE) is holding the Great Books Week Blog Tour. The tour invites bloggers to post their own blog using their topic suggestion for the day. My submission for Thursday is below. For more information, go to http://news.naiwe.com/2009/10/03/great-books-week-blog-tour-october-4-10-2009/

When I first started high school, a lot of my friends were reading "Macbeth" by William Shakespeare as required reading. I was in the drama club in school and loved the theater. My curiosity got the better of me so I checked out the book of the play from the library. Several of my friends who read it absolutely loved it. After reading through it, I thought maybe my friends were pulling my leg knowing I would get curious and read it. I mean with all the old English and the witches; I was going crazy trying to read this junk. And it was worse because I was doing this BY CHOICE. I took it back to the library vowing to do my best not to be exposed to that drivel ever again.

The following year, something happened that changed my viewpoint. The local youth theater was putting on a production of "Macbeth". Even better, several of my drama friends were in the cast. This included a friend whose acting talent I admired in the role of Lord Macbeth. Seeing the story before my eyes gave me a whole different view. It forced me to take the time to understand the story. Make no mistake; this truly is a great story.

In my senior year, my literature class had to read through "Macbeth". Everyone in the class was given a part to read aloud to the class. The teacher had me reading the part of Lord Macbeth. This allowed me to understand the story even better. Lord Macbeth was a man with unbridled ambition. Lady Macbeth was even more ambitious than her husband. She used her husband's love for her and his ambition to do unspeakable acts of murder in order to further their (or rather her) agenda. I'm not a chauvinist but it was clear who wore the panties in the House of Macbeth.

Lord Macbeth was told that no man born of a woman could stop him. This was fine until he met Macduff. Lord Macbeth said: "Look, Dude. If you were born of a woman, you better step out of my grill or get stomped" Macduff countered: "Guess what, Brah. I was a C – section". Lord Macbeth lost head his upon hearing this (literally). "Macbeth" is definitely worth the read (even if it requires a dictionary the first time)

Cherry Pits and Worms

2009-10-07T19:17:00.002-04:00

The first week in October marks an annual celebration called Great Books Week. To honor this week, The National Association of
Independent Writers and Editors (NAIWE) is holding the Great Books Week Blog Tour. The tour invites bloggers to post their own blog using their topic suggestion for the day. My submission for Wednesday is below. For more information, go to http://news.naiwe.com/2009/10/03/great-books-week-blog-tour-october-4-10-2009/

I'd write my autobiography but I don't have it would be redundant. My life story has already been written by the late Erma Bombeck. In her book, if life is a bowl of cherries – what am I doing in the pits? (sic), Bombeck wrote of everyday living as a wife and mother. Admittedly, this may seem strange that a 43 year old man relates to such a book. The thing is, when Bombeck wrote of the daily frustrations of rearing her kids, I KNEW she was talking about me and my sister. My sister and I still take pleasure in implying the other eats worms. We would mimic some of the behavior in this book just for the sake of provoking our poor mother into a tizzy. Bless her heart, Momma didn't know whether to laugh or ground us sometimes. We also had the invisible siblings (Idunno and Idontcare) roaming about the household.

In later years, I related to the book a lot more but from a different angle. Apparently, Idunno and Idontcare grew up and had offspring. They now live in my house. As a parent, I still wonder if somehow Mrs. Bombeck was a prophet. My kids are shocked by the way I provoked my mother as a child. I guess that means I did a good job rearing them. However, it doesn't stop them from provoking me with their bickering and non-stop need. Thanks to the prophecy of Erma Bombeck; I know that when my son gets a speeding ticket, my daughter runs her portable media player through the dyer, and the cat decorates the floor with a strategically placed hairball (all within an hour's time); normalcy has arrived.

People often say "Someday, you look back on it all and laugh". Bombeck suggests: "Why wait?"

Thank You, Mr. Twain

2009-10-06T17:15:00.003-04:00

The first week in October marks an annual celebration called Great Books Week. To honor this week, The National Association of
Independent Writers and Editors (NAIWE) is holding the Great Books Week Blog Tour. The tour invites bloggers to post their own blog using their topic suggestion for the day. My submission for Tuesday is below. For more information, go to http://news.naiwe.com/2009/10/03/great-books-week-blog-tour-october-4-10-2009/

When I was a young boy, my favorite book was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain. This story was commonly read in elementary schools by teachers. My mother even got me a 45 record of the story. I wore the grooves off that record. I cannot begin to tell how much this Southern boy loved living vicariously through Tom Sawyer. Tom was a very mischievous young boy. Tom did all of the things a Southern boy wanted to do (but most wouldn't dare). He wasn't a delinquent in the truly criminal sense. He was just a boy who wanted to have fun. For Tom, that meant breaking rules.

When Tom had to whitewash a fence as a form of punishment, he hoodwinked every boy who passed by to do it for him in trade. As shocking as it was to this young Southern boy to see Tom once again buck his Aunt Polly's authority, I couldn't help but admire his cunning entrepreneurial spirit. I loved the idea of Tom and Huck running away to become pirates on the Mississippi River. I also admired Tom's prodigal spirit when he decides to return home (interrupting his own funeral). I could even feel my heart in my throat as Tom stood up for the town drunk, Muff Potter, who had been framed for murder. Tom testified in court on Muff's behalf knowing his life was in danger for doing so. Tom WAS a rule breaker but he had a strong sense of right and wrong.

I remember seeing a movie about Tom Sawyer that showed him wearing overalls. He wore no shirt and no shoes. My mom told me that my Dad often dressed in the same fashion as a young boy. Needless to say, I dressed in that same fashion a few times that summer. Thank you, Mr. Twain for allowing me to live Tom' adventures (and not get a whippin' for doing it).

Seven Books, a Desert Island, and Me

2009-10-05T19:30:00.002-04:00

The first week in October marks an annual celebration called Great Books Week. To honor this week, The National Association of
Independent Writers and Editors (NAIWE) is holding the Great Books Week Blog Tour. The tour invites bloggers to post their own blog using their topic suggestion for the day. My first submission is below. For more information, go to http://news.naiwe.com/2009/10/03/great-books-week-blog-tour-october-4-10-2009/

My mother was an avid reader. It is primarily through her influence that I enjoy reading books myself. I can remember my mother commenting on a book she read: "I wish I had never read that book. That way, I could experience reading it for the first time again". The book was The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. It would be a few more years before I experienced that feeling myself. Listed below are seven books that I would wish to have with me if I were stranded on a desert island for several years:

The Holy Bible King James Version – This is cheating the paradigm somewhat because technically this is an anthology of 66 books written by more than 40 authors. This anthology tells THE story from beginning to end. There are a variety of story genres contained within this anthology. If you want a romantic love story, read the book of Hosea. If you like a hero that comes in to save the day, the book of Daniel is full of them (not to mention of course the four Gospels). No other book could better assist in one's survival on a desert island. After all, it is full of stories that inspire hope.
The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams - Again, I am cheating as there are six stories contained in this anthology. These stories deal with friendships, foreign cultures, and the worst kind of homesickness (because the home no longer exists). It does all of this with side-splitting humor.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain - As a young southern boy, I loved living vicariously through Tom Sawyer. Tom did things many boys wouldn't dare to do. He suffered the consequences like a man. He even stood up for the town drunk who had been framed (in spite of the fact it put Tom's life in danger). This book never gets old for me.
No Time for Sergeants by Mac Hyman – This tells the story of Will Stockdale. Will is a young man in a less than one horse town who has been drafted to serve in the military. Will's country naiveté is refreshing to read. This is in part that the reader finds out (over and over again) that Will is not as stupid as everyone assumes he is. They took Will out of the country. They couldn't take the country out of Will.
Don't Sit Under the Grits Tree with Anyone Else but Me by Lewis Grizzard – This is a collection of writings from Grizzard's humor column. The late Mr. Grizzard was the Mark Twain of the late 20^th century. His writing cracks me up every time.
If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? By Erma Bombeck – Bombeck's perspectives of everyday living have taught me many times that humor can be a very necessary means of survival. I consider Erma Bombeck to be a huge influence on my writing. This book is probably the best example of her work.
Billy Sunday by Rachael M. Phillips – This book makes the list because it is a book I have always wanted to read (but haven't yet). I finally bought this book yesterday.

I would definitely find some way to continue writing my thoughts on this island (even if it were a temporary medium such as sand). My main hope is that I would remember the important details to write about once I left the island. There you have it folks: Seven books, a desert island, and me. I look forward to reading your list (there are some good ones out there already).

My Day (Original Soundtrack)

2009-10-03T21:10:00.003-04:00

I have watched so many cartoons and slapstick movies that it is difficult at best to do even routine, daily tasks without adding sound effects. If I take a cap off of a pen, I make a popping sound akin to popping a champagne cork. I make racecar sounds while pushing the grocery cart. Let's face it. Those little sounds just make the day (somehow) more interesting.

The other habit I acquired throughout my life is listening to music while performing some of these same tasks. After all, what is life without a soundtrack? Sometimes I give songs the Weird Al treatment while I shower ("HE'S A FACE…WASH…HE---ROOOOOO….GOT SUDS IN HIS EYYYYYYYYYYYYYES"). Other times, I would play the boom box while puttering around the house. I might even occasionally sing along with the tune or even (Heaven forbid) dance. Mind you, I have about as much talent for dancing as Bob Dylan has for diction (the difference is that Dylan is nonetheless a bajillionaire).

This habit grew by leaps and bounds when I acquired a portable media player. I have more than 4500 audio tracks to lay out the soundtrack to my day. This nifty little gadget has become like having another appendage. I can fit it into a shirt pocket or wear an armband to hold it for more convenient use. The armband is great for listening while I am shaving. I even situate the ear buds so that the cables don't get coated with foam. Life just becomes less mundane.

My music choices are pretty much random. James Brown has helped me make my bed. I have walked on a treadmill while Susan Tedeschi told me how bad it hurt. I have picked up groceries while Stevie Ray Vaughan had issues with the weather because the sky cried. I have put said groceries away while Ole Willie mused about the slipping of time (which is funny when you think about it). If you brush your teeth while The Commodores are playing, your teeth get really clean by the time you're done. I have even sung with Shania Twain while surfing the net. I have to be careful about that though. I don't ever want anyone to hear me say that I feel like a woman. After all; once bitten, twice shy (to quote Ian Hunter). I have even typed my blog while Ray Charles sings of our mutual home state of Georgia (I could listen to THAT song the whole day through).

So, if you I don't immediately respond to you when you approach me, I'm not (necessarily) ignoring you. I am probably listening to Stryper sing about being a soldier. Now, what did I do with that yellow and black outfit?

Get a (Virtual) Life (As Published by HumorPress.com)

2009-09-19T20:05:00.005-04:00

I have enjoyed playing video games from time to time. I have invested in several video game systems over the years. After all, I like it better to play on my Sokitumi 3000 at home than paying a week's wages in quarters in an arcade. There are two reasons for this: 1. Arcades are not on every corner as they were in my teenage years. 2. Given than I am in my early 40's, my Dad no longer supplies the week's worth of quarters (no matter how nicely I ask).

If you don't want to invest in a Sokitumi 3000, you can go to the Internet and play a wide variety of games free of charge. You can even sometimes combine your video game system and the Internet and play games with total strangers within the privacy of your own home. The gaming world allows you to be a soldier, fight space aliens, or join a rock group. You can do all of these things awhile sitting in your pajamas with a plate of cookies. If you want something less sedentary, you can get a sports game that will have you on your feet swinging, throwing, or running (and never your living room).

I have come to understand that part of the draw of a video game is to live vicariously through the role of a virtual entity. Who wouldn't want to be a princess saving plumber, a major league baseball player, or a heroine in painted on clothes saving the world from apocalyptic destruction? Personally, I do not wish to be a heroine in painted on clothes (but that's just me). Who wouldn't want to join a rock group that hasn't recorded anything new in 30 years? Imagine if you will, the following scenario: "Hey man, can you play guitar? Ace Van Snider broke his hand." "No, but I have a guitar shaped game controller and I know all the color patterns." "Well, get up on the stage with us, man. YOU'RE IN!" One must admit it's a great escape from the world.

However, I have become greatly confused of late. Players all over the world (me included) have been drawn into a different type of game. I am referring to games of simulation. You start in a virtual environment that is completely bare and build it from the ground up. You can be a virtual farmer or a virtual college girl in a dormitory. I personally do not want to be the virtual college girl (but that's just me). You can build an amusement park or a restaurant. The simulated gaming world offers a wide variety of scenarios. What's strange is that you can even be an average Joe living in a virtual home. You can buy virtual furniture, virtual appliances, and a virtual painting to go above the virtual fireplace paid for with virtual money. I have even seen someone seat their virtual character on a virtual couch and play a virtual video game on a virtual wide screen HDTV. That's right. I saw someone playing a video game where there avatar was playing a video game. I was afraid that avatar's avatar would also be playing a simulation game that would create a virtual vortex that would end the world as we know it.

What gets even crazier is that some people even revolve their real lives around their virtual characters. I got home from work the other day and asked my wife to run an errand with me. She was sitting at the computer and said she had to wait until her cookies were done. I took a sniff and noticed something strange. I couldn't smell anything baking. My wife corrected me. "No, my ErsatzWurld avatar is baking cookies. If I leave now, they'll burn. Do you want my home to catch fire?" I asked her to forgive my obvious thoughtlessness and ran the errand alone. When I returned she was tending her online farm. After all, you can't let virtual blueberries go to waste.

I can't help but wonder what will happen next. Perhaps the virtual farming industry will take an economic nosedive. This will inspire three virtual musicians to host a virtual fund raising concert. You can have virtual vendors selling overpriced virtual t-shirts. You can recruit the rock group gamers to fill the virtual bill. Maybe Ace Van Snider's hand has healed. If not, I've been practicing.

Praise Her from the Rooftop (But Watch Your Mouth)

2009-09-13T17:17:00.002-04:00

Often in my writing, I tend to throw a quotation from a historical figure, or an old friend, or my Dad. I have been recently been reminded of two that I have had to utilize in a way that I did not anticipate in nearly 16 years of marriage:

"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt." – Abraham Lincoln.
"A fool uttereth all his mind: but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards." – Proverbs 29:11

For the past two years, my wife has been involved in an exercise regimen at a local fitness center (actually a "wellness center" but I won't go down that bunny trail again). Like many, she has fallen off the proverbial horse only to get back on and kick it harder. She has made tremendous strides and I am very proud of her. The problem is that with every milestone she hits, the muscles of my restraint are tested to the breaking point.

It all started innocently enough today. My wife comes home from the gym…umm…fitness…that is…wellness center. She then goes into her post-exercise ritual. She pulls at the elastic waistband on her gym clothes (or is it wellness center apparel?). She stretches the waistband about a foot from her body. At this point, she reminds me that when she first bought those pants, they fit like a tourniquet and made her eyes pop out like she was Marty Feldman. Next, she steps on the scale. She screams with the enthusiastic glee of a schoolgirl watching her favorite teenybopper star on TV. Now, I am no proverbial fool. I will not disclose the reading. Let's just say she has lost more than 50 lbs. and it shows.

So far through these rituals, I believe I have acted with kindness and support. That was until she whipped out two more items: a "Body Composition Profile" and a tape measure. She begins measuring various parts of her body and recording the results. She begins to measure her waist and asked me to read the measurements. I began laughing because she was using the metric side. I pointed this out to her because I didn't really want to state that her waist size was 124. Unfortunately, the laughter wore on my restraint. She asked me to read the measurement of upper arm. I looked at the measurement and said "Lessee now, if you carry the 6…." She then asked me to surf the net for a body mass index (BMI) scale. I asked her if she needed standard, metric, or Kelvin. Mind you the question made no sense and it got dirty stares from my wife and daughter. Nonetheless, it made me laugh. I gave her the reading from the BMI scale. She then recorded this result in her Body Composition Profile. Her girlish joy returns as she read the profile's results: "I'VE GONE FROM BEING OVER FAT TO FAT". Now, I am trying to be supportive but I cannot control my laughter. I try to picture the average husband looking his wife in the eye and saying the following: "Baby, you look great. This week you're fat. At the rate you're going, you'll just be fatter than average in two weeks". Such an utterance can only lead to the husband winding up in the doghouse. The dog will glance at him and ask "So, what are YOU in for? I chewed up her running shoes."

In the end , I managed to get through this ordeal without my wife thinking I was a cretin. It is with this in mind I address husbands worldwide. Gentlemen, if you wife takes (or has taken) such a venture, be supportive and encouraging. The trick is in being careful about HOW you support and encourage. I'll leave you with a final quote from Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part One: "The better part of valour is discretion; in the which better part I have saved my life".

What Did You Just Say?

2009-08-30T18:55:00.003-04:00

We all go through our lives with adages, axioms, aphorisms, maxims, mantras, and mottos that guide our daily lives. Such musings can be referred to as "words to live by", "food for thought", or "that weird thing he always says". For the purpose of this writing, I intend to share my thoughts on quotes I have heard (and sometimes passed on) over the years. Some of these are very wise quotations. Others are just funny to me. One or two of them may be a bit of both.

"Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime" – Lao Tzu. I have tried to apply this one a lot for myself as well as pass it on to others. It basically implies that if you help someone in the right way, they become more self sufficient. In other words, if you teach a man to fish, he'll leave you alone for a bit. However, it should be noted that if you teach someone to fish, you may find that they frequently ask to borrow your tackle box.
"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by" – Douglas Adams. I hate being late. I think I detest waiting for others whom are late even more. Douglas Adams is one of my favorite writers. This quote reminds me that sometimes (not always but sometimes) I need to lighten up when it comes to time frame issues.
"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones" – Proverbs 17:22. I REALLY like this one. This is one of the reasons that I do humor writing (at least that's my intention). You can take most people who have their bottom lip dragging the ground for whatever reason. If you can get that person to smile (or better to laugh) about something. You heal their heart and lighten their burden. Even if that effect is temporary, it is beneficial.
"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt." – Abraham Lincoln. I share the same birthday as Lincoln. Lincoln was a fine president who had many amusing quotes. This one, however, demonstrates that Lincoln also knew when to shut his yapper.
"…more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs" I have no idea where this originated but it tickles me to hear it. I am not a cat lover. Nonetheless, my family has four cats. Sometimes I want to spend my paycheck on rocking chairs just for my own savage amusement.
"A short pencil I better than a short memory" – Charles Hughes. Mr. Hughes was an old family friend. He has been gone for some 20 years now. Mr. Hughes had a tendency to jot things down on whatever was handy (like napkins for example). This is a very important adage. WRITE IT DOWN!
"If I tell you a rooster can pull a freight train, put a harness on it" – Lawrence H. McAfee. My Dad has a talent for telling you the most ridiculous thing with the straightest face. He convinced one poor (however gullible) woman that you set a microwave on negative digits and it would freeze your food. If you hear him bring up the rooster and the freight train, it meant he had authority on a subject and he could be trusted. Nevertheless, it is wise not to forget my Dad's aforementioned talent.

There you have it folks. If you have been wondering up to this point: "What's going on in his head?", the above quotes may occasionally provide an answer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to check the store circulars for any sales on rocking chairs.

Ohhhhhh Me

2009-08-23T21:22:00.004-04:00

As many who have read my essays are painfully aware, I am a native of the great state of Georgia who has spent most of the last 20+ years in Western New York. Some who hear me speak think my Southern drawl is barely noticeable. Others assert that my "twang" is thicker than molasses in January. I even had one surly Rochesterian give the following request: "Can you please stop talking like you just walked out of 'Deliverance'?"

I have to be honest. I love hearing someone with an authentic southern drawl. It is about as refreshing to me as freshly brewed sweet tea. In the course of my job, I occasionally get to speak to a fellow Southerner. This sometimes allows me to hear words and phrases I grew up hearing. Unfortunately, they would possibly confuse my Northern colleagues, friends, and family. Therefore, I feel led to teach some of my readers some terms they may have heard and some they may have not. I am sure many of my Southern friends well let me know I left out some good ones. To my Northern friends, I quote Sir Francis Bacon: "Knowledge is power".

Ohhhhhh me – This is an interjection that can indicate mild exhaustion, amazement, or frustration. "Ohhhhhh me, I can't believe you did that."
Dadgum – This is a word that has resulted in many Southern kids getting smacked because it a euphemism for profanity. "Ohhhhhh me, my hair is a mess but I can't find my dadgum brush."
Say – This is an interjection that is used when someone has asked a question and has not received an immediate response. Southern parents use this interjection quite frequently with their children. "Boy, why did you put a frog on your sister's bed? SAY!"
EHHHNNK! – Another popular interjection with parents. It is used to tell a child to immediately stop whatever activity they are doing or trying to do. For example, a boy's mother notices him trying to sneak some cookies from the cupboard. The mother shouts "EHHHNNK!" The boy stops immediately and darts out of the kitchen.
Hey – This is a Southern greeting equivalent to the Northern "Hi" or "Hello". In Northern circles, it implies contempt. To Southerners, it is a warm greeting. For example, Northerners would say: "Hey, don't give me that monkey business". Southerners would say: "Hey, how ya' doin'?"
Bless his/her heart – This is a modifier that implies what follows is potentially insulting. "Janie is a pretty girl but, bless her heart, she can't boil water without burning it".
Up and — These are words that imply an immediate (perhaps even impulsive) action. "I can't believe the way that boy just up and walked away from his Momma when she was talking to him".
Said it with his/her own mouth – This implies audacity on the part of the person being cited. "That boy up and said with his own mouth that he didn't break that window. But, he had a bat in his hands".

Well, there you have it folks. Class is dismissed. I hope you this entertaining and informative. After all, it took me years of living in NY to figure out that "not for nothing" was another way of saying "with all due respect". A Southerner would just say: "Bless her heart".

When the SuperEgo Reveals the Id(iot)

2009-08-18T20:48:00.002-04:00

I have been working in the information technology field in one facet or another for approximately 7 out of the last 9 years. I have learned a few things about computers and how they work. This has resulted in many family members and friends (in several states) to come to me for their computing needs. These needs range from advising what the appropriate hardware is needed to play the latest release of "Barfmonster Battle XVII" (including the USB mic headset and 26" plasma monitor) to setting up the speech recognition software (including the USB mic headset and 26" plasma monitor). I have no problem with this and I am happy to help. Occasionally, there are times when I must reluctantly utter three words —"I don't know".

This isn't so bad when it's just me and the other individual (such as my wife for example). Unfortunately, men are strange prideful creatures. If they are in the same room with their friends (or a repairman), they suddenly transform into a panel of experts in that particular field. A man can have something go wrong with his car. If his wife asks what is causing the problem, he'll simply say "I don't know". However, if one or more if his friends how up, you will find them both with their head under the hood uttering phrases such as: "Yup", "Did you calibrate the intake?", "Sure did, I also reset the inner side torque to 8 ft/lbs". This conversation will then turn to one man with his head under the hood wiggling random parts and going "TRY STARTING IT NOW!" The other man will begin turning the ignition key and saying "C'MON BABY". After 8 hours of this routine, the men decide reluctantly to retain the services of a mechanic with the simple rationalization: "I don't have the tools for that job".

It is truly an exercise in humility to hand the mechanic the keys and try not to engage in any conversation. After all, why reveal to the mechanic and your wife that you were completely clueless all along? I felt better after I got home. One of my friends came by because he had a computer problem. Finally, I was back into some familiar territory. This resulted in the following conversation: "Did you restore the hyperthread registry?", "Yup, I even flushed out the TCP/IP", "TRY RE-BOOTING IT NOW!", "C'MON BABY", "Oh wait, dude. I know what the problem is but you need to call tech support. I don't have the tools for that."

Randomizationalism Volume I

2009-08-11T21:43:00.003-04:00

Sometimes, I let my warped mind run wild. This causes me to make strange assumptions about known facts and ask strange questions. Ironically, I believe it is these random ramblings and mindless minutiae that sometimes keep me from going insane. I have put these observations and queries into a category called Randomizationalisms. Actually, the word was conceived by my daughter Brianna. Randomizationalism was going to be the title of my blog before I decided that BDGJM (Babbling, Drivel, Gibberish, Jibber-Jabber, and Mumbo-Jumbo) was more suitable. In any case, please ponder these few fleeting facts, quacky queries, and warped wacky world views.

A female cat is called a queen. A female turkey is a hen. The male of both of these is a tom. A young cat is a kitten. A young turkey is an egg.
A whale is a salt dwelling mammal. This is why we never hear of a whale being "laked" or "ponded".
If there is a kitty corner, is there a puppy peripheral, a gerbil geometric, or a turtle tangent?
A female kangaroo is called a doe. A young kangaroo is called a joey. A doe kangaroo with a male joey is called a male carrier.
Why do parents, in the say conversation with their kids, say the following phrases (sometimes in succession): "Don't talk back to me", "Now, ANSWER me", "Is that understood?"
Why do people name their cats? The only thing a cat responds to is "KITTYKITTYKITTYKITTYKITTYKITTY" and only then because they believe they are being fed.
It's bad enough to lose a hockey game. It has got to be downright humiliating to lose to a team called the Penguins or the Mighty Ducks. Then again we also have baseball teams called Orioles, Cardinals, and Blue Jays. I'm sorry but bird teams just don't sound that intimidating.
Guy's guide to classic movies: If you want to laugh, watch "Airplane". If you want a prison move, watch "Cool Hand Luke". If you want a good war movie, watch "The Bridge on the River Kwai".
It is quite possible that a public catastrophe will occur and someone will shout: "IS THERE ANYONE HERE WHO WRITES A BLOG?" I will never be prompted to say: "It's OK, ma'am. I'm a blogger". Nonetheless, I'll probably do it anyway.

So there you have it folks, there may be more of these in the future. Time (and my warped mind) will determine that.

Welcome to the (Wellness) Machines

2009-08-02T22:35:00.004-04:00

During my childhood years, I was a very lanky kid. As the youngest in the family, I was often self conscious about my thin frame and short stature. Needless to say, I'm not a kid anymore. I am much taller and quite overweight. Recently, I reached a point where I came to a decision. I am tired of being overweight. I am too old to continue outgrowing my clothes. Lastly, I am tired of getting sand kicked into my face by 75 year old men and 19 year old girls. I had decided that enough was enough.

I was prepared to gamble the cost of a postage stamp for a free exercise book. After all, I saw it advertised in a comic book. If you can't trust the advertising department of your favorite comic book, whom CAN you trust? Instead, I decided to join the local gym. After all, why pay less than a dollar for an exercise book when you can make a recurring monthly payment? That SEEMED to make sense to me at the time.

I was a little nervous on my first visit to the gym. I was in my workout clothes and ready to start my journey to better health. My first eye opener was a lesson in nomenclature. I was not about to enter a weight room, an exercise room, or a workout room. I was about to enter the hallowed halls of the "Wellness Center". Apparently, I had not been reminded enough of unsightly physique and the effects on my health. I began to envision the Statue of Liberty wearing tank top and gym shorts. She held a water bottle in her hand. The inscription read: "Give me your tired, your overweight, your sedentary masses; yearning to fit into the clothes they wore in high school. I lift my water bottle beside the Wellness door". As I enter the exercise room. Pardon me. As I entered the Wellness Center, my eyes and ears were exposed to all sorts of wonders. There were approximately 18 different televisions mounted on the wall. Each was tuned to a different channel. You could use headphones to listen to the TV (or radio) station of your choice while you exercised. Some of the exercise machines even had TV mounted to them. This seemed odd to me. Wasn't watching TV part of the reason I needed this Wellness Center in the first place?

Taking a further look around, I saw cardio machines of all shapes and sizes being used by people of all shapes and sizes. Cardio machines exercise the heart. That is to say; cardio machines give you the sensation that your heart is banging on the cage that is your ribs and desperately seeking escape. The names of some of these machines are pretty self explanatory such as the treadmill and stair climber. However, other machines are given names that make me scratch my head in wonder. Why is one machine called an elliptical trainer and another called an arc trainer? Is there much of a difference between an arc and an ellipse? Why is there an apparent obsession with curved shapes? I can only assume that by using this machine, one can gain a curved shape. I already have a curved shape. A circle is a curved shape. Also, I am not sure I get the concept of a recumbent bike. I can't help but think that I can connect a bike chain to a recliner and accomplish the same task. I think I just made Red Green reach for his duct tape.

Lastly, I looked to the real meat and potatoes of the Wellness Center— the weight machines. I saw patrons using these machines with varying degrees of effort. I could have sworn that one of the people using the machines had kicked sand in my face once. I decided not to confront him. After all, it would be brutish to make a scene. I could tell by the names of some of these machines that there would be some great discomfort involved. I saw names such as abdominal crunch, leg curl, and back extension. Apparently, such exercises were created by a contortionist bully. I am aware of the adage: "No pain, no gain". I KNOW this is not true. Over an 8 month period, I lived a relatively pain free life and gained 40 pounds.

I have made a few visits to this Wellness Center. I am ashamed to admit that I do not currently have a steady routine yet. It is my fervent hope that one day; I will be self conscious about how I USED to look. In the meantime, I think I'll keep the pizza joints on my speed dial.

Cube Farm Fever (As Published by HumorPress.com)

2009-07-28T22:14:00.005-04:00

Over the last 9 years, I have worked one type of job or another that involved sitting at a desk within a cubicle. For those who have never had to work indoors for the last 30 some odd years, allow me to explain the cubicle. Most rooms in your house have four sturdy walls and a door separating it from other rooms in the house (as well as a ceiling). When you went to school, the principal's office had four walls, a ceiling, and a door (don't even TRY to pretend you've never been there). Cubicles are very similar to this except there are only (at most) three walls, no door, and no ceiling. These walls are also only about 2 inches thick. This was corporate America's way of telling the employee that they do not deserve the investment of a private office (neither does your boss). If you happened to be located against a wall (i.e. an actual wall made of concrete, or stucco, or whatever), the company can save even more money by providing one less wall. Sometimes, there is no actual wall and the only thing separating you from your co-workers is less than a foot of space.

This wonderful labyrinthine layout has lead to a new term of corporate jargon: cube farm. This derives from the fact that the overhead layout of the average company closely resembles that of an ant farm. I can see the similarities between the two entities. Both contain a network of workers doing their respective jobs in their respective area. The only major difference is that I never have to worry about King Kong picking up the building and shaking it.

However, life in the cube farm can also lead to a potentially critical condition: Cube Farm Fever. Cube Farm Fever (or CFF) is brought on by the fact that the relatively thin but sturdy cubicle walls on create the illusion of a separate work space. For example, I work for a company that provides a wide variety of services to other companies. This means you can stand in the aisle, turn your head from left to right at 18° intervals and hear the following conversations:

"Thank you for calling StaticPhone Mobile. Can I get you started on a 7 year mobile phone contract today?"
"No, sir. You CANNOT give your computer better memory by coating it with Gingko Biloba.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. We're taking a poll today. We'd like your opinion on the President's proposed Fiber Stimulus Plan which provides tax credits for adding shredded wheat to your diet."
"….and for signing up with RisqPul Insurance today, we'll send you a free CD of the "Flaming DoorKnockers: Greatest Hits" which comes with three free aromatherapy candles"
"Yes, according to the company dress code, the necktie should be no higher (or lower) than 1 inch above the belt line. You'll have to clock out and adjust your tie in the men's room"

These are all in addition to the phone call you are trying to conduct with your customer while your co-workers are discussing the latest and greatest way to clear Level 27 of the latest and greatest computer role playing game. Symptoms of CFF include: a constant rubbing of the temples and forehead, shaking of the head with the eyes closed, and breathing through the teeth while the eyes are as big as the tires on a monster truck.

The onset of CFF can be prevented by using a portable media player to isolate yourself from outside noise or getting up and walking away from the work area for two or three minutes every two hour (company policies usually prohibit doing this for any longer than two or three minutes). Failing to take these steps can result in a craving for extreme isolation and repeated viewings of "Office Space".

Recently, I was working in my cubicle. I overheard a one-sided phone conversation taking place on the other side of the wall. The lady on the other side of the wall seemed to be having a normal conversation with a customer. At some point the customer on the phone said something hilariously funny. This caused the customer service representative to laugh loudly. This wasn't so bad except that every four beats of laughter was punctuated by a horrendous snort. This woman snorted so loudly I thought she was going to blow a pork loin through her nose. Then, just as it seemed she had caught her breath and stopped, she started the laugh 'n' snort shuffle again: "tee hee hee tee hee hee tee hee hee SNORT". I started to find myself rubbing my temple and shaking my head with my eyes closed. I looked at my watch and was rescued with relief. It was quittin' time. I got up and clocked out. I also decided to hold off on watching "Office Space" again.

But, Seriously, Folks…..

2009-07-20T21:57:00.003-04:00

Ever since I was a kid, I have tried my best to approach life with a sense of humor. There are very few things in life I can think of that are enjoyable than laughter. The Bible says: "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine" (Proverbs 17:22). Jerry Clower once said: "The only place where there is no laughter is Hell. I've made arrangements to miss Hell". I could go on and on listing people on TV or radio or in print that have made me laugh: Douglas Adams, Jack Benny, Lewis Grizzard, Red Skelton, Jerry Lewis... (like I said, I could go on and on). Almost as good as laughing is seeing someone else laugh. I went to see a movie with my sons last summer for Father's Day. The movie was funny. The best part however, was sitting between my 15 and 20 year old sons, turning my head left to right as if I was watching a tennis match, watching them both laugh so hard they could barely breathe. Don't even get me started on babies. My friends have a 6 month old girl. She is living proof that a college educated man will turn in to a babbling chimp all in an effort to make a baby laugh.

I attribute a large part of this bent for humor to my Dad. My Dad can tell you the most absurd thing with the straightest face. He had one poor woman convinced that you if you put food in the microwave and set it to negative numbers, the food would freeze. Ironically enough, my Dad is probably the worst poker player on two legs. He can spin yarns of hilarious pranks and practical jokes (many of which he played on his wife and kids). Having said all that, seeing my Dad laugh is downright infectious.

This has lead to some very interesting lessons in boundaries over the years. Once, some friends and I were visiting at a girl's house. She had used the fact that her parents were not home as an opportunity to get a little tipsy. Therefore, my friends and I did what any young man in our position would do. We tilted EVERYTHING in her living room: pictures, a table, a stereo console. We tilted everything in the same direction. We then stood in front of her, side by side, and leaned in the same direction of everything we just tilted. The girl just sat there, staring at us, and began to lean in the same direction. It was the guy thing to do. In an effort to show that we weren't (complete) cretins, we made a point to put things back the way we found them and went on our way. About an hour after we left, the girl's step-father came home and noticed that two pictures on the wall were still tilted. Fast forward a few hours later that evening when I overheard my Dad on the phone. "I'm sorry. My boy did WHAT?" "I'm very sorry, sir. I'm promise you, I'll deal with this straightaway." My Dad then called me into his room and asked me if the story he heard on the phone was true. While I deliberately omitted the fact that the girl had been drinking, I admitted to my actions. My Dad then tried his level best as a father to counsel me about being more respectful to other people's property. Unfortunately, his efforts were somewhat futile as he could not contain his laughter as he mentally processed the image in his mind. My father looked me in the eye and knew he was gazing into a mirror. I took it upon myself to apologize to the step-father and endure the obligatory finger wag. My friends allowed me to do this singlehandedly. Again, it was the guy thing to do. They offered to give me backup and then they backed up.

Those of you who have read my blog previously will not be shocked to know that I have not changed much since then. I cracked jokes as my wife panted heavily during the birth of our youngest son. I have played numerous pranks on my kids. I have also stood there, shaking my head in (feigned) disbelief over a stunt one of my kids pulled. I told my wife recently a story of a girl who made me sign a contract. The contract stated that I had to sit and converse for an hour with this young lady without cracking a joke. The only thing my wife found shocking about the story was that I actually honored the contract. Looking back, the girl probably just wanted me to take her out. Either that or she just wanted me to shut up.

When Do I Say “FORE!”?

2009-07-07T22:07:00.005-04:00

I spent a WONDERFUL 4^th of July with my family. Every year we go to a sports park that is owned by our local church. The day is spent enjoying all kinds of great activities: inflatables, lawn games, a baseball pitching range, and face painting. This is in addition to all the concession food you can eat (everything was a buck apiece) and one of the most phenomenal fireworks displays ever seen.

In another recent event, my wife and I renewed our wedding vows in a mass ceremony the previous week. Due to this, I told my wife that as "newlyweds" we need to be a bit spontaneous and try something we normally wouldn't. That's right folks, right there on the 4^th of July, me and the missus headed straight for the lawn games. There were two games to choose from: bocce and croquet. Wifey and I decided to play croquet.

A very nice man approached us. He was in charge of coordinating guests who wanted to play croquet. He asked if either of us had played before. We explained that it had been since childhood for both of us. We asked if he just walk us through it as if we knew nothing about it (pretty close to the truth anyway). He kindly replied: "Well, you folks are probably used to playing nine-wicket croquet. This field is set up for six-wicket croquet. I'll explain it to you". This man then proceeded to spit out more words than a dictionary in a wood chipper. To his credit, he explained the rules and object of the game with eloquence and clear authority on the subject. My wife and I stood there, holding hands, trying to hide our deer-in-the-headlights feeling that had overcome us both. We both nodded our heads to properly feign complete understanding of what this fine gentleman had just explained to us. My lovely queen and I did our best to piece together his instructions. We also took pointers from another couple who already had a game in play. At game's end, my wife and I both had a great time. We then went to get our faces painted because; after all, we're newlyweds.

After leaving the lawn games, my mind got very curious about the origins of the game. You, my dear reader, are about to experience the origin and rules of croquet as I understand them. Please feel free to take notes. I know it is a common tactic for many to trust but verify. As a winner of many a trivia game, I can assure I can be trusted with this information.

Croquet was originally pronounced "KROK-et". That is because the game was named after the King of the Wild Frontier himself: Davey Crockett. It seems that when Crockett wasn't fightin' single handed through many a war and fixin' the crack in the Liberty Bell, he would passed the time playing a game he devised himself. Crockett would stand in his field and hit a boulder with a sledgehammer. The object was to make the boulder pass underneath the openings in his fence. This was any easy task for a man who killed a bear at the tender age of three. After all, Davey Crockett was a man. He was a BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG man. Wait a minute. Sorry, THAT was someone else.

After the Louisiana Purchase, the Marquis de Lafayette was rather intrigued by the frontier game. Due to Lafayette misspelling (and mispronouncing) Crockett's name, the game was changed to croquet (pronounced "krow-KAY"). The name loosely translates as "sledgehammer golf". Also, Lafayette Incorporated the use of smaller spherical balls. He also created small arches which were driven into the ground. After all, Lafayette did not kill a bear at three years old. It's quite possible Lafayette NEVER killed a bear but I digress. Lafayette then struck a stick into the ground in the center of the play area in order to lean against it while his opponents were playing. Unfortunately, any given player's trajectory would eventually hit the stick. Lafayette eventually gave up and just made the stick a part of the game. Lafayette then painted the stick to look like a barber pole. Thus, the tradition was born for player' to get a haircut immediately following the game. This tradition ceased quickly as player's wanted to keep playing the game but were catching a death of cold.

The rules are quite simple. There are several horseshoe thingies driven into the ground. Four of the horseshoe thingies create a large upside down U shape. In the center is the painted, stripy stick. There is also a horseshoe thingy on each side of the painted stripy stick. There are four spherical balls that are painted blue, red, black, and yellow. The balls are played respectively in that order. I don't know why that is. Nonetheless, just work with me please. Using the sledgehammer doo-dad, the player strikes the ball in an attempt to pass through each horseshoe thingy, in order, in the shape of the upside down U. Once you have passed through all four horseshoe thingies in order, you do the same in reverse order until you make you way back to the first horseshoe thingy that started the game. After you do this, you make your way toward going through the two horseshoe thingies in the center. One quick note: be careful when you go to strike the ball with the sledgehammer doo-dad. It is very easy to hit the toes. If this happens, you have to call a toe truck (sorry, I couldn't resist). Once you have gone through the center of all the horseshoe thingies (in order, both ways), you then strike the ball with the sledgehammer doo-dad to hit the painted stripy stick. Apparently, the first player to hit the painted stripy stick with their respective colored spheres wins the match.

So, there you have it, folks: the rules and history of croquet. You may feel free to take the advice of Robert Ripley and "Believe it or not". You may find differing information on the Internet, at the library, or by consulting an actual croquet official. All the same, this is MY story and I'm sticking to it.

[This piece was written with dedication and abject apologies to my US History teachers, the United States Croquet Association, and the memory of Fess Parker]

Make a Hole, Rick!

2009-06-23T21:13:00.018-04:00

I looked around me and I was still trying to figure out everything. For a split second, I thought I was dreaming. That idea was quickly dashed when I heard the screaming again. It was at this moment that I began to put some pieces together. I was in a barracks with seventy-nine other men. “Men” is a loose term as most of the seventy-nine others were barely eighteen years old (including me). In many states, eighteen was not old enough to buy alcoholic beverages. However, in these great United States, eighteen is old enough to vote and old enough to serve one’s country in the military. OK, now it is all coming back to me. After less than an hour of sleep (due to all the processing I went through the previous day), I was about to experience my first full day in boot camp in the United States Navy. The seventy-nine other young men were sharing this experience with me. Out of a total of eighty recruits, sixty-four would graduate eight weeks later. The other sixteen would be set back or sent home.

The man who was screaming obscenities at us at the top of his lungs was one of two company commanders assigned to the recruits of Company 202, Navy Recruit Training Command, Great Lakes, Illinois. He ordered us to make our racks (i.e. beds) because our mothers were no longer going to do it for us. The company commanders wore working white uniforms with a decorative red rope attached to the shoulder of the uniform shirt. This red rope is what let us know we were looking at a company commander. We were told if we ever pass a company commander, we were to stop, salute, and say “Good morning, Sir” (or afternoon or evening). Mind you, on the first day of boot camp, we were calling the cockroaches “Sir”. Still, this was vital information to know. We had not even had breakfast yet and a perfect stranger was yelling and cussing at us. Therefore, it was important to know the rule and follow them. The object was to have them NOT yell and cuss at you. This was not something that could be obtained with a nice friendly smile. The object could only be met by doing what you were told, when you were told AFTER you responding sharply with “AYE AYE, SIR”.

The company commander marshaled us to the galley. We were not allowed to talk while we were outdoors. Doing so would cause a recruit to be subjected to a MASH (Make a Sailor Hurt). In short, you were told to do a callisthenic exercise for a specified number of repetitions. We marched in stone silence. We arrived at the entrance doors to the galley. It was at this point that we all began to feel conspicuous. Our first day of boot camp was July 4, 1984. The date was as coincidental as it was ironic. I did not deliberately choose Independence Day when I signed up. It just worked out that way. This also meant that we would not be issued uniforms or get haircuts for another day. The only thing close to a uniform we were provided was a thin black raincoat. These raincoats mean only one thing. It’s your first day of boot camp.

As we were herded into the galley, the smell of food made us all think there was relief in sight (at least temporarily). We were wrong. We were met with other, more senior, recruits. They looked at us in our raincoats and uncut hair with a look of contempt and pity. “FRESH MEAT!!” one snarled. Others made profane comments about the length of our hair. One of my fellow recruits had shoulder length hair and a face full of beard. Another had a long jheri curl. These two were subjected to the worst of the teasing. As we stood in line for the food, we were subjected to more yelling. “NO TALKING ON THE GREEN”. This recruit, assigned to the galley for service week (the midpoint in boot camp) was referring to the area where we were standing in line for our food. The floor tile underneath us was green. Again, violating this rule would result in a MASH. We soon found out how real that was as one of the recruits in my company began talking. Suddenly the company commander was two inches in front of his face and yelled “DROP!” The illustration was clear. Many of us were reluctant to open our mouths even when our food was in front of us. We were hungry but we weren’t crazy.

The company commander (also referred to as a CC or “red roper”) took us to an unexpected destination after we left the galley. He took us to a building that had phone booths. It was a large room where phone booths lined all four walls save the doorway. At this point, I had been yelled at, screamed at, and degraded by perfect strangers who didn’t know me from Adam’s housecat. I figured if I could spend the allotted 10 minutes talking to my parents everything would be okay. I made my collect call home and my sister answered the phone. I asked to speak to Mom and Dad. My sister said “They aren’t here. They went out for breakfast”. My heart sank. They weren’t expected me to call any more than I was. Still, I wanted so badly to talk to them. I told my sister I loved her and hung up. It took all the restraint I had in me to hold back my tears.

Once we settled into our barracks, the CC gave us some basic instructions to Navy boot camp life. He taught us the chain of command from the President of the United States (Ronald Reagan) to the two company commanders assigned to us (RM2 Scanlon and AE2 Fertig). We were also taught that many other red ropers would make references to “Rick” or “Ricky”. This was basically our new, generic name: Ricky Recruit. We were then allowed some time to make a head call (restroom) and use the scuttlebutt (water fountain). One thing the company commander told us was very sorely needed advice. There is only one way to survive the boot camp experience: one day at a time. For a spoiled eighteen year old kid, it was the best advice I could have ever received.

I kept giving it another day; then another. I learned the rules, performed the drills, and attended the classes with my company. Every day we became more and more like a unit. We endured physical fitness testing and (sometimes) daily MASH sessions. We did it as a unit with a straight face and a sharp “AYE AYE SIR!” We enjoyed “Coke and Smoke” sessions when we were granted them. We enjoyed CARE packages sent from home which we gladly shared with the entire company. When we heard “MAKE A HOLE, RICK!” we parted like the Red Sea to allow a red roper to pass between us. It wasn’t a bed of roses, but every day made it easier to give it another day. I was sidelined with bronchitis when my company ran its final physical fitness test (the “run for the gate”). However, a week later, I ran a makeup test and was then ready to graduate with my company.

Finally, the day came. The day we worked eight weeks to see — August 30, 1984. It was Graduation Day. I joined sixty-three fellow recruits in dress white uniforms prepared to pass in review. We marched back to the barracks to get our liberty cards and meet our loved ones back on the grinder. We even got an extra day of liberty due to it being Labor Day weekend. My boot camp experience began and ended with a national holiday. We all spent the weekend with our loved ones with no idea how to act in public. Even after graduating, we were all subconsciously afraid of saying something that would cause our CC to appear out of nowhere and MASH us.

We left our last day of boot camp the following week. Our company commander told us something that made us all proud: “You are no longer Ricks. You are sailors”. We shook hands and said our goodbyes. Most of my fellow recruits I never saw again after that day. I left for my school to train to be a hospital corpsman. I have long since been discharged but the experience I will carry with me forever.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

I’d like to give thanks to a few people who made this blog post possible.

Radioman Second Class Michael Scanlon and Airman Electricians Mate Second Class Arthur Fertig (ranks were as of 1984). Thank you both for doing your jobs and never allowing me to give up on myself.
Thank you to all the wives, girlfriends, mothers, and other loved ones who provided cookies and other treats to the entire company. Unless you have been through boot camp, you have no idea how such a gesture made the experience bearable.
Thank you to everyone who sent letters offering encouragement and love. If you currently have a friend, son, daughter, spouse or other loved one in boot camp, keep the letters and cookies coming in.
Thanks to my closest ally in boot camp: Illinois resident Mike Nosek. Mike was a newlywed at the time whose daughter was born midway through boot camp. Thank you for everything, Mike.
Last, but certainly not least, thank you to all who experience boot camp before me and after me. Whether you are on the front line overseas or in a cushy desk job at some skate military installation, our freedoms are protected by your service.

Posted below are pictures from my days in Navy boot camp (Great Lakes, Illinois, 1984).

The first photo is (l-r) Seaman Recruit Mike Nosek and Seaman Recruit Shane McAfee. Mike was a great guy who helped me get through the boot camp experience. His wife had a beautiful daughter halfway through boot camp. Sadly, I lost touch with him after boot camp.

The other pictures that follow is (in order of appearance): My Dad and me, me by myself, and my mom and me. Thise pictures were taken the weekend I graduated from boot camp. It was Labor Day weekend, 1984.

From Daddy’s Arms to the Commencement Stage

2009-06-23T21:11:00.003-04:00

Fatherhood has been very rewarding to me over the years. I have four great kids: a 20 year old son, a 19 year old daughter, a 17 year old daughter, and a 15 year old son. Over the course of my writing, I have easily made reference to any one of these four great kids. After all, parenting is like being on a roller coaster. Sometimes, it’s a great thrill. Sometimes, it gets a bit scary. Every once in a while you may even get nauseous from the experience. But at the end of the day, I can remember it was an experience that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

For this writing, I am going to focus on my baby girl, 17 year old Brianna. Brianna and I have been through some exciting twists and turns on the metaphorical roller coaster. When she was barely a year old, she had surgery to remove her tonsils and adenoids. She was just getting the hang of walking. I can close my eyes and still envision the event as clear as day. We took Brianna out of her hospital room and spent some time together in the solarium. Her mother would coordinate the IV tubing and pole while Brianna would take a few steps and stumble. She would then giggle and get back up again. After a few of these dry runs, I went across the room and knelt on the floor. Brianna gave me her bright babyish smile. She took very slow, deliberate steps across the room. With every step, her smile got bigger. She never stumbled once. She walked all the way across the room and into my arms.

Over the years since that event, I have seen Brianna go through a variety of changes. I have seen her go from being a mother to more than 20 dolls (that was a VERY lucrative Christmas for her) to a young lady who beams when she speaks about the 5^th graders she got to interact with during an internship recently. I have seen her transition from a little girl learning her ABC’s to a high school senior planning toward a career in Elementary Education. One day, I was looking at a little girl singing in her school choir. I blinked my eyes and I heard the angelic voice of a 17 year old girl singing songs around the house. She has gone from a little girl who thought her Daddy hung the moon to a girl who is quick to assert that my essays are “SO dry”.

I spoke to a friend from high school recently and we were discussing the ages of our kids. I told him my “baby” is 15 years old. He told me his youngest is 8 years old and added “I can still swing her around.” Given the ages of my kids, if I tried to swing any of them, it would surely result in injury. I now get to add the experience of watching my daughter walk across a stage and accept her high school diploma. In accepting the diploma, she leaves behind 12 years of being a student. In the fall, she will prepare for more education so that she may become a teacher. She is no longer a little girl. But, she will always be my baby girl. I will always be the proud father who will gladly accept her into my arms.

Brianna, it has been a great roller coaster ride with you thus far. In the future, we will sometimes ride together. I may even want to insist on riding with you from time to time. Other times, you will not only ride without me but I won’t even be in the park with you. The ride will sometimes be scary, bumpy, or may even induce nausea. You’ll have to get off the ride, shake it off, and get back in line. In the end, you will have had an experience that no one can take from you. I love you very much and you make my heart swell with loving pride. Thanks for riding with me.

Let Me Put It To You Another Way

2009-06-19T17:15:00.007-04:00

I have noticed that, as I have gotten older, there seems to be an entity that rears its ugly head more and more every year—the euphemism. By definition, a euphemism is the substitution of a word or phrase for a word or phrase that may otherwise be considered offensive or malicious. Synonyms for euphemism include: rewording, understatement, or code word. Another interesting synonym I ran across was "weasel word". I found this especially amusing because I tend to associate the word euphemism with another word—cowardice.

Euphemisms are put in place to "soften the blow". They are sometimes used out of political correctness. For example, you can look at a parking at a store that is designated as "handicapped" parking. However, the person in the car is referred to as "differently abled" or "physically challenged" or "that dude is about to get a $90 ticket for parking there". Some use euphemisms in a lame attempt to practice diplomacy. I am American by birth and Southern by the grace of God. I know and understand diplomacy. My mother had a Ph. D. in diplomacy. My mother could tell you to go to Hell and you'd pack a suitcase. Be not deceived, however. Telling your wife her jeans "shrunk in the wash" is not diplomacy. It is cowardice. Of course, that's easy for me to say. It's not MY wife.

However, more than any other environment, euphemisms pop up in the workplace like mushrooms after a bad rain. Some of these weasel words (I LOVE that term) are used in order to avoid civil liability. Other times, it is just an excuse for the corporate world to use its own jargon. After all, calling an ongoing process "evergreen" is roughly equivalent to a sailor calling a wall a bulkhead, right? And, of course, there are weasel words in the workplace used simply to avoid confrontation. That's right, cowardice shows up again. A manager giving an evaluation to a subordinate will not tell the subordinate that he (or she) is deficient in a given area, performs poorly, or stinks at his (or her) job. Instead, the manager will tell the subordinate that he (or she) has a "development opportunity". Mind you, if that subordinate fails to address said development opportunity, he (or she) shall be "relieved of his (or her) duties" in order to "better apply his (or her) skills in other areas of the open job market".

Alas, I was even victim to this myself. My job faced some economic cutbacks. This meant I succumbed to a layoff, a reduction in force, a corporate outplacing, a rebalance of the human capital. My services were no longer required. Mind you, my boss did not actually use any of those terms. He was very straightforward. He reluctantly told it like it was, without cowardice. Nonetheless, it was an uneasy experience when my wife walked into the house and said "What are you doing home so early?" My wife was very sympathetic and understanding. She said: "Let's put it this way: you were stressing about your contract ending in six weeks. You don't have to stress about that now". What can I say? My queen isn't a coward either.

There Was Nothing Minor About That Night.

2009-06-13T22:15:00.004-04:00

I have mentioned before that my Dad would take us to see minor league baseball games as a relatively inexpensive form of family fun. Due to the fact that I moved a lot as a kid, I saw a few minor league teams with my Dad. I got to see games with the Charlotte Orioles, Savannah Braves, and Columbus Astros (that's Columbus, Georgia). My Dad and I were even planning to attend an exhibition game between the Charlotte Orioles and the Baltimore Orioles in 1980. Sadly, our plans were dashed when the Major League Baseball folks went on strike. Shortly afterward, we moved from Charlotte to Savannah. We saw a few more games together before I graduated from high school.

Life went on for my Dad and me. Over the years that followed, I would join the Navy (and get out). I got married (twice). I also moved 1000 miles away from my home state of Georgia (also twice). I have welcomed four children into my life between 1988 and 1993. I have also bade several loved ones farewell (including my mother in 2006). Like many others in the world, I have tried to create memories with my wife and kids. I have also, like many others, tried to relive the great memories I had as a kid with my own kids.

Dad and I never went to another ball game together after I graduated high school. Stranger still, I spent more than 20 years living in the same city and never took myself or my family to a minor league game. This is in spite of the fact that I went to see the Atlanta Braves twice in 2007 with some extended family. This was just downright shameful. The Rochester Red Wings have some very distinguished alumni: Boog Powell, Cal Ripken (Junior AND Senior), Jim Palmer, and Mike Boddicker. One Red Wings Hall of Famer, Bobby Bonner, went from the Rochester Red Wings to the Baltimore Orioles to Zambia, Africa where he now serves as a missionary.

I looked at my wife one day and said "We should go to a Red Wings game". Next thing you know, my wife and two younger kids are joining me at Frontier Field. It was a nice cool summer evening. We bought programs. My wife bought pompoms (of all things). I couldn't believe they would actually sell pompom at a baseball game. I wasn't about to complain. I had been looking forward to this night for a while. We bought the obligatory soft ice cream in a helmet cup for the kids. We also bought drinks and the even more obligatory peanuts. The peanuts had been under a heat lamp. As I felt the heat from the bag, I felt that I was, at that very point, officially AT the game.

We had great seats 10 rows up from the field, between home plate and first base. I sat between my wife, Renee, and our daughter Brianna. Our son, Caleb, sat on the other side of Renee. The first inning had just started between the Rochester Red Wings and the Gwinnett Braves. Several innings passed and the Red Wings played to an enthusiastic crowd. At one point between innings, some Red Wings t-shirts were thrown into the crowd. I caught one and gave it to Caleb (it was too small to fit my "larger" frame). At another point between innings, The Red Wings Mascots (Spikes and Mittsy) threw foam balls into the crowd. I had my sights set on catching one to give to Brianna. I barely missed it and a gentleman behind me caught it. He graciously gave it to me to give to my daughter. Chivalry is not dead in Frontier Field.

Then there were the vendors. For the most part, the vendors were quite typical. They roved the stadium offering beer, peanuts, popcorn, and cotton candy. One vendor, however, was not so typical. He wore a Conehead cap on his head. If you had any doubt about his name, it was on his name tag and the back of his shirt: Conehead. I saw several patrons order beer to which Conehead enthusiastically served. "You got the Conehead guarantee. You'll NEVER get this beer for free". He then politely thanked his customer and went his way. One girl sitting near us seemed either fascinated or frightened by Conehead. Any time he walked near this little girl, her eyes followed him until he was out of eyeshot.

The Red Wings had some fine batters going up to the plate. We enjoyed cheering on center fielder Jason Pridie, catcher Drew Butera, and left fielder Dustin Martin. Most of all, Brianna and I especially enjoyed watching shortstop Trevor Plouffe. We would say his name and giggle whenever he went up to bat ("PLOOF" hee hee). The Red Wings had earned a lead in the score briefly. Not much later, the Gwinnett Braves got ahead of them. Still, there was hope that the Red Wings could regain their lead.

Then, at the top of the seventh inning, it happened. Gwinnett Brave right fielder Reid Gorecki hit a fly ball. As the ball reached the apex of its arc, the crowd let out an audible "OHHHHHHHH!" Exactly as our collective interjection predicted, the ball landed over the fence. Gorecki had hit his second home run of the night. This created an 8-6 lead from which the Red Wings did not recover. The game ended. Brianna acquired an autograph from Dustin Martin, Spikes, Mittsy, and Trevor Plouffe. Caleb also got his t-short autographed by Mr. Plouffe ("PLOOF" hee hee).

The night was capped off by a phenomenal fireworks display. A beautiful mosaic of colors lit up the sky as our ears were treated to classic top 40 tunes. After it was over we made our way to the minivan. Everyone told me they had a great time. Brianna kissed my cheek and told me it was worth skipping out on a senior night function. I had done it. I had taken one of my magic memories with my Dad and shared it with my family.

In closing, I want to thank my wife and kids for sharing this great night with me. I can't wait to do it again. Thanks to Spikes, Mittsy, Dustin Martin, and Trevor Plouffe for the autographs. Lastly, thanks to the Rochester Red Wings and the Gwinnett Braves for a great game. I look forward to seeing some of you in the majors someday. Y'all might be minor league players but there was nothing minor about that night.