A Time To Say, "Good-Bye"

It's hard to believe it's coming up on two years since we said, "Good-bye" to our trusty companion, Ringo.  He will be forever missed.

Saying "Good-bye" to Ringo before his final trip to the Vet.

Beloved Friend
Trusted Protector
A life summed up in just four words
Nine syllables on a headstone
Carved through tears
For a Golden Cur

They may not hold much meaning
Unless you knew him like we did
So fearless was he to defend his “pack”
But when it thundered
He always hid

A gentle giant of the canine world
He tipped the scales at one twenty three
We’re left with only memories now
His empty doghouse by the tree

Beloved Friend
Trusted Protector
Always placid, not easily riled
To our boys; their four legged brother
To Sue and I
Our middle child.



Good boy, Ringo.

I miss you already -
And always will.

3/14/99 – 8/14/09

I LIKE TRAFFIC LIGHTS . . . I LIKE TRAFFIC LIGHTS

While driving my kids to camp this morning as I have done for the past six weeks, I stumbled upon a universal truth that many had, more than likely, discovered long ago - as it is, after all, a universal truth.  But, being a bit slow on the uptake, as I often am, only today did the pieces all fall into place as the proverbial light bulb of inspired thought appeared above my head . . . much like the ARBY'S® logo of recent times has been spotted hovering above the heads of those preoccupied with acquiring the shavings from a certain processed and pressed loaf of fast-food roast beef.

My revelation was subconsciously realized some time ago, but never actually congealed itself into an actual thought . . .  until today.  What was that thought, that realization?

It was this:

"The number of red lights encountered is directly proportional to how behind schedule you are at arriving at your destination.  Conversely, the number of green lights encountered is directly proportional to the number of tasks you hope to complete while stopped at the red lights."

Today I left with the kids running just about even, with no time to spare. Normally, this would mean that I would hit every red light possible on the way to camp, robbing me of my slight time buffer and making the kids arrive late past the optimum window of physical manifestation.

Against all odds, this was not the case today and as far as I can figure it, for only one reason: I got in the vehicle without tying my shoes.  This is something I very rarely do, if ever.  It just makes me feel incomplete and unprepared.  Like the dream you have when you're kid and find yourself getting off the bus at school wearing only your underwear and shoes. The anal-retentive part of me needs to do certain things, you know, "A" before "B," at the proper time and in the proper sequence in order for me to feel comfortable and to make life roll along smoothly.  Having not taken the time to tie my shoes was not that big of a deal as I figured my sphere of stability would only begin to wobble a bit and I would not obsess and go out of my mind before I could complete the task, a task I expected to save time on by tying my shoes at one of the several traffic lights I would encounter along the way.

First traffic light:  RED.  But I was in the right turn lane and had a clear shot at turning and with traffic stacking up behind me, I had no time to tie. I had to turn right.

Next traffic light:  RED. But it turned green as soon as I stopped and the 3 cars in from of me started to pull out almost immediately.  No time to tie.  Couldn't slow the flow and upset the delicate balance.

Next two lights:  Green.  I NEVER hit these particular lights when they're green.

This is about the time that the ray of light broke through the clouds, found me behind the steering wheel and smacked me squarely between the eyes.  I could have sworn I heard the sound of a heavenly choir just begin to sing a few notes, but I was distracted from my audio apparition and the disembodied voices were quickly drown out as the kids were now asking in unison what the light bulb was doing floating above my head.

And there you have it. On a day when the kids should have gotten to camp five minutes late, I actually got them there with 5 minutes to spare. This meant no anxiety and need to rush off to their places and I, in fact, had time to lube the youngest one up with his favorite brand of spray-on sun block before he meandered off to wherever it is he goes when he first gets there in the morning.

I would have thought all these green lights to be a harbinger of good luck to come today, but it was not to be.  I must have hit every red light possible after I dropped the kids off.

Don't Tell Me You've Lost My Kid!

So, you forget to call the school one morning to tell them little Johnny will be absent.  Perhaps the fact that you haven't gotten any sleep all night while tending to the little heaver has upset your regular sense of priority.  Anyway, after taking attendance and realizing he is not there, the school calls you to inquire as to his whereabouts. At this point, the ball is in your court and you innocently say with slight sense of confused disbelief, "I ... I don't know - he, he ... was clearly visible when he got on the bus  . . ."

On the other end of the phone there is an awkward silence followed by a faint hint of building panic. Several seconds later, when they have regained the ability to speak you say, "Nah, he's here.  I'm just messin' with you.  Sorry I forgot to call."

I don't remember for sure, but I may have gotten a short lecture, after they expelled an anxious sigh of relief, on why they didn't think that was particularly funny and that one shouldn't joke about such a thing, because students have gotten lost before.

Maybe so, but, believe me, it is a response that should be tried at least once, particularly when the person taking attendance wants the most minute of details as to why your child will not be at school.

Really?  So if I tell them that my kid has a fever and has been puking his guts up on the hour all night, am I to believe that giving them this info will somehow impart the ability on them to make my kid well?

I guess I was fed up and this was just my way at getting back at them for asking, in what was my opinion, too many questions in the past regarding reasons for an absence.  I enjoyed it quite a lot.  Give it a try sometime with the Nosy Nellie on the other end of the attendance line, I'm sure you will too.

Here's To Forgotten Mother's Days

He took her hand, he said her name
She looked into his eyes
For all the things there were to say
Her words were paralyzed

She'll never know it's Mother's Day
Well . . . maybe for a while
But she'll forget what he's just said
Distracted by the bright floor tile

And so it goes
Another step down the spiral
Heaven knows
There is no hope for survival
And so it goes ...

Syllables trying to connect
They bridled at the gate
But stumbled as they touched his ears
Out of wind and hard to make

Disconnected ... frag-mented thoughts
That tumbled in her head
Each fade into a whisper
At the moment they are said

No steps forward and three steps back
With such a heavy load
Sometimes she falters
Sometimes she breaks
On such a rutted road

Pursued by an assailant
Relentless to the end
Determined to take everything
'Til she is where she once began

And so it goes
Slipping further down the spiral

In the times
When I think all hope is lost
I'm reminded of Heaven's room for her
That was paid for with a cross
And so it goes

She'll never know it's Mother's Day
Well . . . maybe for a while
But she'll forget that she's been told
Before her next big smile
And so it goes . . .

Mom,

Happy Mother's Day.

Monkeyshines, Turd Drops and Deaththroes

Despite the fact that President Obama has repeatedly congratulated himself (in one speech alone) on being the mastermind behind Osama Bin Ladin's death, which is no small feat - and he should be congratulated for being the president on watch who allowed the military to complete their mission, the fact remains that our economy continues to be in the tank with no real signs of serious recovery; Fed Chairman Bernanke has flooded the world market with U.S. dollars, making every dollar out there worth less, our President refuses to increase the world oil supply by keeping a stranglehold on domestic production, fuel prices are through the roof, inflation is taking hold and unemployment remains high after two years of him being in office, when he said if we followed his prescription we would be well into our second year of recovery and prosperity.

Aside from that being a very long and poorly punctuated run-on sentence, the death of Osama Bin Laden, however wonderful, does not suddenly turn everything about this president into gold or the landscape of this country into all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.  After all the celebrating and revelry has cooled, everyone can get back to reality and look at the crap we are still standing knee-deep in.  Crap created by a president who tends to turn everything he puts his hand to into crap.  So far the military hasn't succumbed to his crap touch, which is not for a lack of trying on President Obama's part.   Let's pray the military can endure and that they don't succumb to the crap touch.

But, that's just my opinion.

Come As You Are . . . And Stay That Way

I wrote this in response to some of the Christian denominations which seem to be more concerned in the past years with being open and tolerant, by concerning themselves with peripheral issues non-essential to the gospel or personal salvation, than they do with teaching the truths of time-honored scripture.  I hope it speaks for itself.

Just as I am,

We’ve heard the refrain

Come As You Are

You don’t need to change

We’ve come so far

To become so blind

We do no favors

By thinking we're kind

Did God not say

What He’s already said?

For the things we’ve done

He suffered and bled

We welcome you

So come on in

We want to fill our pews

We won’t talk about sin

Being all for social justice

We’ll gladly ride that mule

And paint those who dissent

As heartless and cruel

But we’ll support the rights

Of a generational disease

While we're at it
Let's save the water, air and trees

When we should worship

Not the creation we see

But The One who created

As we bow on our knees

Have we lost sight

Of God’s great grand plan

When tolerance for everything

Is the message at hand?

Evil Is The New "Good"

A pastor friend's recent posting on facebook about people marrying animals and "Mother Earth" being given the same rights as humans prompted me to write this, as it seems in our quest for intellectual progress and enlightenment we are tearing long held moral norms and traditions apart at the seams.  For all our knowledge we don't seem to be very wise - a "two steps forward, three steps back" sort of mentality.

Down is up  

Up is down  

Out is in  

In is out 

Black is white

White is black 

Don't judge me 

Get off my back 

Wrong is right  

Right is Wrong  

Can't we all just get along?

Left is right 

And then reverse  

How have things grown so perverse?  

Evil is good  

Righteousness sin  

How long ago did this begin?

Fore is aft

As aft is fore

How can we take this anymore? 

The pendulum swings  

The tables turn  

With all we know

What have we learned?

They Continue To Sweat The Small Stuff

Thank The Maker that our "so-called" government shut-down was averted and the Cherry Blossom Festival was saved. Yet another example of our governmental leaders playing to our emotions and choosing style and symbolism over substance.

So what if the National Parks were shut down for a few days or weeks, isn't it more important that our country get it's spending in order so that these parks (most of which we now have to pay to enter anyway) remain open in the future?

In the big scheme of things, this is the small stuff.

Our leaders, who seem to be happy to march us boldly into the dark, continue to fiddle while America's fiscal present and future is burning.  Even with the 38.5 Billion Dollars cut from the current budget, that comparatively measly amount would still leave the powers that be over 98 percent of the money they want to spend.  If history is any indicator, a lot of that will eventually be thrown down a rat hole anyway, and when you consider that the 2011 budget spends 219.9 Billion more than in 2010, that 38.5 Billion they just agonized over cutting seems more and more like a joke, of which, the American Taxpayers are the butt.

Do people not understand that only non-essential functions of our government would have been stopped? Social Security and Welfare checks would have still been mailed out, the Post Office would still be open and deliver stuff to your house. The fact is, most people would have been inconvenienced to the degree they are on any Federal Holiday.

Even though both Presidents Reagan and Clinton saw to it that the military got paid during government shut-downs under their watches; the military was not on schedule to get their pay this time around, because President Obama and the Democrats had made the choice to use them as political pawns and withhold their money until after the shut-down (if any) was over by having President Obama Veto a spending bill that included provisions to specifically make sure the military forces were paid.

For as smarmy and duplicitous as Obama and the Democrats are the Republicans are equally as weak, cowardly, spineless and unable to stand up to the pressure of what negative things the Dominant Established Liberal Mass Media might say about them.

The Democrats and the media already portray Republicans and Conservatives as people who would gladly starve Seniors and children, deny the sick of hospital treatment and willfully pollute the water and air, of which, we all must drink and breathe.  How could what they say at this point possibly be more damaging or get any worse?

It's high time that all of our elected officials in Washington "sacked up," grew a spine and started behaving like responsible men who truly care about the direction and future of this country.  So far, only a handful come to mind whom actually present themselves this way; among them Budget Committee Chairman, Paul Ryan and a woman, Michele Bachmann, Representative from Minnesota.

So now that the theater of the event is over (for now) both sides can wipe their furrowed brows, pat each other on the back and claim victory over a hard fought battle.  The only casualties in this war continue to be the American Taxpayer.

There's A Lady In The Men's Room!

We humans are creatures of habit. We generally go through our daily routines almost by rote, sometimes not even thinking about why or what we are doing, but simply following through on a familiar, repetitive task.

Reaching for the toothbrush in the morning, as you have done a thousand times before, you squeeze the contents of the tube onto your implement, only to discover - sometimes too late - that you are about to clean your teeth with feline laxative or hemorrhoid ointment.

When leaving the house in the morning we open the garage door before backing out, but sometimes one element in our mental equation is left out and we mindlessly back through that door without raising it. The same door we had opened a few thousand times before.

How do we do these things; are we getting old and demented?  Are we losing our marbles or are we just victims of ourselves and the routines that we mindlessly repeat day after day?

Luckily, I have never followed through with, or been absent-minded enough to perpetrate any of the aforementioned offenses.  I have come close, though.  The apparent boringness of the routine task can end up biting you in your rear, if your mind is not fully engaged.

Take, for instance, what happened to me the other day when the wife and I stopped with our two boys at McDonald's while on a roadtrip.   After eating, I made my way to the Men's Room.  I've done it a thousand times before, but something was different about this particular Men's Room for a couple of reasons; 1: It appeared to be cramped and closed in, compared to other men's rooms I had visited, not open and unobstructed.  This could be because  every terlit in the place (5 or 6 along one wall with a huge Handicap terlit on the end), had it's own stall and dark woodgrain door which broke up the space and gave the illusion of making the place look even more narrow than it was.  2: There was not one stand up Urinal in the entire room.

This did cause a couple of double takes and I even peered into every stall as my brain was trying to compute what my eyes were taking in.  As I did this, a  couple of things flashed through my mind; "this place has private stall terlits exclusively in place of urinals, because the truckers coming in off the highway appreciated the added privacy." - I had noticed the signs driving in and was witness to the ample truck parking way out back.

It also occurred to me that this restaurant might be some sort of "Test Model" for other McDonald's franchises, as it is fairly well known that the Columbus, Ohio area is test market for manufacturers of all things under the sun - why would a McDonald's be any different?   As the thoughts were all aswirl in my head, I am also simultaneously thinking that this must be a a "high end" Micky D's which caters to the needs of the man with public performance issues and has gone to the trouble and expense of providing this unique and private restroom experience ..."

After taking another gander about the room,  I decided to open a stall (one was the same as the next) and stepped inside.  Just as I was about to close and latch the door, a mild sense of panic flooded over me - "What if this wasn't a Men's Room?"

The only reason I would even venture to think such a thing is because last summer when visiting our old neighborhood in Colorado, I had stopped at the WalMart off of Arapahoe Rd., East of I-25 in Centennial.  My quest: to purchase some glue-like hair care products, as my my mane was being particularly unruly in the dry Colorado air.

After making my purchase (some Garnier goo in a green sqeeze bottle, the contents therein having the  consistency of somewhere between phlegm and STP), I thought maybe I'd head to the restroom to apply some of my newly acquired gel and slick my hair aft prior to the drive back to the house.  No big deal.  I made my way toward the Men's Room.  As I progressed, I looked up ahead to spy the large opening in the wall which is typical of the entry for WalMart's restroom facilities - I even saw a couple of guys go inside.  I was on the right track, but my mind had played a trick on me and I didn't even know it yet.

Up to that point, it had been my experience that the Men's Rooms in WalMarts were located to the right of the large common opening - so, in I go only to be greeted by the sight of a mother helping her daughter wash her hands and fix her hair or whatever sort of secret things mothers and daughters do in public restrooms (having two sons, the happenings there are a complete mystery to me).  This entire panorama caught me a bit off guard and my mind rushed in to try to come up with an explanation for what my eyes were currently witnessing.

The first thought that goes through my head is: " Oh look, there's a girl in the Men's Room ..."

Not so unusual.  I've seen Dads with smaller girls in various Men's Rooms when they've been tasked with toilet duty because Mom was either out of the picture or doing something else at the time and unable to help. Another "No big deal" moment.  Dads are usually pretty good about being discreet and will always pick a stall with a door, so as not to traumatize the little female kidlets.

My second thought was: " Oh look, there's a woman in the Men's Room helping her daughter ... ?!?!"

It was shortly after this that my innocent sense of "Awe shucks, ain't that cute," quickly gave way and melted into, "But ... why is she helping her daughter in the Men's . . .  GREAT SCOT!!!   I'M IN THE LADIES ROOM !!!!

I was the victim of my overly confident sense of familiarity and hadn't really bothered to read the sign outside door. Stupid. Stupid Stupid!

And while I did see some men walking toward that doorway, I probably glanced away just before they DIDN'T go in, but my mind seemlessly edited the scene to tell my brain that then men had gone into the door on the right side - the side my mind had already decided was the Men's Room, but in reality was just the opposite.

We return now to the McDonald's restroom where I am beginning to blush and get nauseous at the same time a mild anxiety attack begins to take hold.  I have turned from the stall and am now only feet from the entry door so I decide to have a peek across the way to see how that particular restroom door opposite my location is labeled.

MEN'S.

CRAP!

You've go to be kidding me.  How did this happen to me . . . TWICE!?!

You could've lit a match head on my face.

 I quickly and casually slip out of the Ladies Room, take the two the three casual steps across the nook and duck into the Men's Room hoping no one had noticed my mistake or mistook my mistake as a deliberate attempt at something lurid or unseemly.

Home at last. Back amongst my group. Where I belong - with the man herd.

Unlike the Ladies Room, the Men's Room quickly becomes home to a flurry of activity with overweight and slightly overweight men, sporting various patterns of plaid and deciduous forest camouflage, milling about.  Some know each other and judge this to be a good place to have a short chat, slap one another on the back and say, "Well, alrighty then."

The only fortunate thing for me in THIS restroom was that I had already chosen my urinal before the herd had arrived. This was quickly played to my disadvantage.

I didn't take the low one. There might be a little kid coming in or maybe a midget - they would probably appreciate it if the low urinal was open.

Well, that eliminated taking a urinal located on a strategic end.

Deliberately choosing the middle urinal or ANY urinal that isn't on an end is just asking for trouble . . . particularly if you're the least bit shy.  For this reason, the end is always better than a middle where you can be sandwiched in and surrounded by men of wide ranging girths, wide ranging stances and varying degrees of regard or disregard for trajectory, stream pressure, aim or splash back. Being surrounded is especially bad when the urinals are packed in so tightly because they left out space for privacy/splash partitions when drawing up the final building plans.

Much to my dismay, a couple of big fellers came in and docked themselves at my Port and Starboard.  I finish earlier than planned, wash my hands and made my exit.  No privacy/splash partitions in this locale.

Had I not questioned myself, I probably could have done my business uninterrupted in the quiet of an abandoned Ladies Room and been none the worse because of it.  Ignorance is bliss, after all.


I kind of like the idea of a sanctuary restroom like those enjoyed by the women folk who walk among us.  I think I'll float my idea for an equally outfitted Men's Room counterpart to corporate.  The least I could do would ask them to exercise a little continuity on the restroom locations and ask that local franchisees not be so cheap as to not budget in a few dividers between the urinals - if my request for equal treatment falls on deaf ears.

I don't think women know how good they have it.

I don't think you don't know how grateful I am that no one saw me in the Ladies Room and cried "foul."

Because I was . . .

It's been just a little over two years since I wrote this. Sometimes inspiration comes in the most mysterious of ways.  This particular piece only took maybe 30 to 45 minutes or so to scribble down - it's almost like it wrote itself, in many ways. 

So, In keeping with the Lenten Season and the approaching Resurrection Sunday, I am once again sharing this, from the perspective of the Messiah (Not Obama), that reflects the solemnity of this annual observation and the hope (real hope, not the phony baloney type), it provides to all:




Because I was, because I am

Uniquely equipped to understand

If your life feels like it has no plan

I am waiting here to take your hand

Because I was, because I am

I know the pain of the fallen man

So very near to where you are

But it's your call

You decide how far

Because I was, because I am

Outside your door

I knock, I stand

Want you to know I'm your biggest fan

Because I am, I understand

I knew the lost should all be found

So on my head

A thorny crown

To take your pain,
To take your loss,
To take your sin,
I took the cross

Too much to take,
Too much to bear?
Thought you should know,
I took your share

This was all part of my grand plan

Because I was, because I am

The Rain, The Park and Other Things . . .

This entry would happen to fall under the category of "other things" and really doesn't have anything to do with anything in particular. 

I apologize if the title lead you to believe I may be writing about a tune sung by The Cowsills, but sometimes when I need a little pick-me-up, a pick-me-up that a Snickers®  just won't satisfy,  I tell myself, and let on to others, that I'm wearing "Slacks."

I'll admit, part of the allure for me is affording myself the opportunity to say the word "slacks."  Some words just seem to roll off the tongue:  Frothy, Soliloquy and Smarmy are examples of just a few, but I digress . . .  how did "slacks" get the name?  Don't know. Never looked it up, but it does seem to have a certain air about it - top of the food chain sort of thing when it comes to the pecking order of dressy leg coverings. 

I know, there is such a thing as "dress pants," but to avoid any confusion or the chance of weakening my argument I shall refrain from mentioning, and ignore all references to, "dress pants."

Why do I tell myself I'm wearing "slacks"? I do it because the general perception is that slacks can be so much more dressy than your ordinary garden-variety "trousers" and way more fancy than mere "pants."  For cryin' out loud, Blue Jeans fall under the category of "Pants" . . . but will never, in any circumstance, be mistaken for "Slacks."


It's a good way to give yourself a mental boost when you're feeling down and a bit underdressed - and with our impersonal, modern-age cyber-relationships and the advent of telecommuting, nobody will ever have to know you're really only wearing ordinary pants.

You could be sporting a worn out pair of Levi's with a hole in both knees.  Chuckle to yourself.  The joke's on them.

 Sweatpants? Totally different animal altogether.  Don't even get me started.

No Matter Where I Go, The Nigerians Can Find Me

Apparently, I have hit it big.
  

I'm glad Paul Jones of Nigeria - yes, the one in Africa - was able to track me down.  All I have to do to collect on my big payday is to fork over a bunch of personal information and then click on some innocent looking link that will, no doubt, allow whomever to either hack into my computer or infect it with a virus so that it ends up relinquishing all the pertinent information that I was trying to keep close to my vest.

You gotta hand it to the Nigerians for being persistent.  I'm sure they'd stop all this nonsense if there weren't enough gullible marks to make it worth their while.

Office of the Governor.

Central bank of Nigeria

Tinubu, square, Lagos- Nigeria.

Date 16th March  2011.

Our ref: Cbn/Ohg/Oxd1/2011

Your ref: ..............................

Telex: Cenbank.

Payment file: Cbn/Ben/2011.

Attn: Beneficiary,

Payment notification of your funds.

I am Mr. Paul Jones, the secretary to Dr. Lamido Sanusi; the executive governor of the central bank of Nigeria (C.B.N), the central bank of Nigeria is the parent bank of all commercial banks here in Nigeria. I was instructed to initiate contact with you by my boss the executive governor of the central bank of Nigeria (C.B.N) on an urgent issue, kindly note that your funds were re-called and re-deposited into the "federal suspense account" of the cbn last week, because you did not forward your claim as the right beneficiary.

My boss the executive governor of the central bank of Nigeria (C.B.N), was visited in his office by three gentlemen today, really these men were unexpected by him because their visit was impromptu. He had to ask them why they came to see him in person and they said that they came to collect the inheritance/ contract funds bill sum of us$20 million which rightfully belongs to you as shown in your file with us, on your behalf and by your authorization. Note that they actually tendered some vital documents which proved that you actually sent them for the collection of these funds. Below is list of the documents which they tendered to this bank today:

1. Letter of administration.

2. High court injunction.

3. Order to release.

Due to the nature of his job, he cannot afford to make any mistake in releasing these funds to anyone except you who is the recognized true beneficiary to these funds. Note that my boss has asked these men to come back tomorrow so he can verify this fact from you first. Kindly clarify us on this issue before we make this payment to these foreigners whom came on your behalf.  Kindly to direct your response to the private email address of my boss, Dr. Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, the executive governor of the central bank of nigeria cbn,below for quicker deliberation and response from him on the release of your funds to you. Please remember to indicate a phone number he can reach you on in your response.

Email: cscb.nig@hotmail.com

Note that for security reasons you have been assigned a code/password which is {TT7270CBN}, please note that this code is the reference number for your transfer and it?s being disclosed to you alone, guard this jealously and all your email response should carry this code as the subject.

Yours faithfully,

Mr. Paul Jones.

Secretary.

To the Governor.

Central bank of Nigeria

Tinubu square, Lagos- Nigeria.

Statement of confidentiality: "the information in this email and in any attachments may contain confidential information and is intended solely for the attention and use of the named addressee(s). It may not be disclosed to any person without authorization. If you are not the intended recipient, or a person responsible for delivering it to the intended recipient you are not authorized to and must not disclose, copy, distribute or retain this message or any part of it."

I think I'll email them back and tell them to "kindly let the three gentlemen keep the funds as a gift from me."

And To Think That I Saw It On Washington Street

While driving into the quaint little town of Chagrin Falls today to pick my son up from track practice, a guy (let's call him a moron in a Volvo sedan sporting a CU Buffs sticker on the trunk lid), pulls out in front of me with barely enough time to square up in his lane.

Now, it was obvious that on top of being a careless and discourteous driver, he did not have assured clear distance.  I had to brake not to rear-end him and, once in front of me, he made no effort to get up to speed.  I didn't have to lock up the binders (impossible with this stinking new ABS tech anyway), or skid to a stop to avoid total catastrophe, but I used the brakes so I didn't end up with the color of his golden car on the front bumper of my "white chocolate" (somebody at Ford actually came up with that name), Expedition.

What I did do was ride him extremely closely for a few seconds just to let him know what a "World Class A-hole" I thought he was.  Didn't even blast him with my horn, like I should have - and had every right to do.

The irony of this scenario?  He sticks his arm out the window in the rain and flips ME off.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.


OK. Well, maybe I could, but somehow you'd know I was making it up.

And to think that I saw it on Washington Street.

God rest your soul, Dr. Suess, and please forgive me for ripping the inspiration for my title off from you like that, but I couldn't resist.

Gord Is Good

A recent post by a facebook friend who couldn't seem to get a particular Gordon Lightfoot song out of her head originally prompted this.

Taking into consideration what a talented song writer Gordon has proven himself to be over the past several decades,  I thought it entirely appropriate to honor him with this ode.  Who could forget timeless classics such as  "If You Could Read My Mind," "Sundown," "Carefree Highway," "Rainy Day People" and a host of others?  I only hope it is not perceived as being sacrilegious.

Gord is great
Gord is good
Let us thank him
For his tunes
By his notes
Our ears are fed
Thank him for
Our sonic meds

Amen

Today's Word Is: Sheenius

Today's new word is Sheenius -

Pronounced: (SHEE-nee-us)

Definition:
The genius state of mind one finds themself in when they are Charlie Sheen and come to the brutal realization that the world is inhabited mostly by idiots, morons and lightweights who are incapable of comprehending, let alone hanging with, your superior intellect and rock star from Mars lifestyle.

The Heartbreak No Father Wants To Face

Looks like I'm gonna be going helmet shopping.  My youngest son, age 10, told me today that he wants to start riding the "short bus.'

Adverbs? We Don't Need No Stinking Adverbs!

As society continues to be dumbed-down, the lowest common denominator continues to be catered to and coddled. I'm not sure when he took a turn for the worse, but our old friend the Adverb has been neglected in common conversation, and even by supposed professionals in advertising copy, to the point that the poor fella is now on life support. That simple "ly" added much to help us describe . . . sadly, many won't even know he's gone.  Lolly, Lolly, Lolly - we hardly knew ya.

"I'll Have A Cheeseburger . . . Hold The Onion."

Well,  I haven't been able to look away from the visual allure and the simultaneous train wreck that is the show "Mad Men" on AMC.  It's not that the show itself is a train wreck, it's that the lives of most of the people on the show which are a train wreck . . . either that, or they are just about to leave the rails.

I am still trying to catch up to the present season through archived past seasons that can be found on these convenient disc things called DVDs.  Your local library is a good source for procuring this episodic drama if you are way too cheap to dole out the cash and don't care about adding this TV show to your personal viewing library.

I have just gotten through Season Two, at this point, and have been noticing similarities the actors and actresses on the show share with actors and actresses from years gone by - some of them even being of the animated variety.

While it is true that the show's main character, Don Draper (played by Jon Hamm), has a Fred Flintstone-class five o'clock shadow by 11 am, the woman who plays his wife is the person who made me think of a less famous cartoon character.

January Jones plays the Misses Don Draper.  In a less formal age we would call her, "Betty." An interesting fact I just recently learned about January is that she has managed to do what few others have done in modern civilized society: She is a self-taught actress . . . and quite proudly so.

I know, many of you are thinking the same thing as I, "How can this be.  Is it really and truly possible for someone to 'teach' themselves how to 'act'? Rocket Scientist, Brain Surgeon or airline pilot maybe . . . but . . . teaching yourself how to 'act'? How can one manage the hours of study and intense mental strain associated with such an endeavor, not to mention all the testing and certification one must go through just to obtain a license to 'Act'"?

Truth, as it turns out, is stranger than fiction.

Don't get me wrong. January Jones is easy on the eyes and as long as those same eyes are glazed over from admiring her generously ample supply of female pulchritude, what she says when she 'acts' in her one dimensionally self-taught fashion, seems to matter less and less.

Now. To the good stuff.

In 1953 Warner Brothers Pictures released a Merrie Melodies Theatrical Cartoon titled 'Muscle Tussle,' starring Daffy Duck and a rather fickle girlfriend duck who could be whisked away by the mere sight of a more muscular physiqued, body-building, muscle beach-type drake, who came complete with all the  innocent charm of a common barnyard fowl.  The girl is obviously NOT a mallard.

The physical similarities between the two only convinced me that my memory had served me well and that I was onto something big here. Really big.  OK. Maybe I overplayed that a bit, but the similarities between the two were striking and similar, if not notable and evident.

Since the quality of a "screen captured" image from the 'Muscle Tussle' cartoon is not of a high resolution variety, you will have to indulge me by visiting the link to the featurette in question.  Once you have taken a gander you will be able to see the physical similarities between the two.

Does it go as far as leading to a case of apparent "Separated at Birth," as was in the earlier instance of secretary Peggy Olson and Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver?   Maybe not.

But it's pretty darn close.

See for yourself

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Rrr2ZGA7BQ&playnext=1&list=PL40ABEF30D337C8D1

I Couldn't Believe It: They Were 'THIS BIG'!

Some people live double lives.  How many?  I don't know, but every now and again they pop up in the news, like the traveling salesman who has a wife in every city he has an account in or the Amish guy who secretly dwells in a modern house with electricity, which no one knows about, somewhere in the next county.

Everything seems to go along OK for people like this, until someone starts asking too many questions and overloads the their ability to effectively and convincingly conceal their true selves.  That is what I was thinking about when I wrote this.

You would be correct to assume that the title of this entry has nothing to do with the text - but it probably got your attention.



UNRAVELING

I offer fleeting glimpses
Where you see what you can see
Sometimes your eyes make contact
With the things that make me me

Don’t judge my motives harshly
They have the best intent
It’s just that I seem ill-equipped
Living in this rotting tent

I’m unraveling
Keeping some things from your eyes
Unraveling
As I'm served my humble pie
Unraveling
Known to none and known to strangers
Unraveling
Don’t pull that thread or I can’t hide

My answers closely guarded
Cards kept to my vest
Sometimes to answer candidly
Is not the course that seems the best

You'd judge my motives harshly
If you knew of my intent
My equation equals secrecy
With key factors not yet lent

I'm unraveling
I didn't see how this could be
Unraveling
To be exposed for all to see
Unraveling
Known to none and known to all
Unraveling
How could a big man feel so small?

I listen to your questions
How can I dodge your words
And still give you the answers
To sound like things you've always heard

Don’t judge my motives harshly
I have the best intent
It’s just that I feel ill-equipped
When the conversation’s spent

I’m unraveling
Right before your very eyes
Unraveling
Perhaps you find yourself surprised
Unraveling
Hidden from none and known to all
Unraveling
Holding that thread so I don’t fall

When There's Nowhere Left To Run

I am all for people keeping in shape. If jogging is what takes you to your happy place, then by all means, visit it as often as you must. The thing that really sort of ticks me off is how you get there.

Across this great country, as well as where I live, there are numerous planned mini communities known as sub-divisions.   These 'sub-divisions' of the larger community are paved with quiet, tree lined streets, aesthetically appealing curvalinear sidewalks and dead-end cul-du-sacs - all perfectly designed to offer the chronic jogger a safe route on which to run and keep them from the potential harm of a speeding vehicle.

Why is it then that many of those who need to jog insist on doing it along busy two-lane state highways and other busy roads?  Sometimes they do this late at night or before sunrise, taking their lives into their own two running shoes with the faith that their tiny little reflective vest will protect them from all harm and impending doom.

I really don't have a gripe if the shoulder is sufficiently sized to accommodate an adult human figure and leave a wide enough berth so I can pass them and not worry about clipping them with my side mirrors, but why on earth do some of these knuckleheads insist on running along the side of a busy road, in bad weather, when all they may have to tread on is six inches of pavement, at best, on the side of the paint stripe that separates my lane from the snow-piled berm?  If the snow is piled up that close to traffic, is it really worth risking your life?


I do have a theory about why some of these people jog where they do: It's all psychological, but since I am not an expert in the field, I cannot say anything with any degree of certainty. On the other hand, since psychology isn't an exact science, I am more than willing to offer my opinion to the masses . . . or at least to the scarce quantity of people who supposedly read this blog.

I think these joggers do it so people will see them exercising.  It kinda goes back to the old "if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it does it really make a noise" sort of thing.  If they get all duded up with their fancy running shoes, body-hugging tights and day-glo vest and they don't get the satisfaction of having the drivers of 700 cars see them as they pass, sweating up a storm to get in shape, then somehow it's just not worth it.

They could get the very same work out winding their way through a quiet sub-division not having to worry about getting side-swiped by an Septic truck, a drunk or someone who could panic and run if they were to hit someone along the side of the road.  Don't even get me started on the ying-yangs that think they can run two abreast out into your lane of traffic and refuse to go single file because they act as if they posses some divine right to do so.

To those of you joggers who continue to do it in the shadows, exercising quietly and modestly without fanfare and the apparent need to continually draw attention to your exercising self, I salute you. Keep it up.  For those of you who insist on running in traffic, I fear it's only a matter of time before one of you becomes a grill ornament.  In the last few months I have come very close to accidentally taking the life of an arrogant jogger on a handful of occasions. If not for quick reflexes and an empty lane beside me, I shutter to think what may have happened had I not seen, at the last possible moment, the flimsy reflective vest with which these runners seem entrust their lives from harm. That's a game that a smarter person wouldn't play.  Had I looked away from the road at the wrong second, I would be writing this from a much more sad and shaken perspective.


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