Nothing Serious

A Prior Life

2010-01-12T21:52:00.006-05:00

Recently I have been asked to elaborate on my past, specifically my salad days in the Sunshine State. I grew up in the swamps of Florida and my family owned a roadside citrus stand. Really, it was more of a tourist trap situated along a lonely stretch of state highway in the central part of the state.

When a newly-built stretch of interstate took most of our traffic away, the family had to improvise. That's why I started wrasslin' gators when I was only five. Over the years I trained with some of the legends in the business: Lefty Johnson, Peg-leg Pete, Tommy Two-toes, Stumpy McGee. It was a proud tradition and I was considered a natural. No duct-taped snouts or toothless gators for me. I was the real deal. Sure, I got my share of nips and gashes, but I must say with all humility that my show saved the family business.

I am not saying that I was the sole bread winner. My sister became quite adept at carving indian faces out of coconuts and my mom made orange blossom honey. My brothers sold illegal fireworks from a shed out back and my dad made 'shine way back in the orange grove. It was truly a family business and you could tell we were prosperous by the number of gold rings my Daddy wore.

I was on my way to the big time in the gator wrasslin' biz, an audition at Gatorland in the tourist mecca of Orlando.

The night before I was to wrassle Hungry Joe, a 500 lb. monster with a crooked grin, I had a dream that changed my life. The Geico Gecko came to me that night and asked me to stop exploiting his reptile brethren. It meant the end of my career and the end of the family business, but I had to agree.

How can you say no to that little guy?

The Sweet Taste of...Perfume?

2009-06-20T21:07:00.005-04:00

On my lunch hour one day last week, I was about to enjoy my meal in a local sandwich shop when my senses were hijacked by another customer entering the dining area. In her late 50s or early 60s, this woman was a spectacle of what was clearly a lifetime of diet and fashion disasters.

Stretch pants strained to the absolute limit of the polyester fiber's tensile strength. The straps of her orange high heel shoes threatened to burst with every step she took. Her sweatshirt was emblazoned with a giant yellow smiley face, the intended purpose of which was to assure those around her that there was no reason to run screaming for the hills. The poor smiley, however, was grotesquely misshapen by this woman's bulging torso and the expression was more of a grimace than a smile.

A spectacle of this sort could have gone down in my book as a mildly amusing distraction if it weren't for olfactory assault that followed her around the restaurant like a cloud of mustard gas. One can only guess at the price per gallon of this woman's scent. And I say gallon because she had obviously bathed in no less than 2 quarts of the stuff before leaving her single-wide that morning.

Because I have clearly committed some awful deed that has unleashed the most negative form of karma in the universe, this woman elected to sit in the booth adjacent to mine. Her invasion of my lunchtime oasis away from work could not have been more complete if she had intentionally sat on my sandwich and stomped on my chips. For, you see, as I gagged to breathe, I realized that her odor had not only destroyed my sinuses, but my taste buds were ruined as well.

Any pretext of gentleman's manners were quickly discarded in the interest of self-preservation. As my tongue melted in my mouth I tried to explain the problem to her, but she just snorted and went back to munching on the first of her two footlong meatball subs.

Other patrons were coughing and gagging, the windows were fogging up with a yellowish layer of slime, small children were crying and I quickly came to the conclusion that this was an emergency situation. My training kicked in and, as I tried to explain to the police, my actions became automatic. I snatched the nearest fire extinguisher from it's perch on the wall and I let loose. By the time I finished, the fire extinguisher
was empty, the perfume lady was covered in white powder, everyone in the restaurant was cheering and, yes, the odor was gone.

I sat back down at my table, brushed off my sandwich and finished my lunch.

Pig Wrasslin'

2009-02-19T08:21:00.004-05:00

I was talking with my mom the other day and she quoted an expression that was just so relevant.

"Never wrestle with a pig. You'll both get dirty, but only the pig will enjoy it."

Black Ice

2009-02-04T07:20:00.004-05:00

Why do so many drivers get upset about black ice? Don't they realize that less friction means better gas mileage? It's basic science.

A Checkered Past

2009-01-28T10:59:00.006-05:00

Recently, it has come to light that I have a dark spot on my past. Even though the election is over and even though I was not a candidate for any public office, I think I should clear the air on this matter.

Technically, yes, I am an axe murderer, although I prefer to say "reformed axe murderer." Life is never simple and there's much more to the story so I'd like a chance to elaborate.

When I was in high school, I was cast in a rather avant-garde play about an itinerant lumberjack gone mad. I happened to own a flannel shirt which was kind of rare in Florida so I got the part. I was told that the axe was a fake, made of rubber.

The crew included a special effects guy who was considered quite handy with the fake blood and after my first swing in rehearsal, I figured he was a genius. The blows to fellow cast members seemed so realistic that I was amazed. Well, it seems that the prop guy wasn't very bright and there was a bit of a mix-up with the axe.

To make matters worse, the director kept yelling "cut! cut!" and things just got out of hand. Needless to say, I didn't get a very good grade in drama that semester.

Washing The Cat's Bed

2009-01-26T20:51:00.005-05:00

The cats tripped me when I was on the way out to my car yesterday. It was no accident. They were demanding my attention in an evil, cat-like way.

The cats in question are two brothers and don't belong to me. I am renting a furnished house for the time being and these came with the package. I guess I would describe them as semi-feral; a gray and a black. The lady who owns this house lives nearby and she comes to feed them every day, but they always stay outside. They were here before me and they will probably be here after I leave so, even though I am not much of a cat person, I treat them with the respect deserved by a couple of successful squatters.

For the most part, they keep their distance. They steadfastly refuse most human contact and even my Dr. Doolittle daughter, Anna, has been unsuccessful trying to pet them.

As for me, the cats and I share a mutual disdain for one another. If I get up and out the door before my landlady comes to feed them in the morning, I will usually oblige and fill their bowls. In turn, they refrain from leaving dead birds on my doormat.

After being tripped, my first inclination was to check and see if they had been fed. Actually, my first inclination was admittedly less benevolent. (deep cleansing breaths) So, I checked the bowls and they had food.

When I looked at the brothers, I noticed that their fur-licking activity was in overdrive. I have never studied cats, but I'm told this is how they clean themselves. Why they don't just jump in a muddy creek like a good hound dog, I'll never know.

Then I looked at my car which was filthy; coated with salt from driving in the recent snow. I suddenly realized why the brothers had tripped me. Their bed was dirty.

I drive a 1995 Mercedes E320, a bargain I recently found on ebay. It's a comfortable little sedan, but its primary purpose in this world is not transportation. No, it is, first and foremost, a cat bed. You see, if you add up the time I spend driving it versus the time it serves as sleeping quarters for the brothers, there's no comparison. They graciously allow me to take it to work in the morning so long as I bring it back by bedtime and the hood is nice and warm.

The evidence of my car's primary function can be found on the hood and roof in the form of muddy paw prints. The sad fact is, that as I struggle in my quest to finalize an unsavory domestic situation, I just don't have the energy to do battle with the brothers for the sake of my paint job.

So I drove my cat bed to the car wash and as I shoved quarters into the coin slot, I tried to convince myself that it was good for the car's finish to remove the road salt. The truth is, she's already a goner. When I move out of this rental house, I'll probably just put my car up on cinder blocks and abandon it to it's adopted purpose. Sometimes you simply cannot overcome the forces of nature.

When Syrup Goes Bad

2009-01-13T11:17:00.011-05:00

I’m scared to go into my kitchen. Last night, I opened the fridge and noticed that the bulb had burned out. No big deal, right? Well, I reached in to grab a gherkin and from out of a darkened corner Mrs. Butterworth jumped me. Naturally, I freaked! She tried to pin my hand down and I think she was going for the Rolex.

I just barely managed to escape, but my hand was sticky with maple syrup and my nerves were rattled. I mean, you don’t expect that kind of behavior from common breakfast foods. The only explanation I can come up with is that the eternal darkness made her go mad.

“What to do? What to do?” I was beside myself. I guess I could have called the cops, but how do you explain something like that to the 911 operator? Strange as it may seem, I had to accept the fact that the authorities might not believe me.

“911, what is your emergency?”
“Yes, hi, my maple syrup just tried to mug me.”

After reflecting on the possibilities, I decided to handle it without the gendarmes. They have such limited imaginations.

How to proceed? I knew I would need some help, but where to turn? After looking through the cabinets I came across a couple of stout characters that gave me reason to hope. Under the sink I found the muscular Mr. Clean standing there like a beacon of goodness in his bright white t-shirt. Behind him was the Brawny Lumberjack clad in a flannel shirt and holding an axe.

So I enlisted these two heroes to restore order to my kitchen with every confidence in their abilities. I opened the fridge only as far as needed, tossed them in and slammed the door.

Well, there was a terrible commotion for several hours. Some of the lesser condiments were screaming to get out, but after a while everything calmed down. Just to be safe, I left it alone overnight.

This morning I got up and went to the kitchen to fix breakfast. Everything seemed normal, but I needed milk for my cereal. I opened the fridge just a crack to peak inside and discovered that Mrs. Butterworth remained at large.

She was wreaking havoc all about the fridge and the place was a disaster zone. Mr. Clean and the Brawny Lumberjack were cowering behind her like prison bitches and cleaning up the syrup spills. It was pathetic, really. I just closed the door and sealed it up with duct tape.

As I sit here now, I’m just trying to determine which cabinets to remove so I can fit another fridge in my kitchen.

I want to suck your blood

2008-12-13T21:50:00.009-05:00

Megan, my 14-year-old, has taken an alarming interest in vampires. Like many of her peers she has read all of the Twilight books and was first in line to see the movie. I know it's just one of those teenage fads, but I worry that she no longer enjoys my grilled tofu burgers.

Maybe it's just my prejudice coming to light. I grew up in Florida, the sunshine state, so goth never really played that well when I was in high school. Isn't that what these vampires are, the ultimate goths? They stay up all night, sport pale complexions and dress all in black.

What if Megan brings home a vampire boyfriend someday? How do I deal with that? I mean, I understand raging teenage hormones, but I don't know anything about bloodlust. Is there such a thing as chastity collars?

When I was young

2008-11-12T23:02:00.002-05:00

Click on the title to go to a page with a youtube video to see me in younger days. You have to watch to the end of the video.

Gales of November

2008-11-05T21:45:00.005-05:00

The gales of November are what took the Edmund Fitzgerald to her watery grave in 1975 according to the song by Gordon Lightfoot. Of course, North Carolina is far from the Great Lakes, but November still brings change for some, disaster for others.

I can't really predict what's in the air, but it feels like change. Of course, I've been wrong before...and I'll be there again.

And now, I have hit upon a topic for this post; people who can't admit when they are wrong. Everyone knows someone like this, right? Maybe even you have trouble admitting a mistake from time to time.

There are those who are incapable of accepting a flaw in themselves regardless of the shrieking sirens and flashing lights of reality. Is it unflappable confidence or ultimate insecurity that keeps a person from owning a mistake?

I suppose it varies by individual and possibly by circumstance. As for me, I won't try deny that I occasionally attempt to distance myself from an error, but I have discovered that I feel more human and a lot less stressed when I admit to myself and those around me that I made a mistake.

I also find that I am more likely to respect someone who has the courage to admit that they are flawed. The others, the ones who are never wrong seem lonely and troubled to me. It's never fun to be around a critical perfectionist, for even if they are only criticizing themselves, the atmosphere is full of negative emotion. Who needs that?

Where's the funny stuff Dave? The title of the blog is Nothing Serious. Can't you keep it light?

That's how I pretend to have readers for this blog, by printing a contrivance of their thoughts in italics. To answer my inquisitive imaginary reader, I promise to go lite next time. ('Lite' being even more buoyant than 'light').

Is there any hope for me in my pursuit of happiness?

2008-09-12T23:40:00.009-04:00

I was out and about around lunchtime today and I found myself all in a
panic. It seems that there was a run on gasoline because of hurricane
Ike. Lines were forming all over town and there were even places that
required police assistance to direct the overwhelming traffic. It
reminded me of the '70s.

Maybe the insanity was justified, but I decided to treat the whole mess like a North Carolina snowstorm. Whenever there is the slightest threat of wintry weather, the good citizens of our fair city go mad to get bread and milk. If you wind up at the store too late, all you'll find is a stale package of whole wheat hamburger buns and a leaky carton of soy milk.

What is up with those items anyway? Don't people realize that the only thing you can make with milk and bread is milquetoast? I may go to the store before a snowstorm, but I'm in caveman mode, hunting down the canned chili, frozen hot wings and the heartier varieties of Chunky Soups.

So, although I found myself in the throes of a city gone mad for petrol, I managed to keep my cool. That is, until I saw the line at McDonald's. It was wrapped around the entire parking lot. People were honking and cursing; it was a madhouse. I started to get worried because it was my intention to get a Big Mac for lunch and these nutjobs were in the way.

I'm no social anthropologist, but I think it was all a carryover effect from the gas lines. If fuel is in such short supply, what's next? Better get that last McFlurry before Armageddon destroys all remnants of civilization. Well, I have to admit that I was swept up in the community freak-out and jumped in that McDonald's line.

After a mere 40 minutes in the drive-thru I had my Big Mac and Super-Sized Fries. By the time I fought my way out of the parking lot I had a revelation. The swarming frenzy that I had just escaped was simply the peak of the lunch hour rush and yes, it's true, the McRib is back, but only for a limited time.

Spotted A Great Bumper Sticker

2008-09-09T22:31:00.001-04:00

Silence is Golden
& Duct Tape is Silver

Dirty Laundry

2007-12-15T16:02:00.001-05:00

My thirteen-year-old was snooping around in the clothes dryer the other day and I said, "Hey! What are doing in my laundry?"

"Looking for my bra," came her reply.

"There's nothing but my stuff in there so just back off."

On the surface that may sound harsh, but when you are the only guy in a house full of women, you must enforce some boundaries or you will drown in a sea of estrogen.

My laundry is my laundry with an emphasis on the pronoun "my." I don't want any items that could be described as: silky, frilly, lacy, low-cut, sheer, petite or pink rolling around with my guy stuff. I've got blue jeans in there that I wear when I'm doing manly feats like building a deck or cutting down trees with a chainsaw. Sometimes, while wearing my jeans, I stand around with other men after completing our feats of strength and we drink beer. I don't want my jeans covered in anything but dirt, sweat and grease.

You can bet your bottom dollar that John Wayne's cowboy shirts never tumbled around the laundry with any kind of lingerie. It's just not natural.

I thought he was a robot.

2007-11-27T09:37:00.000-05:00

Click on the title of this post for a link to a CNN story about Dick Cheney's heart. I guess this means that there is medical proof that the man has a heart. Now all we need is a team of experts to find his soul.

Academic Hazards

2007-11-01T08:56:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid in school, all we had to worry about was getting cooties from the girls. A simple cootie shot administered by your best friend on the bus was all the protection you needed to survive a day in the trenches.

Now, you have to wear a level 3 hazmat suit or risk getting a deadly staph infection. Even if you're lucky enough to avoid MRSA, you have to dodge bullets and refrain from inadvertent displays of gang colors. There's predatory teachers, HIV, lead tainted toys, mad cows, sinkholes, SARS, and global warming.

If you have children, you have to wonder if the price of an education is worth all the risk. I have considered home schooling, but I'm just not that bright. My kids would wind up with infinite knowledge of '70s sitcoms, but no measurable academic skills. Their career prospects would be limited to low-paying options in the fast-food industry.

Of course, wherever there is hardship, there is an opportunity to make money. Next summer, I am planning to open a pre-school boot camp. Before their first day in public school, youngsters will be taught the basics of self-defense while receiving the latest immunization boosters. The children will also train in small arms fire and urban camoflauge techniques. As further protection, the kids will be fitted with the latest bullet-proof fashions from GAP.

If all goes well with my new business, I'll make enough money to hire a private tutor for my children so my problems will be solved. I am confident that I can provide all the cootie shots they will need.

Suggested name for a rock band...

2007-10-28T20:15:00.001-04:00

Cut The Red Wire

I'm Singin' in the Rain

2007-10-25T08:40:00.000-04:00

Bumped into Gene Kelly this morning. We splashed around in the street for a little bit until some flatfoot chased us off.

Admittedly, the weather has spawned some odd behavior around town.

...and then the fireman rushes in
from the pouring rain - very strange.

A few blades of grass have even dared to turn green.

It's nice to finally get a some rain and a little fall weather. I know city fathers will be quick to point out that this rain does not mean that the drought is over, but I tend to see the reservoir as half full rather than half empty.

Another Casualty of the Drought

2007-10-13T00:24:00.000-04:00

My brother-in-law has said that he suspects the car wash cartel is
behind the drought. He means, of course, that the new water
restrictions favor commercial car washes because citizens are no longer allowed to wash their cars at home.

I think he may have a point even though I understand the argument that commercial car washes recycle their water. But really, don't we all recycle to a certain degree.

I mean if I wash my car in the driveway and the runoff makes it to a nearby creek, don't the fish benefit. Even if their eyes are burning as a result of the harsh chemicals in the car soap, isn't there a net positive effect to having more water in the stream?

Inspired by the Rain

2007-10-04T08:27:00.000-04:00

This little bit of rainfall and the cool morning air have inspired me to envision a perfect day. The ingredients include a porch with a hammock, a giant oak tree and a gentle, all-day rain. The picture in my head does not include a cell phone, television, doorbell or children. My to do list has evaporated and the only sound I hear is the rain filtering down through the leaves of the oak. I have a book in the hammock with me, but it is laying open-faced on my chest like a small blanket. I close my eyes and...

Looking At The Positive Side of Drought

2007-09-11T08:50:00.000-04:00

Everybody is always looking at the negative side of things. Below, I have listed a few of the benefits and opportunities that go along with a long-term drought.

1. Leaf season will be much easier this year. Just point the leaf blower at your dried leaves and they turn to powder.

2. Fewer bloodsucking mosquitoes means less exposure to carcinogenic DEET.

3. Cancel that useless flood insurance policy.

4. Tsunami threat level at an all-time low.

5. Unemployed landscapers and weathermen find new jobs in the well-digging business.

6. Sell your lawnmower and buy a camel for the kids to ride.

7. Conserve water by drinking more beer and showering with a partner.

8. Replace your dead shrubs with cacti and watch the fun when the wild bunnies try to nibble on a prickly pear.

9. Driving a dirty car is finally considered chic.

10. Plan an outdoor wedding and skip the tent rental.

11. Gutters full of leaves; no worries.

What's in a name?

2007-09-04T21:25:00.000-04:00

The Greensboro City Council has recently decided on a name change for our fair city. It seems that too many visitors have been disappointed by our drought-stricken landscape.

After a long debate, it was finally decided to adopt a name that is more accurately descriptive of our current environs. With a nod to the Old West, the name "Dry Gulch" will be replacing Greensboro on all maps, web sites and promotional materials.

Restless

2007-08-27T13:44:00.000-04:00

The other night, my wife and I were watching TV and we were amused by a pharmaceutical commercial for a product that treats Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS). I don't mean to belittle the suffering of those who may be afflicted with this syndrome, but it just seems that there is a drug for everything these days. I also have to wonder how many hypochandriacs have developed RLS since this commercial started airing.

I'm no doctor, however, and after last night I am beginning to take it all a little more seriously. I went to bed without incident or restless legs, but was awakened suddenly in the middle of the night. There was an intense pain in my side and I was on the floor of the bedroom. I looked up to see my wife standing over me. She was wearing my steel-toe work boots and trying very hard to break my ribs.

When I told her to quit, she blinked and shook her head. "Sorry," she said. "I think I must have that Restless Legs Syndrome."

"Yes, well now I have that broken rib syndrome." I pulled myself up off the floor and told her, "I think that RLS is only supposed to occur when you are lying in bed."

"Oh!" she said. I guess I was just sleepwalking."

I don't know what it was, but at this point I don't want to be the victim of any more syndromes. Tonight I'm sleeping with a ball peen hammer under my pillow.

Legacy

2007-08-24T21:31:00.000-04:00

Do you ever worry that your only lasting contribution to society is the check mark in the organ donor box on your driver’s license?

I still remember her first skinned knee...

2007-08-17T00:30:00.000-04:00

It's hard to be a father. Maybe not as hard as it is to be the front end of my 17-year-old daughter's Jetta, but fatherhood offers a unique blend of suffering that transcends mere physical damage.

Kate and her passenger are fine, but the car may never be the same. It's all in the hands of the insurance company, now, and so is my financial future. My wife already donated a kidney just to get coverage for Kate when she was sixteen. Now it looks like I'm going to lose half of my liver and two feet of my lower intestine just so we can keep her on the road.

What do I expect in return? Isn't it obvious? I think I deserve some uninterrupted and gratefully received lecture time. (At this point, let me offer some advice to anyone who is just starting out as a parent. Never tell your children any stories about your past. You might think your "cool" rating will rise in the eyes of your teenager as you relate the story about the time you rolled the family station wagon going around a corner too fast, but let me tell you, that kind of relationship building will only come around and bite you on the ass).

I figured this wreck entitled me to require some supplemental driving instruction for my daughter; a recitation on the many, many years I have gone without any type of accident whatsoever; and a sincere appreciation for not only my skills, but my appearance behind the wheel.

Sometimes, even the dreams of a madman seem rational. You see, I have my own story about a driving mishap. I grew up in Orlando and it was no big deal to make a day trip to the beach. New Smyrna, driving right down on the beach and convenience store clerks with poor eyesight when presented with questionable id's. Thankfully, I was sober on this occasion, but I did have a terrible wreck and my daughter has heard the story.

The truth is, car wrecks are hard to handle as a parent. On the one hand, this is about the biggest mistake your child can make. No other teenage activity offers so much potential for devastating consequences. On the other hand, you are so relieved when no one is hurt that you hope against hope that a lesson has been learned.

I don't know if Kate has a new respect for the seriousness of driving after this accident. I remember a sixteen-year-old boy who wishes he could change what happened just before his car did flips in the grass alongside the highway.

Anyway, place your votes for one of two options: six months in a Pakistani child labor camp to help defer the increased insurance premium or a year without text messaging.

Get up off the tracks...

2007-08-02T21:52:00.001-04:00

My teenage daughter is on her computer, instant messaging with her friends, looking at each other's MySpace pages and laughing at YouTube videos. She spends countless hours this way and if I was the least bit competent as a parent, I would drag her, kicking, screaming and squinting out into the sunlight and throw a Frisbee with her.

What I choose to do, instead, is sit in my little office just down the hall, goofing on this blog when I should be working on freelance assignments. Some digital tunes, a mini fridge filled with Mountain Dew and Life Is Good, just like the little bumper sticker says.

What is wrong with me? The onslaught of mid-life crisis approaches like a freight train bearing down on a prostrate wino whose face is resting on the track. Despite the imminent doom, that feeling of cold steel pressed against my cheek is comforting somehow.

This isn't one of those 'buy a sports car and rent a toupee' mid-life crises. This locomotive has the word 'CAREER' painted in reflective, white letters just under the headlight.

I like what I do and I like the people I work with, but I don't love it. What I love is writing comedy.

I had a little taste of it in college. Even though I didn't get paid squat, nothing could match the charge I got every time I saw my name on a humor feature or cartoon in the student newspaper. For some reason it didn't seem to be a reasonable career path to pursue after graduation.

Making a living at comedy writing might be a little pie-in-the-sky at this point in my life. If I had an ounce of adventurous spirit left, I would split for Alaska and sign up as an ice-road trucker. Work for a few months, then move to Hollywood and write a sitcom about it.

"...your shift knob broke off in the Arctic air? Well, that's what you get for trying to write your name in the snow."

Would this make a good opening for a novel?

2007-08-01T15:02:00.000-04:00

Walking across the cotton field was much easier once the crop had been harvested, but Steven Vernicke still stumbled over the furrows as he stared at the red and blue flashing lights of the emergency vehicles parked in front of his family’s gas station.

Steven had walked across the field many times, but he was a little distracted. The sun was fading and he still had about a hundred yards to cover. He could see that the station was buzzin'. It seemed like every cop car, ambulance and fire truck in Harnek County was bumper-to-bumper, fender-to-fender, piled up right there in the parking lot.

As Steven got closer to the scene he could tell that Silver was dead because they had her on a gurney with the sheet pulled up over her face. Then he saw the heavy boots sticking out at the bottom and he knew it couldn’t be his grandmother. Her boots were brown.

"Get out of here, kid," he heard one cop yell as he tucked tail and scooted in through one of the service bays.

“…Son-of-a-bitch tried to steel a turquoise bracelet,” he heard his grandmother saying as he squeezed past a deputy with a camera.

His grandmother gave him a quick hug that told him, "Shut up, I'm fine," and "it's good to see you Little Steve" all at the same time.

There was a large pool of blood on the floor and you had to watch your step. Steven was starting to circle the room when the deputy who had tried to snag him in the parking lot caught up. As the deputy reached for Steven's shirt, Silver spoke up, "Dammit Earl, don't you even recognize my own flesh n' blood?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Silver," he stammered. Then to regain his authority, "but this is a crime scene and we need to protect the evidence."

"Don't be so officious," she scolded. "Or I'll tell your mother that you were being rude to a senior citizen." Everyone in the room chuckled, not because the man was being chastised, but because nobody in Harnek County ever thought of Silver as a little old lady.

Doggone It

2007-07-20T10:59:00.000-04:00

On Thursday, Nike suspended the release of its latest Michael Vick shoe. A company spokesman indicated that the delay had nothing to do with the quarterback's legal troubles. "The R&D department is simply working on a re-design."

eat your vegetables

2007-05-24T21:50:00.000-04:00

When my oldest daughter was an infant, before she even had her first tooth, I started telling her to eat her vegetables. It's wasn't that I believed in that whole vegetarian lifestyle, or jumping on the healthy-living bandwagon, it was just me spouting the same parental wisdom that I had been force-fed during my formitive years.

You see, with your first infant, you tend to believe that the job is too big for you or your wife so you fall back on the only training you ever had. You find yourself channeling the 'wisdom' that was repeated over and over by your own parents. I am willing to admit, for the first time in public, that I even used the old "here comes the airplane" trick to get her to eat something healthy.

When she started making her own choices at the dinner table, I was happy to see her choose a variety of foods including meats. So, she had a fairly common childhood culinary experience. Lots of chicken nuggets, fingers, dinosaurs, and whatever other shapes they make out of breaded chicken. I can remember her enjoying steaks, burgers and bar-b-que ribs. She had other things too, including as many vegetables as we could coax into her.

Now that she has become a teenage vegetarian, I don't know why she has made such a dramatic change in her diet and forsaken all that I revere. Maybe it just took her a while to make that beef-cow connection.

I also blame Chik-fil-a. Their bovine-centric promotional engine is beginning to disturb the sacred tenets of our fast food culture. Sure the cows are fun, a little bit in your face, and from a marketing point of view, I like how they present their message. However benign they may appear, these cows and their radical ideas have the kids all confused on the issue of proper nutrition.

Just for fun, I'd like to see Ronald McDonald take the gloves off and come out swinging at those Chik-fil-a cows. (Theme from Rocky; up and under) Ronald throws his white clown gloves to the ground and pulls the headpiece from a giant chicken costume over his clown hair.

Next we see Ronald bust down the doors of a neighborhood Chick-fil-a store. There's a crazed look in his eye and he's weilding a slaughterhouse-grade chainsaw. "I SAY IT'S TIME FOR MORE BEEF!"

(Boy that was a sidebar out of control. That's on the house folks. No extra charge.)

I don't know what my daughter's motivation is, but she has spent the past few months living as a vegetarian. My understanding is, if she decides to make this a permanent change, there are renegade vegan doctors who will do back-alley sugery to remove all of her remaining taste buds thus completing the transformation.

I am not opposed to this new cult she has joined. I even support her by trying to pick up vegetarian entrees at the grocery. On a recent trip I selected a box of something from the vegetarian section of the frozen food aisle. I don't know what it was because it seems that all of these dishes can only be labeled with foreign words. Masalababba Stew, Kee Moa Tofu, Couscous Papoose. None of that sounded American to me and there was no one to translate for me.

In the real food world, the package photography is created to entice you to purchase. It is supposed to appeal to your sense of taste. In the vegan world, all of the product shots look like pigeon puke on a sidewalk. I don't know if that imagery appeals to vegetarians or if the producers don't spend enough on professional product photography.

My daughter is sensible so I'm not too worried about her. In a little more than a year, she'll be starting to pack for college. Like it or not, I have to get used to her making her own decisions.

Just so there's no confusion, I am a meat and potatoes guy. I think I was probably thirty-five before I first visited a salad bar. I have nothing against vegetables, but to me, they are little more than a colorful decoration over on the far side of the plate.

Like a reformed smoker, my daughter tries to encourage me to develop a taste for hummus. For my part, I try not to watch her eat "burgers" shaped from vegetable matter. I just have one question. If it's so good, why do they try so hard to make it look like meat?

The Good Old Days

2007-05-05T02:35:00.000-04:00

If you were a boy who grew up in my generation, you probably remember the thrill of your first glow-in-the-dark watch; taking it into a darkened room to see it work, hoping that the power would go out so you could be the timekeeping authority in the house.

Looking at my wrist today I can still remember my first glow-in-the-dark watch. Maybe it's just the odd circular pattern of age spots on my arm, but I can clearly picture that old radium dial.

A Tiny Bit of Philosophy

2007-04-29T22:48:00.000-04:00

Regrets Will Slow You Down
But Dreams Can Fuel Your Future

Movie Premise

2007-04-24T15:15:00.000-04:00

Title: Outlook

Open on young guy, dressed corporate, but with a little extra flair. He's walking on a downtown sidewalk trying to look confident, but as he sidesteps an oncoming pedestrian, he nearly trips on a shoe-shine man.

Our hero works in a large corporate setting and takes the elevator to an upper, though not top, floor. He is relatively successful in the early stages of his career. He has some good friends, but he is struggling in the romance department.

One day at work he receives a company-wide email sent by a friend of his in the office. He hits the "Reply All" button by mistake and types a message that is clearly meant only for his friend.

It reads "Man, I couldn't get away from that girl at the club last night. I finally had to pay Josie, you know, that waitress with the sweater, to sneak me out the back door." The message is not truthful, of course, just part of a boredom-fighting game he and his friend play. Each tries to one-up the other in ongoing descriptions of fictional social lives.

Of course, it doesn't take long for the email to spark a great deal of interest among co-workers, particularly the unmarried female ones. There's something about that sense of mystery and who doesn't know the guilty pleasure of eavesdropping when we get a misrouted email or phone message?

And suddenly, our romantically challenged hero has more prospects than one man can manage. Sure, there's a little fallout. He gets a speech about email protocol from the VP of Personnel, but he also gets the unsolicited phone number of the VP's attractive young secretary on the way out.

Cinematic hi jinks ensue. With a likable lead actor in the mold of Tom Hanks, it might make a good movie.

A $250 Bra

2007-04-21T16:24:00.000-04:00

My wife and 17 year-old daughter are out right now, sharing that one thin bond they both cling to as the sole connection between two personalities so diametrically opposed. Regardless of the tension to separate, no force in the universe can interfere with their mission today.

They stalk together as lionesses to find elusive prey, the Perfect Prom Dress. I know the label for what they seek, but I cannot begin to describe the Perfect Prom Dress. I don't know if it is shiny or sheer, purple or pink, sequined or taffeta, mini or floor-length. I hold no picture in my head the way they certainly do.

I only know one thing for certain about the Perfect Prom Dress, it's going to be expensive to the point of obscenity. A price tag that will make you think, "How the hell can I look myself in the mirror, as a human being occupying a planet where many of my fellow men are starving, if I agree to spend this much on a dress that will only be worn once."

Oh, one other thing I know; whatever style, color or genre the dress represents, there will be an unholy amount of accessories to purchase to complete the ensemble. First and foremost, there will be the shoes. I am told by the females that the hunt for shoes can take months. My wife will come in the door all worn out saying, "I don't normally like to spend so much on shoes, but it was hard to find the right color to match the dress." A similar logic will be employed to explain the gold necklace, "She has one just like this, but the length is wrong for the neckline of this dress."

My wife will make these statements despite the fact that I don't understand her reasoning and that I am more likely to be able to translate a Morse code message hammered out on a concrete wall using my own skull as a telegraph key.

It doesn't stop there; no my male friends, not even close. Only an idiot would think that you can wear everyday, run-of-the-mill underwear with one of these gowns. You see, these dresses are all shaped by aeronautical engineers working in cahoots with the lingerie industry. Their main purpose in life is to design a dress for which no suitable underwear currently exists. That way the lingerie companies can step in and create a $250 bra.

This was the reason for all that ruckus back in the late 40's. It's how we ended up with the strapless evening gown. Fortunately, there were quite a few unemployed German scientists at the time. If they weren't already working on a rocket propulsion team for Uncle Sam, these guys were pressed into service to invent an underwear option that would allow young ladies to remain virtuous in appearance while still wearing the latest fashions. It was a national crisis.

OK, so the scientists solved that problem, but it triggered an international lingerie cold war that lasted right up until Jackie Kennedy put it all to rest. She ascended the throne of fashion and set all trends from that point forward as the only First Lady to ever live in the White House who didn't remind you of your grandmother or smell of moth balls.

But I digress. I will wake up tomorrow crying about the new boat I was going to buy or that vacation we were planning. On the big night, my wife will take too many pictures and my daughter will look beautiful. At work, I'll increase my payroll deduction for the United Way and place a newly framed portrait next to my computer.

There's a reason my mind is on a break right now...

2007-03-15T17:34:00.000-04:00

I have been working with a new client these past few months; one of the things that has been keeping me so busy of late. The work is interesting, challenging and it surely qualifies as worthwhile on the humanistic scale. Nice people to work with and, did I happen to mention, all women?

If you have visited this blog before and read my lame justification for clogging up Internet bandwidth (read the masthead), you should know that I am already surrounded by females in my home life. And now that I have come to this revelation about the primary source of my social interactions, it all makes sense: the sudden need for a significant increase in my meds; the ear protection purchase at the sporting goods store; the solo weekend backwoods camping trip that nearly turned into a month (if only the bourbon had held).

Work or home, there always seems to be an in-basket full of drama and a blender full of emotion in a typical day. I think I know why men work so hard to appear repulsive to women at times. It's simple self-preservation. The burping, the sporadic bathing, the beer belly; it's all a shield to keep women at a distance. That way we don't have to deal with the drama.

I sometimes joke about building a cabin in the woods where I will live a hermits life for the duration of the overlapping years that include my younger daughters as teens and my wife in the throes of menopause. There will be no telephone. There will be no address. I will solve no problems except whether or not I should eat the squirrel meat that appears slightly spoiled.

Ladies, we just aren't built to referee the dramas that swirl around you, straining to be unleashed at the slightest provocation. Infectious beyond compare, once a conflict starts, it spreads like a mushroom cloud throughout an entire home or office.

Just the other day I found myself thinking, "Not even 9:30 and there's already a storm brewing over Susan's outfit. Granted, it's not proper office attire, but we all need to express ourselves."

A typical man cannot grasp the pressing need to get involved in the minutiae of why Angela is so mad about the bridesmaid's dress she has to wear this weekend. "How could she do this to me? She knows I look terrible in taffeta." Nor do we fathom the depth of loathing one woman demonstrates for another of her own kind when she stabs her in the back with an underhanded comment about the ex-boyfriend turning gay.

As I continue in the crusade to raise my daughters and persevere in my current work environment, I sometimes dream of the Nirvana I may never achieve, a world in which I understand women.

"May the spirit of enlightenment descend upon you and all the males of your species." - excerpt from A Prayer for the Damned

Flying Squirrel Murdered In Hawaii

2007-02-15T11:10:00.000-05:00

I feel sorry for the squirrel in this story:
http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/02/15/stowaway.squirrel.ap/index.html

The poor little guy was probably just trying to get away from the winter weather when he hopped a flight from NY to Tokyo. After a brief stay in the Orient, he was on his way to Dallas (probably to visit some relatives) when the flight crew discovered him in the wiring ducts. They diverted to Hawaii where he was trapped and killed.

Isn't it ironic that he made it to paradise only to be exterminated by overly-cautious bureaucrats. I mean, even for a squirrel, Hawaii would be a pretty cool place to land; chillin' on the beach and growing fat on Macadamia nuts.

Come to think of it, maybe it was those fabulous airline peanuts that attracted him to take to the skies in the first place. It makes you wonder. Do you suppose they checked the rest of the plane for a dimwitted moose named Bullwinkle?

2007-01-11T15:04:00.000-05:00

Due to a temporary lapse in health insurance and, consequently, lack of access to psychotherapeutic meds, I have been unable to write lately. Coherence, for me, is a delicate balance of various anti-psychotic chemicals that somehow tame the beasts that like to wander in the dark.

As bleak as that may sound, it is, at least more interesting than the truth of the matter: I have just been too damn busy. Wouldn’t you rather read about my imagined journey back from the brink of insanity and the comely psychiatric nurse who made it all possible? She believed in my ability to heal and return to a normal, productive life; all the while offering the only comfort that could relieve my tortured soul, frequent sponge baths in the privacy of a candlelit room.

Certainly, your attention is more likely to be captured by the recounting of the pill-switching prank that turned deadly than it would be to hear about my dull working hours. Happy Jimmy was getting on our nerves. It got to the point that everybody on the ward wanted to take him down a peg. Nobody meant for it to go so wrong. Who could have guessed that the boy would suffer such a bizarre drug interaction? It’s not like we had access to a PDR.

If I told you that I had several big projects on short deadlines you would probably move on to something more exciting like a story about the sadistic orderly who learned the hard way that crazy doesn’t necessarily mean stupid. Wally Simmons rushed down the hall to silence the midnight wailings of Rowdy Peppers. His night stick was twitching as he ran, ready to crack skull. As he passed my door the liquid soap spread across the floor caught his attention, but it was too late. The bump on his head wasn’t too bad, but by the time Wally came to he had already swallowed a volatile cocktail of nearly all the meds served on the ward. Everybody chipped in and treated Wally to one of the weirdest nights of his life. The next morning another staff member found him in the nurse’s locker room wearing a calico dress and singing show tunes.

The way I see it, the truth may set you free, but it’s just as likely to put you to sleep first.

A Stocking Full of Kibble

2006-12-19T09:24:00.000-05:00

Like storm clouds on the horizon, the family is gathering for Christmas and everyone is a little stressed. My mother lives here in Greensboro. My sister and her husband live in Burlington. My two brothers are coming in from Orlando and Atlanta.

So, what's the problem? Dogs! We have two dogs, my sister has two dogs, my mom has one dog, my younger brother is bringing his two dogs and my older brother is bringing his dog. That's nearly enough to make up a sled team for the Iditarod, but there's no prospect of snow.

What are we going to do with all of these dogs? My two are all in a dither because they don't know what to get their canine cousins for Christmas. "Does Bruiser like Milk Bones or would he rather have a rawhide chew toy? Sure, chicken bones taste good, but what about the safety issue. What size sweater does Zelda wear? If I gave Murphy a studded collar would it send the wrong message?"

It's bound to be a lively holiday, but I guess it will all work out OK. I just hope Santa's reindeer don't get spooked by all the barking.

Bush Unveils Halloween Costume

2006-10-30T12:12:00.000-05:00

The ol' phony ICBM through the head gag.

Time For A Second Home?

2006-10-27T18:03:00.000-04:00

I am reminded almost daily that I should be at the stage in life where I am seriously considering a second home. The reminders come in the mail by way of pricey, die-cut, full color brochures in tissue-lined envelopes drenched in mountain or seaside photography. Places with names like Willow Creek, Crestview Estates, Eastern Shores; all want me to be a resident in their developments.

I like the coastal communities best because whenever they include an aerial shot, you just have to realize that someone is trying to sell you some swampland. They promote phrases like waterway access and estuary views, but the truth is you're going to have a mosquito-infested mud puddle for a back yard.

The mountain developments aren't much better. Sure, they show you the wide-angle views of nearby foothills draped in fall colors, but what you don't see in the picture, just out of frame, is the next door neighbor's aluminum-clad single wide. The property descriptions are heavy with evocative language, but they fail to mention the 40 degree grade with 90 degree switchbacks on the road up to your mountain retreat.

As an open response to all these folks spending fruitless advertising dollars, let me just say that you got the wrong guy. I am, at best, what is considered marginally employed by the folks at the census bureau. There are no wealthy, aging relatives waiting to kick and leave me a fortune. In fact, the word 'beneficiary' will probably never be used on any legal documents bearing my name.

Add to that the fact that I have three school-age daughters. Despite my own burning desire to send them all away, there are no universities clamoring to provide grants or scholarships. I love my girls and I am proud of each one, but I can't find a single college that wants to recruit students who demonstrate higher-level instant messaging skills.

I've never been too old-fashioned, but I'm thinking it is still considered customary for the bride's parents to pay for the wedding, right? Not to say that all of my girls will get married or that there will be extravagant weddings in the offing, but it is one more consideration when painting that rosy picture of my financial future.

No, for me, retirement will be limited to part-time work as a WalMart greeter and building a deck in my back yard. World travel will be little more than occasional trips to Asheville and Myrtle Beach. If you happen to be one of those folks fortunate enough to be able to respond to the coastal getaway-home advertisements, then give me a call. Whenever I visit, I promise to bring my own deet.

Re-Drawing History

2006-10-20T09:46:00.000-04:00

I'm sure you have heard the term re-writing history and it is usually considered a bad thing. My question is, would it be OK to do a little image touch-up?

I do not wish to dishonor the memory of the thousands of men lost in battle, the agony of the wounded or the atrocities of war, but I must admit that whenever I see this famous picture of the soldiers raising the American Flag on Iwo Jima, I want to fix it.

You see, I think it would have made a much better picture if the men were facing the other direction. They should have their shoulders against the wind with the flag blowing out behind them. It would look more like they were overcoming adversity that way.

See what you think after a little Photoshop magic. What inspired this post? There is a new movie out called Flags of Our Fathers directed by Clint Eastwood. I don't know if this flick is any good, but I may go see it just to find out if Clint had the foresight to point the wind machine in the opposite direction.

You may be in a redneck bar if...

2006-09-25T11:14:00.000-04:00

You may be in a redneck bar if the jukebox only takes Confederate money.

I'm So Ashamed

2006-09-07T20:20:00.000-04:00

My oldest daughter was arrested late last week. It seems that she and a few of her frizzy-haired friends were implicated in the kidnapping of the photographer who was hired to take yearbook pictures at their high school.

To the best of my knowledge it went down something like this:

If you remember, last week was very rainy because our weather was being influenced by Tropical Storm Ernesto. Despite Herculean efforts in front of the mirror, Kate was having a bad hair day as she prepared to leave for school. She met some of her friends in the parking lot and, as you can see from the police photos, these girls were having coiffure difficulties as well.

Due to the unusually humid atmospheric conditions no device or spray known to man was able to tame these frizzies. (I purposely omitted my daughter's image with the hope that she may one day be able to put this all behind her and attend beauty college).

Kate and her friends were just about resigned to the fact that they would have to settle for a "no picture available" graphic in the yearbook when they happened upon the photographer unloading his equipment in front of the school. I'm not clear about what happened next, but there was no one to take pictures in the cafeteria when the first student arrived for his picture appointment. The principal initiated a search of the campus, but picture day was cancelled. Bound and gagged with rolls and rolls of 35mm film, the photographer was later discovered in the girls bathroom across from the art room.

Chalk it up as another storm-related tragedy. I only hope we can all learn a lesson here. Let's skip the defibrillators which may or may not ever be used. Instead we should be looking into a program that provides dehumidifiers in the classrooms.

A Stunning Revelation

2006-08-23T21:45:00.000-04:00

The Greensboro newspaper offered a front-page headline today that made me laugh: "Stun guns will remain at schools." I didn't bother to read the article, because I'd rather live with the misconception that Tasers will be widely used in our public schools by anyone fortunate enough to own or steal one of these mind-numbing devices. Students, faculty, lunch ladies; the atmosphere will be charged with excitement.

Most readers (Hi Mom) would agree that the views expressed in this blog are generally liberal, and sometimes borderline seditious. My parole officer has told me that I exhibit a callous lack of respect for authority so you might be wondering why I am so happy about Stun Guns in our schools.

No great mystery. I just think the opportunity for humorous retribution far exceeds any potential harm to society.

Picture a lowly freshman on his first day of high school. He waits patiently in line for some of that delectable cafeteria food. His lunch period is short and he is anxious to try the school specialty, rectangular pizza topped with soysausage. Suddenly a senior bully cuts in line and takes his lunch money. The freshman lad, whose father is an accountant at a security firm, whips out his Taser X26 and delivers 50,000 volts of "respect me" juice into the body his tormenter.

OK, so I was kind of puny in high school.

Another reason I like to keep my non-lethal weaponry options open; I have three daughters. At this point, my oldest is smack dab in the middle of her dating years (as defined by her mother and her peers, not by me).

In the old days, when I was a teenager, my brothers and I used to take turns trying to ruin my sister's social life. Back then one of us would simply rack a shell in a pump-action shotgun just after her potential date rang the doorbell. That sound coming from the other side of the door was, on many occasions, an effective deterrent to misguided amorous intentions.

Youngsters don't scare so easily now and there may come a time when you are forced to follow-up on your implied threat. Around here, it is still illegal to shoot teenage boys so you have to improvise with the best tools at your disposal. That's where the Taser x26 comes in handy. Answer the front door shirtless with one of those babies tucked in you waistband and there is no mistaking your state of mind.

And so I must applaud the sheriff's decision to arm school resource officers (in my school we called them narcs). I say, "light 'em up boys." Let's keep these kids in line. A few on-campus demonstrations of the glory of Stun Guns, the easier my job as a concerned parent.

it's a colorful language

2006-07-24T23:24:00.000-04:00

I was leaving the drugstore this evening, strolling by the cashier after picking up a prescription and as I passed, this nice young woman said, "Have a good one!" I said, "Thanks," and was out the door.

Once outside, I stopped and stared at the sidewalk. For years I have heard people use this expression and I have always felt as though there was a crucial bit of information missing. I guess we all assume that the speaker is simply trying to say "Have a nice day," without sounding quite so lame. Or maybe they feel that the old phrase has just been spoken too many times in human history, that it lacks sincerity.

Maybe I'm too literal by nature, but I always want to go back to the speaker and ask, "Have a good what?" Don't you agree that "one" is such a general pronoun? It could mean anything:

Have a good life? You don't know me that well.

Have a good time at the movies? You have no idea where I am going.

Have a good trip to the dentist? You must be a sadist.

We may never know what is in the mind of people who urge you to "Have a good one," so we are left to explore the origin of this expression if there is to be any closure on this issue. I have a theory and here it goes.

Around the time CB radios were all the rage on the highways and byways of America, we civilians discovered the existence of an entire subculture comprised of over-the-road truck drivers. The blue-collar romance of the open road seemed appealing to all us poor souls who only traveled on occasion.

I used to listen to these guys on the CB while taking long summer trips in the family RV. This was back in the mid-70s and the most amazing thing to me was that these CB-ers had a different word for everything. Smokey the Bear was a state trooper (probably because of the similarities in the state troopers' hats and the forest ranger's hat worn by that famous talking bear). A lot lizard was a truck-stop hooker. Double nickel meant that the speed limit was 55 mph. It was such a colorful language and we were all so envious that we spent $119 at the nearest Radio Shack, plunked an ugly antenna on the trunk lid, and started driving. (It's no accident that leisure suits were popular around the same time. We were sheep and you could have sold us anything, even a pet rock.)

So, you have these two truckers, been at the job a long time, and they know each other simply because they have traveled the same roads all these years. They're talking briefly after a chance meeting at a truck stop. As they part, the first trucker heads towards his rig and his friend heads to the bathroom. Now, the first trucker, being economical in speech, but with a certain flair born of the subculture, says, "Have a good one!"

The second trucker has never heard this expression before and he's contemplating the meaning a few minutes later as he sits on the toilet. After a time, a revelation emerges and this trucker is convinced that his buddy was wishing for him a good bowel movement.

It's a scene that plays over in my head every time someone encourages me to "Have a good one." It sometimes causes me to clench my backside a little, feeling as though some stranger is worrying about the later stages of my digestive system.

Maybe my new prescription will help me get over this abnormal interest in such a benign little phrase. My psychiatrist has prescribed some pills to "help take the edge off," as he put it.

Lucky Numbers

2006-05-31T17:15:00.000-04:00

Unless you were smart enough or lucky enough to play 05-07-40-45-54 in tonight's big lottery you might as well use your ticket to blow your nose. (For you out-of-state readers, this is North Carolina's first Power Ball). You see, I have a system and it's a sure bet.

Here is how you pick winning numbers: The first digit is determined by the number of broken crack pipes you walk over on your way into the convenience store. Next is the number of homeless people in front of you in the ticket line. After that, it's the number of fluid ounces in the bottle of King Cobra Malt Liquor favored by most of the store's patrons. Next is the caliber of the weapon hidden under the check-out counter. And finally, the IQ of the clerk selling you the ticket.

Ahhh...the glamour of it all!

Frightening Resemblance

2006-05-18T10:19:00.000-04:00

Do we really want this man to be in charge of the CIA. Gen. Michael Hayden

Obviously, my concern is that he looks too much like this guy.

As an interesting twist of irony, Werner Klemperer was born to a Jewish family on March 22, 1920, in Cologne, Germany. The family fled the Nazis and came to the United States during the 1930s.

It's All In The Name

2006-05-17T13:56:00.000-04:00

Seen this guy's yard signs around town. Can't say as I know much about him.

From his tag line, I'd say he's trying to woo voters with the fiscal responsibility angle. Right from the start, though, it appears that he has a public image problem. Who wants to elect a Sheriff that's shooting BLANKS?

I'm sure it's too late now, but if he loses and still has sheriffin' aspirations, then he should consider a name change before the next election. Here's my short list of suggestions. Each of these would inspire more confidence in the voters and more fear in the bad guys:

Sheriff Rimfire
Sheriff Buckshot
Sheriff Caliber
Sheriff Tommygun
Sheriff Cheney

I provide these options only as a public service. Should Mr. Blanks adopt one of these monikers there will be no consulting fee. Any readers who would like to contribute to this list, please feel free to leave your suggestions in the comments section.

Sinister Bathroom Conspiracy

2006-05-16T10:28:00.000-04:00

Don't be surprised if you see your naughty bits pop up on one of those internet porn sites sometime in the near future. If you dance in a strip club that notion may not be too alarming, but if you are just minding your own business while relieving yourself in a public restroom, this may be something to contemplate.

Of course, as usual, modernization is to blame. Too germ-phobic to touch anything in a public restroom, we have invented these devices that flush our toilets hands-free. Reading the manufacturer's literature, it's not clear whether sanitation or laziness is the real issue they are trying to solve.

In any event, these clever infrared devices sense when a customer arrives and leaves then flushes the waste away without so much as a second thought. This technology has even been integrated into sink faucets and paper towel dispensers.

Quite by accident, I have discovered that in addition to the infrared sensor, some of these devices now house mini video cams. It seems that unscrupulous web pornographers have a new source of smut and, potentially, we all have a starring role.

Until the FCC gets involved, I have taken to relieving myself without removing or unfastening any article of clothing. Sure, it takes a little more effort, but I have always been a modest fellow.

Another way to avoid potential embarassment is to carry a roll of black electrician's tape. Cover the sinister eye before you do your business then take it off as you leave.

Life was so much simpler when all you had to worry about was spiders in the outhouse.

Strong Metallic Taste

2006-05-05T16:56:00.000-04:00

Judging by that telltale sign, the Wife must have upped my dose of arsenic again. Without fail, I notice this drastic change in her behavior whenever I bring up the subject of spending any amount of money on my boat. She would almost prefer flushing our cash straight down the Eljer.

We've been through all this before. Usually, a back rub plus a turn at the dinner dishes and my tastebuds return to normal.

Even if you take finances out of the equation, my wife is not very fond of the boat. No amount of logic can convince her that one of the kids isn't doomed to unwittingly part with their Coast-Guard Approved Life Jacket, forget that they know how to swim and sink like a stone in 75 feet of murky water.

My children, on the other hand, love boating almost as much as I do. The Cool Breeze seats up to ten, so we usually take the extended family: grandmother, aunts, uncle and a stray cousin or two. My brother-in-law has a jet-ski and we all have fun going out on the lake on the weekends. A picnic lunch, a little sunshine, some swimming in the lake, a few turns on the tube or kneeboard and you have a recipe for some good, clean, family fun. As the perfect end to a perfect day; take a dinner trip to the nearby Hillbilly Hideaway and tackle the lake hungries with a hearty, rib-stickin' country cookin' meal.

Elements of this theme appeal to my wife, but she remains a reluctant boater. She is fond of the sun, but not the water. She has grudgingly ridden in the tube, but the kneeboard and waterskis are not up for discussion. She is the lone holdout in total family acceptance of this particular leisure activity.

Before you waste your time getting all impressed about the glamorous life of a speedboat captain, this vessel is over fifteen years old and, for a boat, that's pushing it. It's a 20' bowrider with an inboard/outboard V8. The vinyl cushions are showing their age and I have had to repair some soft spots in the floor. There was the replacement starter, new carpet, a cover, a bimini top, plus the water toys. All in all the amount I have spent goes well beyond my winning eBay bid. These items were purchased over the course of a couple years and often includes the use of gift certificates received for birthdays and Christmas. I have had two good seasons with this boat, but I now believe that it may have been wiser to buy something with a little less fatigue.

Right now the Cool Breeze is little more than a party barge without a party. It will float and you can play the stereo, but it isn't going anywhere under it's own power.

Last week I had the misfortune to discover water in one of the cylinders. Not to get too technical, but the process that takes place in the cylinders, which is crucial to propulsion, is known as combustion. This is usually accomplished with the compression of a carefully metered fuel-air mixture and a precisely timed electrical discharge arcing between two tiny pieces of metal at the end of a spark plug. Introduce water into the process and it isn't quite as efficient. Water stubbornly refuses to ignite and now nobody is happy, least of all me.

My suspicion is a blown head gasket, but I am far from expert. Once you get beyond changing the oil and replacing spark plugs, I am over my head and sinking fast.

My fear is that the cost of rebuilding the motor will exceed my initial nautical investment. I paid very little for this vessel because I wasn't sure if the family would like boating. There was also the obstacle of not having much money in the first place.

So maybe it wasn't the best purchase I ever made. I will readily admit to being an eBay idiot. In addition to the questionable judgment of buying a boat, nearly sight unseen from a stranger three states away, I have purchased jewelry for my wife, a car for my daughter and various other items that normal people inspect in person before tendering their cash.

I do not know the fate of the Cool Breeze, but I am exploring several options. The most promising idea is configuring a new powerplant with a giant rubber band. I'll let you know how it turns out.

President Bush Unveils Bird Flu Strategy

2006-05-04T11:03:00.000-04:00

DUCK!!!!!

2006-05-03T17:59:00.000-04:00

I don't know how I manage to find so much trouble. People are starting to doubt my reputation as a stand-up guy, a good citizen. It's not so easy for me to get an advance from my bookie anymore.

As fate would have it, I was driving to the drugstore this afternoon and I spotted mischief about 200 feet away. There, in the middle of the parking lot, was a dirty-faced, orphan tennis ball; sitting perfectly still. Waiting for me!

How it got there, I do not know. Some redneck stepped out of his pick-up on the way to pick up his Viagra prescription and his hunting dog's slobber-covered chew toy came rolling out the door.

There was no oncoming traffic and, to a guy who used to jump his father's riding lawnmower over a nearby creek, the situation was more temptation than I could handle.

My '96 Land Cruiser has wide tires, but that is not the idea, is it? Any Jethro could drive over top of a tennis ball, and in the process, probably crush the thing. You might get a little "pop," but so what? No, what we wanted here was a more controlled reaction. I was looking for a line, about a half-inch wide, that would take me just off center enough to send that puppy shooting out like a cannonball.

Begginers luck, I nailed it in just the right spot. What I had not considered was the trajectory that my makeshift projectile would take.

To the manager of the Eckerd's Drug store: I would like to offer my sincere apology. Who would have guessed that a tennis ball could travel so fast? Or, that it would shatter the plate-glass window on your office at the very moment you were propositioning that underage cashier. A little aloe lotion on that coffee burn should help; aisle 7.

I certainly realize the preposterous nature of this post, but for that, I am grateful. The way I see it, no insurance adjuster in the land is going to believe that I planned this caper. No, it was a pure accident, an act of God. The rest is all a sad fabrication created to impress whoever is unlucky enough to read this far.

It Isn't Safe To Walk The Streets Anymore

2006-04-24T16:13:00.000-04:00

I was driving downtown last week............somewhere, I'm not sure where because I was really drunk at the time. No, I'm not proud of myself. Things have been tough lately and I have to admit it: I was drunker than a housepainter on a rainy day.

Being cautious due to my condition, I approached one of those new crosswalk zones. You know, more than just a few faded lines painted on the pavement. They have the mini speedbumps to wake you up if you happen to be snoozin' on your downtown commute. Then, in a defiant little island of asphalt, between the lanes, they have these narrow little signs letting you know what it's all about. "State Law. Drivers Must Yield to Pedestrians in Crosswalk."

Well, a lady was tottering on the curb at one of these things, peering at me as if she could discern my mood. "Is he going to run me down like a dog in the street or does he see me here and acknowledge my existence as a fellow human being?" So, naturally, I slowed my vehicle and gave her a nod to indicate the fact that I was aware of the space she was inhabiting on our shared planet. I fully intended to let her cross without fear of meeting my bumper.

I don't know; maybe there's something about my face. People who don't know me imagine they see a hint of mischievousness, the sinister side, the guy who does a little counterfeiting just to make ends meet. Maybe this woman was the suspicious type, having lost everything in her miserable little life to the Enron scandal. Or perhaps she could tell I was --faced. Whatever it was, she recoiled from the street like it was made of lava.

Well, I must admit that I was hurt by this display of mistrust and I couldn't resist the urge to take it up a notch. That's right. I came to a complete stop, at least five feet away from that crosswalk. Then I gestured in my most solicitous manner that she should proceed safely across.

I was in no hurry. If the city went to the expense of establishing those sanctuaries in an effort to make walking more attractive to the all too valuable sidewalk strolling, coffee drinking, window shopping, bar hopping, way-cooler-than-me pedestrians, who was I not to honor their request to give way?

I was defiant all right, but not as much as she was scared. She took a few steps back, then turned and started walking away in the direction from which she had just come. I couldn't believe it. She was actually looking over her shoulder at me as her pace quickened.

Temporarily stunned, I realized it was time for a lesson in manners. I popped the gearshift into neutral then ran the revs up to about seven grand. When I felt that the moment was right, I jammed it down into Drive and commenced to hold on for dear life. The first victim was the four-foot sign with the international symbol of the pedestrian. It actually got caught in my bumper as I swung around to take out the rest of them.

My pedestrian friend ran screaming up the street. I guess she figured I might be contemplating a little sidewalk bumper pool.

It all happened so fast that I still don't have a clue as to how the cops nabbed me. Must have been one of those bike-cops. I never heard any siren and even though it's hazy, I remember that the ride to the station was not at all comfortable.

I just hope I didn't do more damage than normal. Later that evening, as I was waiting to get booked, I happened to see that lady's picture in the paper. She was one of those corporate relocation specialists on assignment for Toyota.

At this point, the city fathers all agree, it would be best for me to stay out of downtown for a while. In case you fail to get a sense of the contrition dripping off my fingers as I type this post, this thing is my lawyer's idea for a little pre-emptive community service, but the joke is on him. Everyone knows that nobody reads this blog.

The Tingle Means It's Working

2006-04-05T08:23:00.000-04:00

My personal circadian rhythm has not quite adjusted to Daylight Savings. This morning I spent nearly two hours in the shower trapped in an endless cycle of lather, rinse, repeat. Too sleepy to remember if I had already washed my hair, I only stopped when the shampoo bottle was empty. What started as a mild tingling sensation after the first lather eventually turned into a searing chemical burn.

It was a good thing that I ran out of shampoo. As it is, my scalp retains only a tenuous grasp on any semblance of a hairdo. My hair follicles barely survived this napalm treatment.

At 44 years-old and first thing in the morning, my shampoo is the only thing about me that can be described as Pert. Like a lunch lady's arm flab, everything else just hangs loosely from my skeleton.

Only a strong dose of caffeine gives me enough muscle tone to even make it to the car. Operating with an impairment level equal to six mixed drinks, it's a wonder that I ever make it to my office.

As always, I must admit that my sleep-deprived condition is mostly my fault. I have absolutely no business watching Latvian Roller Derby at 1:00 am on ESPN-Eastern Bloc.

It's Always Greener

2006-03-31T22:37:00.000-05:00

Spring is here and most of the lawns in my neighborhood are greening up nicely. My wife is quick to point out that our yard remains the infamous exception to the rule that all lawns improve in Springtime. She likes to compare my grass to a South Georgia highway median scorched by six months of drought.

It does get dusty at times and I think there may be others who share her opinion. Last week one of those lawn care services stuffed the neighborhood mailboxes with coupons. I retrieved my coupon Friday afternoon, but on Saturday morning my box was overflowing with additional coupons graciously donated by everyone on the block.

Well, I can only handle so much humiliation in my sad little life so I put my beer down and got motivated. It was time for a trip to Home Depot. While the typical Larry Lawnboy was sweating and straining to load 50 lb. bags of lime, fertilizer and grass seed into his cart, I wheeled over to the aisle where they keep the water softener. (That's sodium chloride to you and me, Timmy. - Gee, Mr. Wizard!)

That night, when all the good people in the world were cozy in their beds, I set to work. First, a spritz of WD-40 on the wheels of the broadcast spreader; no point in rousing the neighbors.

I filled the spreader with my magic formula and set off to pay a midnight visit to several of the suspected coupon culprits. Sodium chloride, the great equalizer in lawncare. Never underestimate the benefits of better living through chemistry.

In just a few short days a mysterious malady struck down some of the best-looking, putting-green-perfect lawns on my street. Yes, I was quite proud of my handiwork; no longer able to lay claim to the ugliest yard on the block.

My only worry now was how to top the first scheme and finish off the rest of the lawns in the vicinity without all the heavy lifting. A quick web search and I had my answer. It seems that there are any number of science supply companies offering live locusts by mail.

Once I set my pretties free (much like the wicked witch and her flying monkeys) they immediately started to work. The results were nearly Biblical in scope. Trees, shrubs, grass; as long as it was green, they did not discriminate.

I suppose that was my downfall, really. You may not know this, but it's nearly impossible to train a swarm of locusts. They simply do not take direction well. The whole neighborhood was devastated; shrubs, trees, the park, my yard, everything. Our geography in this part of Greensboro now most closely resembles the Gobi Desert in appearance.

At this point, whenever I step outside wearing a scarf to ward off the sandstorms, I try to look at the bright side. This is a family neighborhood and kids can always use a nice big sandbox, right?

It's Wabbit, Not Whittington!

2006-02-15T08:25:00.000-05:00

I've been involved in awot of hunting accidents, but I never shot a fwiend.

As Seen On TV

2006-02-01T17:06:00.000-05:00

What is it with the resurgence of this inane expression/logo? I have seen it now on quite a few trucks advertising the trade of the owner; plumbers, electricians and the like. I certainly have no objection to someone promoting their business on a vehicle. In fact, I have even been influenced to try a painter after seeing a promotional message on his truck.

It's this stupid logo that I don't like. You can find it almost every week in some lame ad in the Parade magazine. Yellow Pages ads display it proudly and it's even popping up in classified job listings.

Back in the early days of television people were idiots. Some genius on Madison Avenue figured out that if a product had appeared on television it had instant credibility with the viewing public. After all, not every product at the time made it to TV. Never mind that most products shown on TV paid to be there. The morons wouldn't know the difference.

So we saw a lot of this vapid, meaningless endorsement in the 50's and 60's, but after a while the viewers got wise to the whole scam. The more sophisticated practitioners would later offer a version that stated "As featured in the Wall Street Journal." Again, if you pay to advertise in a publication or on television, it's not the same thing as an actual endorsement.

Why are we seeing this ugly tombstone of early television-era kitsch? I would understand it if the context was supposed to be campy, but the examples I've seen were all serious.

I think there are two possibilities here. One is that advertisers believe the American public is getting more gullible. The other is that the folks using "As Seen On TV" are not the marketing geniuses they think they are.

Job-Related Pain

2006-01-25T10:53:00.000-05:00

A friend just sent me an email about a great site with tips for avoiding carpal tunnel syndrome, but I couldn't view the page because it hurt too much to click on the link.

Freaky Footwear Phenom

2006-01-19T17:44:00.000-05:00

During the winter months most folks like to wear shoes that are appropriate for the weather. There are the diehards, though, who refuse to give up their sandals. To accomodate their choice of footwear, they add socks to their ensemble and, let's be honest, it ain't pretty.

Beleive me, I have nothing against sandals. I wear them at the beach or on the boat in warmer weather. However, in the winter they reside in the far recesses of my closet, waiting obediently for the summer sun.

The fashion sense of wearing socks with sandals escapes me. Sandals were designed to set your tootsies free to wiggle and frolic in the fresh air. Wearing socks with sandals is like trying to enjoy the sensation of unprotected sex with a clinical prophylactic.

It's just not right!

In Search Of a Better Caffeine Delivery System

2006-01-05T08:49:00.000-05:00

I am not a coffee drinker, mainly because of a sweet tooth that demands 17 teaspoons of sugar to make any brew palatable. I do like the Starbucks Frappacino, which is about as close as I get to coffee, but who can afford those every day?

This morning I tried to make my own with some day-old coffee, chocolate syrup from a forgotten birthday party and that powdered non-dairy creamer. The freezer in the break room was overdue for a defrosting, but I managed to shove my experiment in next to a stack of Lean Cuisine.

An hour later the result was clearly not in the same ballpark as the Starbuck's recipe. My concoction was so toxic, in fact, that I decided against pouring it down the drain. In the end I had to call in a HazMat team to take it away. I'm almost proud to say that my homemade Frappacino will soon reside in the same storage facility as Level 4 nuclear waste.

Sweet Sixteen Turns Sour

2006-01-03T08:32:00.000-05:00

My oldest daughter recently turned 16 and so we headed to the DMV office to get her driver's license. She has been driving on a learner's permit for over a year now without major incident although my doctor is quick to point out a life-threatening increase in my blood pressure.

On the way to the DMV it was obvious that Kate was more concerned about how she would look in her driver's license picture than how she would do on the road test. I suppose this is normal behavior for a teenage girl.

The examiner was a middle-age woman and it was clear from the beginning that she was completely unaware that the universe revolves around my daughter. How she could miss this fact, I don't know. Perhaps she is jaded by a long procession of teenagers who are also certain that they are, in fact, the center of the universe.

I waited while my daughter went on a short road test trying to sort out my conflicted feelings about this milestone. On the one hand, I wanted Kate to enjoy the independence of being able to drive on her own, but I was also worried about whether she was ready.

Here she is, only 16, and it seems like yesterday that she was no more than a baby in my arms. I remember bringing her home from the hospital as a newborn and how my wife worried that she was not going to be a good enough mother because she always managed to kill her houseplants. For the first few years Kate could only manage two things, sucking down formula by the gallon and decorating her diapers. Well, she made it past the most fragile stages with only one broken bone and the usual number of skinned knees.

Another part of me was looking forward to a little breath of freedom. With 3 daughters and myriad activities, it would be nice to reduce the amount of time spent in the car running around town. I pictured myself laying on the couch, as I often do with the remote in hand, sending Kate to pick up her sister from soccer practice and then to the store for another pint of Chubby Hubby ice cream.

My ruminations proved meaningless as the examiner returned to tell me that Kate had not passed. Allegedly, she didn't look over her shoulder when changing lanes. Still basking in my daydream of lying on the couch, I tried to explain that my child has a congenital attitude problem resulting in a total lack of concern for her surroundings, particularly what is behind her. I offered to get a doctor's note, but it was no use. Kate could not believe what was happening, but she was told to practice and come back in a week.

One week later, at Kate's urging, we decided to try again. I arrived at school to pick her up at the usual time, but she was nowhere in sight. After about a twenty minute wait she came sauntering out to the car, talking with a couple of friends. It was after 4:15 as I explained how we needed to arrive at the DMV before 4:30 if we wanted to get a road test.

Kate casually loaded her backpack in the car, completely unconcerned. She was quite certain that all was well and that there would be no problem handling the DMV bureaucrats if we were a little late.

By my watch we arrived at 4:27, but I was unable to convince the lady at the counter that her official clock on the wall was three minutes fast. It was Friday afternoon with a waiting room full of people and no amount of tears on my part would move her to allow us to wait in line for a road test.

The following Monday we set out on our quest once again. Halfway to the DMV office, I realized that I had forgotten the form from the insurance company. It was too far to drive back to the house for the form and we began to despair. Fortunately, we were able to gather all of the pertinent information with a quick phone call and we managed to arrive in plenty of time. When asked to produce the insurance form at check in, I explained our comical situation, but it was no use. Without the official form, there would be no driver's test. I am convinced that these people have no sense of humor.

Yesterday we arrived on time, we had all the forms and all systems were go. The examiner seemed friendly and helpful as he and Kate went out the car. Things were looking up. I sat in the waiting room to work on a crossword puzzle only to be interrupted by the examiner beckoning me to the parking lot.

The brake lights on my wife's Camry wagon were not working. (Kate is more comfortable driving this car because she says my truck is too big). The Camry is older and has over 150,000 miles, but it was recently inspected and I was stunned that both brake lights were out. The examiner would not give a road test in our car.

Our quest had failed once again and visions of couchside food deliveries vanished from my head. Before our next attempt I plan to hire a Feng Shui consultant, a priest and a Voodoo witch doctor to try and chase the anti-driving demons from Kate's body.

Kate really is a good driver and I'm not too worried about her, but maybe the insurance gods are trying to tell me that I can't handle the increased premiums.

Do you know the way to San Jose?

2005-12-23T22:51:00.000-05:00

I've been away so long...

My last post was over a month ago and I just thought I'd put it right out there for everyone to judge for themselves. Surely the skeptics will pop up like zits on prom night when I answer the question that has been troubling the international blogging community for the past month.

Where is Dave? Why is he neglecting his blog? Has he turned serious and started a better blog? I should know by now that just like any pet, you have to feed your blog or it will die. Remember NeoPets?

Back to the question of where I have been. It's pretty obvious to all who know me; I was abducted by aliens...again!

Just like before, I'm walking my dog, Oblio, around the park late at night. I'm minding my own business, not even looking at the stars because I don't want nothin' to do with that whole sci-fi scene. Suddenly, I am bumped from behind.

Just like previous encounters, I turned to find a glimmering, mercurial spacecraft hovering just above the ground. It was about 100 feet in diameter and the silver surface was rippling like a pond disturbed by a pebble at the spot where it had touched me.

(The really weird part about this story is the fact that it is the same aliens every time).

As forcefully as I could, I said, "not again guys! This isn't a good time for me." They never talk, but I know they understand me. No matter, before I could blink, we were standing together inside that damn ship.

I once had a friend with an alternative theory about aliens and ufo's. He believed that ufo's were just time machines from the future and that aliens were just humans who had evolved into unrecognizable creatures. I can't really describe these beings, but I will say this, if the time machine theory is right, I am never going on a date with a future woman.

The truth is, I don't know if my aliens are male or female. Maybe, they just hatch from pods and there is no distinction for gender. Wouldn't that make life so much easier?

For my part, I am thankful that the physical experiments ended a long time ago. Like a couple of squeamish high school girls dissecting a frog in biology class, these two never had much stomach for the whole poking and prodding routine. I am relieved, but also, somehow, a little hurt to know that I am not a very interesting specimen of humankind.

Now, they mostly download music from my iPod and pester me to help them with tech stuff. I once had to help them configure a wireless network. Then, there was the time they were having trouble with their aol account.

This time they needed help programming the remote for their vis-a-screen. "I can't do this. I have a life, you know. Besides, I don't have any idea what channels you guys get up here." My protests fell on deaf ears, orbs, whatever they have.

They manage to travel across the universe or maybe through time, but somehow these two are just clueless when it comes to technical devices. Maybe it's like the anthropologist that can't drive a Land Rover.

Admittedly, my family and co-workers have never noticed my absence and it's not because I lack personality. The aliens have developed some type of clone that they leave in my place whenever they come calling. It's is utterly depressing to realize how easy it is to make a passable copy of a human being. I always thought I was a little more unique. We all want to believe that, don't we?

Anyway, that is why I haven't posted in a long while. I know some readers will find this hard to swallow, but just like Uncle Ray's colostomy bag, the truth is too hideous to ignore. (He used to whip that thing out at every family occasion on the off chance that there was one last relative that had not witnessed the very depths of his suffering first-hand).

I do not presume that my postings have been missed by anyone, but for my own sake, I will be writing more often.

Gaspy's Holiday Intrusion

2005-11-28T09:23:00.000-05:00

Gaspy is a nickname for Grimsley High School principal Rob Gasparello. I don't know who came up with this moniker, I am simply reporting what my daughter heard around school. To my knowledge the man does not have respiratory problems, it's just what the kids made out of his name.

I have not had any personal interaction with Mr. Gasparello, but he has managed to piss me off just the same. At noon on Thanksgiving day we had a call at the house. Family or friends wishing us well on the holiday? No, it was a recorded message from Gaspy. What was so important that he had to interrupt a family holiday? Well it seems that there was a football game on Friday night.

Now, I have nothing against football; I even attended a game earlier in the season. Like a lot of parents, I am pleased that Grimsley is doing well this year and I follow their progress in the paper. But, if I was really interested in the playoff game, I would have already been aware of the schedule. As it was, I felt as though he had intruded on a special occasion for no good reason.

This wasn't the first time that we have been bombarded with inane tidbits of campus minutiae. Gasparello likes to tell us what clubs are meeting and who got pinned and the song list for the marching band at least once or twice a week. Who in the Guilford County School system gave this guy access to the same annoying technology that telemarketers use to ruin dinner times throughout the country?

Give it a rest Gaspy!

Wouldn't It Be Ironic...

2005-11-15T11:14:00.000-05:00

Our president is visiting Japan on an Asian tour. Wouldn't it be ironic if Bush caught the Avian Flu and proceeded to baptize the Japanese Prime Minister like his father did back in 1992.

From Wikipedia: On January 8, 1992, President Bush vomited on the Prime Minister of Japan, Kiichi Miyazawa, during a state dinner. He then fainted. The incident, which Bush claimed was nothing more than the flu, was caught on camera and raised questions about his health, in addition to being a major source of embarrassment. (The Japanese named a verb for this incident: "bushusuru," meaning "to commit an instance of embarrassing public vomiting.")

At the very least, I think our current Commander In Chief should demonstrate our endearing American sense of humor with a classic sight gag.

That Blew Up Real Good

2005-11-15T10:41:00.000-05:00

They're blowin' up KFCs in Pakistan and the Colonel is fightin' mad. A company spokesman says that even though Colonel Sanders has been dead for quite some time, he's thinking of re-enlisting to lead the fight for crispy chicken and the American Way. Before he goes off half-cocked maybe we should find out if this was really a terrorist attack or part of a planned government bird flu eradication process.

Politically Disenfranchised

2005-11-09T07:15:00.000-05:00

With the exception of NYC Mayor Michael Bloomberg the Republicans took a pounding yesterday. Even the Terminator's reforms went down in flames.

I have to wonder if Republicans these days feel like my father did after Watergate. I know Bush is not in as much trouble as Nixon, but the hounds are baying at his heels. How much trouble remains to be seen.

Back in the day, my father was a Nixon Republican. Of course, that was before the bottom fell out. Watergate was a milestone in the history of voter disillusionment. Republicans were on a rudderless ship and the damn thing was sinking.

"Who do we trust now? How did things get so out of hand?"

Looking back at how Nixon got to the point of being the first president to resign, my father and his contemporaries were a part of the generation that had wearied of Johnson's Texas politics. It was time for a change. Besides, Johnson, who had enough conscience to at least be aware of soldiers dying in Vietnam, declined to run.

"How about that guy who almost beat Kennedy? Maybe we can find some integrity there. Nixon will be tough on the Ruskies and maybe he can even save us from the hippies."

Whenever anything went wrong in the late '60s and early '70s many people in my parents' generation would blame it on the hippies. It was an easy way to exercise the hound of discrimination without being too specific about who they were barking at.

So, they elected Nixon and it was smooth sailing for a while. Most citizens weren't too concerned with domestic situations. "We have enough to worry about with those pesky Russians and nuclear Armageddon."

Dad was not what I would consider fervently political, but living under his roof and rules, I was well aware of how he felt about national issues and hippies. Walter Kronkite delivered the news and my father would digest it right along with his dinner.

We had an old fridge in the garage where we kept the overflow of groceries needed to bivouac a family of six. One Easter morning we woke to discover that "hippies" had stolen our Sunday ham. Not only that, but they swiped our American flag, too.

How did my dad know they were hippies? "Well it's obvious, isn't it? Some hippy got stoned, ate our ham and is now cruising toward Berkeley with our American flag pinned to the ceiling of his VW Microbus."

This made perfect sense and it might have been totally accurate for all I know. I'm just sorry that I was too young to appreciate the symbolism at the time.

After Watergate hit, my father, and I suppose many Republicans, weren't so vocal on national issues. It was kind of a nice little vacation. Whatever hangover the Republicans are suffering this morning, it won't last forever.

The political scene is just so divisive these days that I am not optimistic about our chances to heal this country. I just hope we can find someone we can really trust in 2008.

NC Heart Gallery

2005-11-07T11:56:00.000-05:00

Visit the NC Heart Gallery at the Central Library, Downtown Greensboro from November 6 - 19. The Heart Gallery pairs foster children awaiting adoption with professional photographers. Featured in everything from People magazine to ABC's 20/20, Heart Galleries have introduced a wide spectrum of people to the adoption and foster care alternative. Several hundred adoptions have come about as a direct result of Heart Galleries in other states.

Created entirely by North Carolina photographers, these artistic portraits feature children currently in foster care who are available for adoption. This exhibit, the first statewide Heart Gallery in North Carolina, is premiering in Greensboro and will travel to six different cities around the state in Spring 2006.

Disturbing Commercial

2005-11-06T00:33:00.000-05:00

Questions for the ad execs at Burger King:

Was the King the intended receiver on the play or is he making an interception?
Shouldn't he be wearing a helmet?
Where did the King play college ball?
Was he a first round draft pick in the NFL?
Shouldn't the King be QB rather than WR?
Wearing tights; does that require shaving before the game?
Who will succeed the King as company spokesman if he gets injured?
Isn't bowling the real "Sport of Kings?"
Are there other royals playing professional sports?

Fewer "W"s

2005-11-03T08:51:00.000-05:00

I'm not seeing quite so many of those annoying oval bumper stickers with the letter "W" anymore. Maybe folks have finally figured out what it means.

Seasonal Affliction

2005-11-02T07:30:00.000-05:00

If you are a parent, like me, and your kids are trick-or-treating age, then there is a strong chance that you are now suffering from a common seasonal affliction. Candy mouth ulcers usually strike the day after Halloween, but they can last for several weeks.

The duration of this affliction is directly related to how much leftover candy is in the house due to your subconscious over-buying. If you went to Costco and bought several of the five-pound variety packs you may now be suffering from Candy-Mouth.

If your cupboard is not overstocked with leftover candy, then you are probably a master at rationalizing the act of pilfering from your children. "It's not good for them to have so much candy at this age."

But we do pay a price for extended visits to the Big Rock Candy Mountain. You can't put away 17 Reese's Cups in one evening and not suffer the consequences. Symptoms of Candy-Mouth include ulcers so bad that all you can drink is cold water. Hot food is out of the question and you may also find yourself crying as you try to savor one more sour apple jawbreaker at breakfast time.

You can try conventional remedies like Orajel, but that just masks the pain. Don't despair, there is a proven Halloween cure for Candy-Mouth. Under the light of a full moon you must suck on a bat's wing and as repugnant as that might sound, it gets worse. You see, for the cure to work the bat's wing must be attached to a live bat. I didn't make this up. I am simply passing along a remedy from a bonafide witch on my wife's side of the family.

So enjoy one more Nestle's Crunch because your dentist is waiting to see you. No, he doesn't have a cure for Candy-Mouth, but he is salivating over the money to be earned filling this year's crop of Halloween cavities.

Timing

2005-10-31T21:46:00.000-05:00

Who was the genius in the Guilford County school system that decided to schedule a student holiday on October 31? Wouldn't the smart move be to give them the day AFTER Halloween off instead?

If it weren't for my laundry...

2005-10-30T21:06:00.000-05:00

If it weren't for my laundry, I'd probably be dead right now. I know that sounds dramatic, but I had a rough weekend.

I awoke Saturday morning with a bad headache, and no, it was not the result of drinking too much on Friday night. It might be sinus/allergy related or I may be developing a brain cloud. Either way, I wanted it to stop. I started with ibuprofen and over the course of the weekend worked my way up the painkiller ladder. I got to the point where I was one step away from intravenous morphine drip and just about at my wits end.

It was one of those throbbing headaches and my skull felt like a dam ready to burst. Dogs barking, birds squawking, children playing, water dripping; all these things added to my pain. Irrational as it may seem, the idea of breaking my head open and releasing that pressure seemed like the only path to relief.

It is believed that Stone Age surgeons made holes in the skulls of their patients to release the evil spirits that caused headaches. Scientists have found these skulls with neatly cut holes dating back to around 8,000 B.C. and some show definite signs of healing which means that patients actually survived the surgery. Even now there are people who still believe in this practice and it is known as trepanning. I started to think that maybe they're on to something.

How to make a hole in my head? Delirious with pain, I went to my toolbox and found a hammer and chisel. It was very awkward holding the chisel on top of my head and trying to line up the hammer for a quick, clean blow.

After a few minutes of holding the chisel and practice swings with the hammer, I realized that this was not the answer. Yes, there was the realization of the potential finality of this solution, but it was more complicated than that. You see, I was in the middle of doing my laundry; one load in the washer, and one in the dryer. I figured that if this procedure went awry, my friends and family would be dumbfounded at the timing of my demise.

I could just picture the eulogy. "David's passing leaves so many unanswered questions. Why would he bother to do laundry if he planned to take his life? We may never know."

And so, to spare my family this embarrassment, I put my tools away and stretched out on the couch with a hot compress on my forehead. One more selfless act in a long list of sacrifices I have made for the sake of my wife and kids.

Lance Crackers - The Untold Story

2005-10-28T18:33:00.000-04:00

It has just been revealed that the annoying "I got Lance in my pants" radio jingle was originally written by Sheryl Crowe.

Janet's "Billie Jean"

2005-10-27T09:04:00.000-04:00

I think it may be time for Janet "The Flash" Jackson to enlist the help of her big bro'. The singer's former brother-in-law claims that she has a secret 18-year-old daughter with ex-husband James DeBarge.

I can't say that I care one way or the other, but wouldn't it be fun to see Janet and Michael team up for a duet. What rhymes with Renee?

Lying To The Camera

2005-10-25T23:26:00.000-04:00

Last night WFMY broadcast an exclusive interview with the CEOs of JP and Lincoln Financial. It was clear that they wanted to put the people of Greensboro at ease about the takeover, sorry "merger."

Lincoln Financial's CEO, Jon Boscia, said that after the initial job cuts growth will continue for the next 20 to 30 years. "Life insurance HQ and operations center will remain in Greensboro. So I think for us to be able to say that those jobs are going to be here the building is gonna be here." (I picked up that quote from WFMY's website. As he is speaking these words during the interview broadcast on the 11:00 newscast, Boscia is shaking his head from side-to-side).

I don't know much about body language, but it seemed a clear indication that Mr. Boscia did not really believe what he was saying. Unfortunately, the WFMY webcast does not include this portion of the interview.

purple shirt

2005-10-23T23:15:00.000-04:00

My sister, the self-appointed arbiter of family fashion bought me shirt a few weeks back and I wore it to dinner at her house last night. The color is purple, bright purple because (and I don't know why) her crusade in this life is to add color to my wardrobe.

Sure, that's me in the picture.

It's a long-sleeve jersey knit polo which is also a change for me. I don't mind long sleeve shirts, but I like the kind of cuffs that allow me to roll up the sleeves. You see, I have gorilla-like arms and most long-sleeve shirts that fit my body are too short in the sleeves. I also feel more freedom of movement with my lower arms uncovered. This shirt wasn't designed to accommodate my predilection and I was forced to bunch up the sleeves around my elbow (not very comfortable).

But getting back to the color, it just didn't feel right. I would look down at my arm and see this purple limb and thought that it must belong to someone else. It's unsettling to be startled by your own appendages. Maybe if I really did resemble the guy in the photo above, I could pull it off, but when your own 15 year-old daughter tells you that you look "gay" then it's time to change your shirt.

My sister insists that I wear too many earth tones. I will admit that I have an affinity for green and khaki. Sometimes I think I was meant to be in the French Foreign Legion or maybe an Australian bush guide. That's just me and I have no interest in auditioning for a role in Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat.

I have never owned a purple car or painted any rooms in my house purple. My wife does not have purple hair. I think that as a color, purple should be reserved for royalty and let's be done with it.

Nothing Serious About Blogging

2005-10-22T01:12:00.000-04:00

The blogging world. What a great place to visit. You can laugh, you can learn, you can feel righteous, you can get indignant, you can simply talk about the trivialities of your day. And all this from the comfort of your own home or office. The added bonus is that when you write something you may even have an audience.

As a reader, there is so much to do and see; a myriad display of individualism. Be careful looking around, though; you might just discover that you aren't that funny, you aren't so well-informed, you aren't so clever, your opinion may be wrong, you aren't that creative. Visiting all the other fantastic blogs, you might start to believe that you are anything, but unique.

I don't really wallow in that kind of mudhole. Those feelings creep up on occasion, but only in fleeting glimpses. I handle it by simply trying to make my own blog better.

The most important thing to me about blogging is keeping a sense of humor. I really believe that you can find balance in your life if you can laugh at yourself and the world around you.

Rage Against The Machine

2005-10-19T10:14:00.000-04:00

There is a vending machine in the building where I work that surely belongs in one of the nine circles of hell. No amount of coaxing can convince this stubborn device to accept paper money.

Oh sure, there's a slot with a picture of a smirking George Washington and it will even tease me by taking in the best bill I can find in my wallet, but then this capricious pile of scrap metal invariably rejects my hard-earned money. I stand there, my dollar on the floor, my face pressed against the glass mere inches from my prize.

I could take a brand new one-dollar bill, hot off the press at the US Mint, and feed it directly into this machine and I guarantee it would spit it out like a bad piece of gristle.

Don't these vending folks understand the torture of the rationalization I had to go through just so I could be standing in front of their stupid machine? "Yes, it's OK to get a snack. You've been working hard this morning and it's a long time until lunch. Go and have a small treat. You're not really that heavy."

If nothing else, I am a patient man and so I waited. Days on end I huddled in a darkened corner of the break room waiting for the vending man with his precious key. Once he arrived and opened the glass-front door, I clubbed him on the back of the head with a sock full of quarters.

With full access to the treats inside I gathered my spoils. Reaching to the back (that's where they put the fresh candy) I clutched the bright white wrapper of a pristine Baby Ruth candy bar. Then, I took a crumpled dollar bill from my pocket and dropped it on the chest of the prone vending man writhing on the tile floor. I took the exact change from the machine's receptacle then checked the bin for dollars bills. Not a single bill had been accepted since his last visit. Madness!

Back at my desk , I was finally able to relax with my candy bar and enjoy the rest of my day.

Don't Squeeze The Shaman

2005-10-17T12:34:00.000-04:00

What a great weekend to get out and catch up on the yardwork. All that rain brought my lawn back from the living dead and I actually had to drag my mower out of hibernation. Not only was the grass taller, but I also had a fresh crop of mushrooms.

As I passed over a patch of mushrooms with the mower, large chunks of fungus shot out everywhere. I guess I must have inhaled some spores or something because next thing I know I'm no longer mowing my yard.

During college, I read a few Carlos Castaneda books, but I have no recreational experience with mushrooms and I am not a licensed medicine man. My memory is a little foggy, but as best I can piece together, I traveled through space and time to a tiny Plains Indian village and the early 1800s.

I was greeted by a shaman and he told me I was on a spiritual journey. He said I should enjoy my brief stay with his people and that I should not try to share my experience with anybody who may not understand. Unfortunately, circumstances dictate that I provide an explanation for my actions.

For the record, I'd like to apologize to my next door neighbors, Bob and Judy. I am not familiar with crossbred hybrid roses like the ones mentioned in your lawsuit, but I will do my best to make this right. As for the humiliation suffered by Brutus, all I can say is that in my hallucinogenic state, I thought he was an appaloosa pony and we were hunting buffalo. Winter is coming and I was trying to provide for my people. You must admit that some of the large-breed dogs do resemble equines. The good news is that I can assure you that there are no buffalo roaming through your property.

My wife is not speaking to me and I have to replace the Merle Norman make-up that I used for warpaint. The back yard is total disarray. A large comforter is draped over the kid's swing set. I guess I was trying to construct a sweat lodge or maybe just a tepee. If you happen to live nearby and are missing a comforter from your clothes line, please don't judge me too harshly.

After my weekend misadventure I am probably going to hire a lawn service. Too entrenched in the duties of husband, father and neighbor, I must, heretofore, leave spiritual journeys to those who really have the freedom to travel.

Shortest book in the library

2005-10-16T21:54:00.000-04:00

The Agoraphobics Travel Guide

The Subtlety of Outdoor Advertising

2005-10-14T10:28:00.000-04:00

I spotted a billboard downtown on Washington St. for the Kersey Valley Spookywoods. It took me a minute, but after reading the caption, "another satisfied customer" I noticed the illustration showed a man who peed his pants.

I have never visited any of these haunted attractions and maybe I just don't know the fun I'm missing, but I have no desire to lose control of my bladder. I'm too young to be wearing Depends, especially for recreational purposes.

Please tell me why I should pay good money to have some Jethro with a chainsaw chase me through the woods at night. I mean if you want scary, just try raising teenage daughters.

They do have a cool website though. Spiders attack your cursor. www.spookywoods.com/

I just can't help myself

2005-10-12T22:29:00.000-04:00

Everybody has seen the oval bumper stickers touting desirable destinations; OBX for Outer Banks, HHI for Hilton Head, MB for Myrtle Beach...ad nauseam. You can find them plastered on the back of nearly every minivan and SUV in town. Originally based on the European country code stickers, they have been adopted by every Homer Simpson wannabe who has ever hauled the family to the beach for a long weekend and stopped at Wings for souvenirs.

As a chronic smartass, I had to have my own version.

A nano in my pocket

2005-10-12T19:25:00.000-04:00

I know, that's not the best line to use on the ladies, but when it comes to portable music, smaller really is better. I went from a mini iPod to a nano soon after I dropped my mini on a concrete floor (not my most graceful moment).

As someone who has made a career in the advertising and graphics field I have long been a fan of Apple products. I now spend a great deal of time working on a PC with Windows, but my home computer is a Mac. Using a PC for the last 10 months has taught me that the platform is not inherently evil and I see more similarities than differences.

Regardless of your computer preference the new nano mp3 player is your ticket to walking through this world with your own personal soundtrack motivating your feet. It's tiny, lightweight and easy to use. Songs and pictures are stored in flash memory so it is more stable than the hard drives used in the mini (more resistant to the jarring effects of concrete floors). Slip 1000 of your favorite songs into your shirt pocket and your ready for anything.

Day 3 - Un-Dewing It

2005-10-12T12:30:00.000-04:00

This is day three without Mountain Dew. I didn't write about this issue yesterday because I was in a mild comatose state induced by lack of sleep and caffeine deprivation. To see why I no longer indulge, please view my post from Sunday. As a hint, think back to the old Monty Python song about Eric The Half A Bee. (If only I could recall lectures from college so readily).

It's been a tough road, prying this monkey off my back. If memory serves, I had less trouble kicking the big H. My sleep patterns are all haywire. Yesterday I found myself asleep at the wheel on the way home from work. Napping at the office has never caused any problems, but sleeping during my commute might get me into trouble.

I'm planning to hang in there, though. I'm told that the delirium tremors don't last too long.

this makes my teeth hurt

2005-10-11T23:10:00.000-04:00

The following letter to the Editor in today's News & Record frightens me. A few days ago I posted a humor piece about Greensboro's fluoridated water after reading the same article this guy mentions. I was just having fun with the conspiracy theorist gang, but I come to find out that there are some folks who take this business seriously. I'll be the first to admit that I may be wrong and I would have been interested in learning more about this issue from credible sources, but this guy lost me when he laid it all on Big Brother (see below).

I have never been able to determine if Big Brother is an actual person. Maybe it's a DC powerbroker, a secret society, covert government operatives, aliens from outer space, pick your demon. I suppose it doesn't really matter, but until someone gives me a more definitive villian than Big Brother, you might as well blame all the woes of the world on the boogey man.

<><>Posted by News & Record at 03:00 AM | Comments (0)

Fluoridation of water is slowly poisoning us

So, Greensboro is out of fluoride. This is great news. Oh, how I wish the entire country would run out. Who needs this poison, anyway? That's right, it is rat poison. Sodium fluoride is what I'm talking about, not natural fluoride. Sodium fluoride is a byproduct of the aluminum producers, an insecticide used as rat poison.

Could this poison play a part in autism? Children get this poison in pills, toothpaste, swish treatments in school, and in drinking water. How much of this poison do they need in their bodies? This borders on child abuse, if you ask me.

One of the last cities in Europe to permit fluoridation was Basel, Switzerland, and they have stopped. Why? Because after they started fluoridation, the kids' cavity rate increased.

This is a sham put on the American people by Big Brother. In North Carolina the public cannot vote to use or not to use fluoride in our drinking water. We should have pure, safe, drinking water only. No poison added, please.

Pete Comer
Madison

Gator Wraslin'

2005-10-11T17:39:00.000-04:00

My yard has gone from Sahara Desert to Florida Everglades in the past few days. This morning I had to wrassle a gator just to get to my car.

Yesterday we lost one of the kids in the quicksand by the swing set. My wife was kind of partial to that one so she's mad at me now. I told her we have more, but she still wants me to get rid of the python hiding in the shrubs.

I tell you, when you own a house there's always something to do.

Asking a favor of Mr. Sun

2005-10-10T10:52:00.000-04:00

For the umpteenth day in a row it's gray in Greensboro. Sure, I was on here not too long ago bitchin' about the drought, but now I think we could all use a little light in our life. I'd like to ask Mr. Sun if he could put in a good word with his namesake and get some rays to shine down on our fair city.

Thanks

Day 1 without the Dew - trouble posting

2005-10-10T08:49:00.000-04:00

I stayed up too late last night and I could really use my caffeine fix. (If you would like to know why I am giving up my beverage of choice, please see yesterday's post). It's difficult to type with trembling hands. Probably the worst part is the hallucinations. I keep seeing news stories that Bush has appointed a political crony to the highest court in the land, and oh yeah, she has absolutely no judicial experience.

My wife is an attorney and a few weeks back I jokingly suggested that she might be selected to replace Rehnquist. She answered, quite seriously, that she had no time on the bench. Well guess what? It doesn't matter.

The obvious lesson to young people in America is that it's not what you know, but who you know. Don't waste your time studying for chemistry. You'd be better off campaigning for prom queen.

Ewww......what I found in my Dew

2005-10-09T21:37:00.000-04:00

I have never been a coffee drinker, opting instead to get my caffeine from Mountain Dew. I will admit to having a rather insistent sweet tooth and the belly to go along with it.

This morning I found a nasty little surprise; a bee at the bottom of a can of Dew I was drinking. That's right, I was nearly done when I found this little bonus.

It was terribly unsettling and I had to give my stomach a pep talk to keep everything in its place. I guess it could have been worse; it could have been a cockroach. I grew up in Florida where the cockroaches can be bigger than Buicks and I have a strong aversion to those critters.

In any case, I may be swearing off the Dew for a while. Perhaps it was a sign from whatever deity it is that sits atop the food pyramid. Time for a healthier diet.

Go Dawgs!!!!!!!!

2005-10-08T21:49:00.000-04:00

Losing It

2005-10-06T14:48:00.000-04:00

I’ve been trying to convince the guy who cuts my hair that he should start charging me less and less each time I visit. You see, although I prefer the term “thinning,” my hair is basically falling out. With a reduced amount of hair to cut each time, it would seem to me that there is less work to be done. Brian counters with the argument that it actually takes longer to make my head presentable. By “presentable” he means less likely to frighten domesticated animals and small children. He says that the job takes more effort because he has less material to work with; something akin to a sculptor trying to make do with an inadequate amount of clay.

I always use the term “the guy who cuts my hair” because as a manly man I don’t like to say that I go to a hair stylist. I would prefer to say that I use a barber, but you don’t see too many of those anymore. If you do find one, chances are, the only haircuts he knows are the bowl cut or the Sergeant Carter.

When I was a kid, my dad used to wear his hair as though he had just been inducted into the marines and he insisted that my brothers and I do the same. This was back in the late 1960’s in Central Florida and astronaut chic was all the rage. We lived just an hour west of Cape Kennedy before the Disney invasion so NASA provided one of the strongest cultural influences in our neck of the woods. Of course, now everyone who lives in Orlando wears Mickey Mouse ears.

The space cowboys wore their hair short because of their military background. All the geeks and engineers who supported the space program wore their hair the same way in hopes of fooling naive space groupies into thinking they were astronauts. The bars in Cocoa Beach were crawling with women who wanted to meet astronauts.

My father wore his hair that way because he was a serious guy and he was in the business of supplying electronic components to NASA. Engineers and scientists are a timid bunch, wary of outsiders. You have to approach cautiously or they scurry down their rabbit holes and hide. My father had to talk the talk, walk the walk and wear the hair, but I’m sure he wasn’t interested in space groupies.

I will always remember being dragged to the barber shop with my equally reluctant brothers on Saturday mornings. The prospect of getting a buzzcut while at the same time missing a new episode of Jonny Quest was almost too much to bear. For my father it was a simple male bonding ritual. For my brothers and I it was one more opportunity to view the ever-widening chasm which came to be known as the generation gap.

Naturally, we rebelled against this oppressive intrusion on our basic sense of freedom. Although the Apollo missions were exciting to dream about, we were more interested in looking like Paul McCartney than John Glenn. Let’s face it; the Beatles had more groupies than the astronauts and boy could they scream.

My younger brother disappointed me whenever the subject of haircuts came up. I counted on Steve to get the dialogue started on controversial matters. He had a knack for inciting conflict and usually ended up butting heads with my father. He would often get my dad so angry that yelling would follow and, in the end, a harsh punishment was his reward. During the aftermath, I could usually step in as a concerned diplomat and, while my father was feeling guilty for meting out a stiff sentence, I would secure at least a partial concession on his part. Steve didn’t know that I used him this way, but it was a system I manipulated for years. Anyone who doesn’t understand this is probably an only child.

Haircuts were different though. For some reason Steve didn’t mind getting the old buzz cut. Here was a boy who wore cowboy boots with dark socks and shorts so you might assume he had a better sense of style. But no, this was one of the few ways Steve actually ingratiated himself to my father.

Without an opportunity to take unfair advantage of my father’s guilty feelings, there was nothing I could do. My brothers and I were young and we had no rights so we suffered the indignity of short hair until we got older and my father mellowed. He continued to wear his crew cut well into the 1970’s, but gradually my brothers and I were allowed to grow our hair longer.

I guess it’s mildly ironic that now I wear my hair short. It’s not a crew cut and it’s probably longer than my father ever wore his hair, but it’s pretty conservative. I’m also happy to report that the passage of time along with intense psychotherapy have helped to diminish my fear of barber poles.

Styles change and so do values. Haircuts seem to run the gamut for teenagers these days. I think this subject is less often a battleground for freedom of expression like it was when I was a kid. Today parents are faced with bigger concerns like tattoos, body piercing and co-ed sleepovers. All things considered, can you blame me for keeping my kids locked in the basement?

© 2005 David Theall

You, you light up my shrubs...

2005-10-03T22:44:00.000-04:00

Why do people feel the need to put their landscaping on display at night? I suppose the simple answer is aesthetics. It looks good.

If I were a part of the upper class, I might understand this phenomenon, but at my current station in life, I can only provide a very long list of expenditures that would have to come way ahead of ambient landscape lighting. Even the cost of the electricity to power such displays is beyond my reckoning.

If you take a minute to stare at one of these yards one night, eventually the visual effect comes into question. I mean, what is the point of shining 200 watts of glare at the underside of a Dogwood? Are we to assume that the shrubs and trees are on stage in some sort of floral burlesque? It's all sort of obscene, threatening healthy botanical sensitivities.

I'm worried that we need to investigate this issue a little further. Rich folks are different from you and I. Perhaps these yards are actually set up with landing lights for mutated flying squirrels training to take over the world. Remember the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz? I'm pretty sure the Wicked Witch was well-to-do, living in a castle and all.

My saner acquaintances will likely point out that I am motivated here by the classic sour grapes syndrome. That is entirely possible. The truth is, even if I had the lighting, I'm not sure my shrubbery measures up.

I am a lineman for the....

2005-10-03T12:24:00.000-04:00

As a spectator at my daughter's soccer game I was pressed into duty as a lineman this weekend. Unlike the hero in Glenn Campbell's song, there is nothing poetic about running up and down the sideline of a soccer game and calling out which team gets the ball when it goes out of bounds.

I had no uniform and therefore no respect. Parents on both teams were oblivious to the fact that I needed a little space to do my job. I was constantly tripping over coolers, lawn chairs and toddlers.

Quite a few parents were unaware that I was appointed substitute line judge and simply mistook me for a rabid fan with too much energy. Some folks offered me a chair while others commented that I more closely resembled a door than a window.

All in all I did a lousy job. I frequently found myself 20 or more yards from a call I was supposed to make because I had momentarily lapsed into spectator mode abandoning my official duties.

It is also difficult to remain objective when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that your child's team deserves to win more than any other team in the universe. Add to that the fact that sometimes two opposing players will kick a ball at the exact same time and it flies out of bounds. How do you make that call?

In the end I made no friends on either side of the ball. I do feel confident that my efforts on the sideline generated several angry letters to the GYSA (Greensboro Youth Soccer Association) demanding a full compliment of legitimate officials at all games.

Philosophical conundrum

2005-10-03T12:07:00.000-04:00

Is it wrong to yell "MOVIE" in a crowded firehouse?

time for another nice picture

2005-10-02T23:40:00.000-04:00

lunch conversation

2005-09-30T13:35:00.000-04:00

Do people who eat Veggie Burgers have to worry about contracting Mad Bean Disease?

Fluoride Reprieve

2005-09-30T09:38:00.000-04:00

The City of Greensboro has run out of fluoride and the uninformed in the community are worried about dental health. Those of us in the know couldn't be happier.

When the government started adding fluoride to our drinking water, a respected scientist (I can't remember his name) discovered that this substance was actually developed by the KGB for use in mind control experiments. Fluoride, when administered over a long period of time, makes our brains more susceptible to brainwashing. This allows the government to broadcast their messages of obedience while sapping us of our free will.

Today, for the first time in many years, I was able to remove my foil helmet without hearing the voices. All of a sudden I can't understand why we didn't elect Ross Perot as President? And what the hell are we doing in Iraq? And forget about Global Warming, doesn't anybody realize that the govenment is actually selling huge chunks of our polar ice cap to aliens from an overheated planet?

Let's get moving, people, before they discover a replacement for fluoride. And whatever you do, don't brush your teeth!

Bumper Sticker Counterpoint

2005-09-28T08:32:00.000-04:00

A bumper sticker I spotted on the way to work said, "I'd Rather Be Skydiving." Now, I don't want to start something here, but let's face it: skydiving is for pansies.

You want thrills? You want that unbeatable rush of adrenaline? Climb up on my roof this weekend and clean out my gutters. That's right. No parachute, no safety harness, just man against gravity. One false step and you're face down in a holly bush.

I tell you what, if it wasn't such a messy business, I'd charge admission.

Good Advice

2005-09-27T17:27:00.000-04:00

Blogging For Dummies - Chapter 3: Offer Your Readers An Occassional Break From The Tedium Of Your Mindless Drivel!

Incident at Brown Bark

2005-09-27T14:05:00.000-04:00

Just a few months ago, there was a change in the landscape here in sleepy little Brown Bark Park. For those unfamiliar with this part of Greensboro, Brown Bark is a large open field bordered by four neighborhood streets with a creek running down the middle. It is nearly a mile around and offers some of the best winter sledding in town.

I always think it's best to leave well enough alone, but construction crews set up shop and proceeded to pound, scrape and dig with every piece of heavy equipment in their arsenal. Nearly everything heavier than 5 tons and painted yellow came traipsing across our quiet little field to attack the creek. Their ultimate goal, I found out, was to fashion a new, more natural sort of waterway.

I was told by an officious acquaintance that the whole boondoggle was actually a wetland mitigation and restoration project. Sounds expensive, doesn't it? I learned that the project was designed to improve our water supply. As a good citizen, how can you argue with that?

The path of this creek, as natural as it appeared to my uneducated eye, was formed by the results of careless construction practices in past decades. Streams were molested and bullied by coldhearted developers until they no longer travelled a natural course. This creek was meant to meander through the landscape, twisting and turning and filtering our water along the way. Ideally, the sand, rocks and plants all do the job of removing harmful debris and chemicals from the water.

That all sounds great, but in the final analysis, I think it’s nothing more than one of those deals where the federal government won’t give the states any money to combat same-sex marriages unless they fix their streams. So the states strong-arm the municipalities and we get what everyone in the world is hoping for; restored and mitigated creeks.

When four months of dust finally settled there was an amiable little creek with some added boulders, twists and turns; it was really quite nice. Once the equipment cleared out, some type of mesh and seed material was laid out all along the banks of the creek. After a few weeks we had a tall stand of wildflowers and grass, all part of the restoration project and that all-important filtration process.

And so the story of tax money spent on a questionable venture has a happy ending. The creek looks a little nicer and now we have some pretty yellow flowers. But this isn’t Hollywood or even one of those popular “reality” series; Municipal Park Make-over with your host, Ty Pennington. No, things don’t always work out so well here in the real world.

Doing my best to stave off inevitable obesity, I sometimes walk my dog along the well-lit sidewalks surrounding the park. This puts me in close proximity to the results of the stream restoration. You see, in some places, the tall yellow flowers and grass grow just a few feet from the edge of the sidewalk. Maybe, as my therapist likes to point out, I’m a little paranoid, but sometimes I picture wild animals laying in wait for a night when I might be a little overtired and unable to fend off a sneak attack.

One evening, I’m walking my dog along a particular stretch near the overgrown flora and I notice two young possums emerge from the jungle and then cross the road. My dog came upon them suddenly and they scurried under a small bush next to someone’s mailbox. Well, I have to say, possums are hateful and fearsome creatures with very sharp teeth, but, just like nearly every other animal on God’s green Earth, they still manage to have cute young’uns.

I was lost in this thought when I suddenly found myself face down on the sidewalk. Now, I’m not graceful by any measure, but neither am I notoriously clumsy. It seems I tripped over what turned out to be the mother possum running out from the cover of the grass. She was, understandably, concerned about her offspring wandering away and was chasing behind, as mothers will do.

Of course, I didn’t figure all this out right away. I was dazed and concerned about the gathering pool of blood on the sidewalk. No, it took me a minute to piece this one together. Shortly after coming to the conclusion that sidewalks are not very forgiving, I noticed that my dog was in an agitated state. So, too, was a rather upset mother possum.

As I was lying on the ground inches from the ensuing melee and considering my strategic vantage point, I had one of those rare moments of clarity. Staring at the overgrown vegetation, I thought, “wouldn’t it have been cheaper to just add another filtration device to the water treatment plant?”

It’s been a few days since my ordeal and I’m getting used to the idea of a restored and mitigated stream in Brown Bark Park. The doctor says he may have to take my leg, but I only have four more rounds of rabies shots. Quite a few folks have visited me here in the hospital; everyone offering their condolences on my circumstances and, of course, the dog. Some of my more considerate friends bring in tall yellow flowers to brighten my mood.

David Theall is now limited to cruising the sidewalks of Brown Bark Park in his Rascal motorized mobility chair.

© 2005 David Theall

Just a nice picture

2005-09-27T13:27:00.000-04:00

a whole lot of shakin'

2005-09-26T17:11:00.000-04:00

Ladies with tremors shouldn't wear dangly earings.