Urology 101
It is often said that the worst pain a human can feel is the physical anguish experienced during childbirth. Ask you're Mom and she will gladly describe (in graphic detail) the day you arrived into this world. If you have not heard this tale as of yet, prepare yourself to be horrified, remorseful and guilt-ridden.
Men ("thankfully", he sighed) will never no such torture, however, many citizens of the Roanoke area have been battling a confounding menace which hits a gentleman right where he lives. Friends, I am talking about those tiny, yet terrible boulders of the bladder, kidney stones.
Unlike childbirth, one does not acquire a small living being when birthing a kidney stone. There is no bonding, no third grade photographs and no Little League with kidney stones, just a collection of sand-like particles awash in your commode. You can name your pebbles (in fact my first five were named Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill and Ron in honor of a more famous group of stones which preceded them), yet they will never answer to that name. Too frail for proper jewelry, these joyless rocks cause nothing but pain and discomfort.
My first bout with this cursed affliction came in the mid-nineties at four in the morning. Awoken by enormous pain, I first feared that I was having a heart-attack. It was only after my cool under pressure spouse pointed out that my heart was not located in my middle-back, that I realized it was something else. Ignoring my pleas to call 9-1-1, my rabbi and the Marines, Janet calmly loaded me into the car and drove me to the ER, where my first creation "Mick" was passed with the help of intravenous fluids and a soon to be trusty friend named morphine.
Since my initial trip, I have visited the ER over twenty-five times, leaving a trail of assorted sized stones in my wake. Greeted like an old friend and valued customer, I am cheerfully welcomed by the ER staff, waved onto a gurney in record time, sedated and left to sleep.
Frequently my buzz-saw like snoring becomes excruciating for the mystery patients who lay moaning on the other side of the stall curtain. In fact, I often awaken in a completely other room, moved by a well meaning orderly seeking some peace. Once I woke up in a janitor's closet amidst the mops and floor cleaners, feeling way too good to care. My wife and son can always find me at pick-up time by following the sound.
In 2006 I encountered a strikingly lovely nurse when suffering another kidney blockage. This petite woman was young enough to be my daughter and was fresh out of nursing school. At first my male ego took precedence over the pain. Toughing it out for the first fifteen minutes I hoped that this vision of loveliness would fail to glimpse the pathetic wimp inside of me, however, in the twenty-first minute without drugs I transformed into a whining, moaning tot ready to sacrifice my nurse friend to the pharmaceutical gods in return for a fix.
While under the influence of powerful narcotics, a typical kidney stone sufferer is asked to urinate in a small funnel-like container with a screen to filter the stones. It's kind of like panning for gold, but with pee. Once the "unwanted guest" is snared in the screen, the specimen is shipped to a lab for further evaluation. Many urologists will require a kidney stone patient to collect a forty-eight hour urine sampling after passing a stone. If you are instructed to perform this task, make no travel plans for the weekend, as few people are known to welcome visitors toting a two-gallon jar of bodily fluids with them. Movie theatres and restaurants seem particularly opposed to such luggage, although carrying the container does afford one with a certain amount of privacy.
Like the old woman who lived in a shoe, I keep producing and reproducing stones on a yearly basis. I drive myself to the hospital now, allowing my family to sleep when I begin that 4am kidney run to the ER. One day soon I will start running out of names for my offspring. Names from the Flintstones, Rocky (1-5), Fraggle Rock, and the Steve McQueen classic “The Sand Peebles” are taken, as well as Sidney the Kidney and Sly and the Family Stones. Please send any suggestions for names of future stones to the email address at the bottom of this column. I will consider any and all monikers once I awaken from my morphine induced stupor.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Seeing Double
Twins run in my family. My father was a twin, I have twin cousins back in New York who own a bagel shop, and, most recently, I have been accused of having a twin brother.
Allow me to explain. Recently I attended a Captain's Choice charity golf tournament at a local course. Joining a foursome of co-workers for a morning of networking, golf and selected beverages, my normally anxious demeanor was soothed by the sight of lush green fairways and pine trees swayed by a light summer breeze. No work, no phone, and no sign of rain in sight, what could be better?
Our team stumbled through the first few holes (my ball made more right turns than Rush Limbaugh cruising the Daytona Speedway in reverse), yet we managed to remain slightly under par. As is the custom for events of this kind, participating business sponsors were positioned at each hole, greeting each group of linksters with an assortment of marketing paraphernalia and trinkets. Play is usually slow during these affairs, therefore allowing the players the time to chat with their tee-box host. Our team took full advantage of our new friend's hospitality and ravaged each booth for tsotchkies like a horde of crazed gypsies. By the time we completed the final hole, our golf bags were full of junk and our score fell somewhere between first and last place.
Tired, yet relaxed I headed for my car smiling at the prospect of driving a vehicle with air conditioning. On my way to the parking lot I was stopped by my friend Ron who asked me if I would like to play with his group in the afternoon flight. Ron wasn't looking for a ringer to tip the tourney scales in his favor and hadn't found one in me. My golf game is less stable than a South American government. I once shot seventy-seven and ninety-nine on the same course during the same week. Ron was looking for a warm body.
Quickly, I returned to my trunk, grabbed a spare shirt, changed, and off I went for another eighteen holes.
Waiting at the first tee-box were the same eager business-types that I had visited and chatted with during the morning round. I was pocketing another souvenir from my booth visit when I was approached by the tent attendant who asked if I had played earlier that morning. Before I could answer Ron stepped in and said "That must have been his twin brother Dave, their identical you know."
Temporarily stunned, the woman smiled and told me how much I looked like my brother. Sensing an opportunity to have some fun, I asked her if Dave had been friendly to her and if she had smelled alcohol on his breath. She assured me that Dave was quite pleasant and did not appear to have been drinking, although he did cuss a little when his tee shot vanished into the woods.
The rest of the afternoon I posed as Dave's twin brother. One person noted that I was thinner than Dave (must have been the heat); another thought Dave was slightly taller. Nearly everyone agreed that I was the better golfer of the two (I played eighteen holes as a warm up) and had less of a temper (too tired to care).
During a particularly long wait between holes Ron loudly announced that my family history was particularly fascinating and that Dave and I had been separated at birth, the result of a hospital mix-up. Staring holes through my grinning partner, I launched into a dizzying off-the-cuff tale of mistaken identity which landed Dave in an Amish farming community for most of his youth. My twin had taught himself to play golf with a shorted corn stalk and a ball of yarn back in his family barn in Pennsylvania. Dave would later shun the ways of his adoptive parents and travel to New York, where we would miraculously meet face-to-face when paired as two single golfers by a nearsighted starter at Bethpage Golf Course, home of the 2009 U.S. Open. I could have killed Ron.
By the end of the round I was getting sick of Dave, a twin who did not even exist. As I walked to my car for the second time, a person from one of the business booths waved and wished me a good night. "Thank you!" I said, lowering my clubs into the trunk. "Your welcome" she replied "I'm sorry, which one are you, Jon or Dave?" I wanted to answer "I'm the other brother Larry", but frankly, I didn't have the strength.
Twins run in my family. My father was a twin, I have twin cousins back in New York who own a bagel shop, and, most recently, I have been accused of having a twin brother.
Allow me to explain. Recently I attended a Captain's Choice charity golf tournament at a local course. Joining a foursome of co-workers for a morning of networking, golf and selected beverages, my normally anxious demeanor was soothed by the sight of lush green fairways and pine trees swayed by a light summer breeze. No work, no phone, and no sign of rain in sight, what could be better?
Our team stumbled through the first few holes (my ball made more right turns than Rush Limbaugh cruising the Daytona Speedway in reverse), yet we managed to remain slightly under par. As is the custom for events of this kind, participating business sponsors were positioned at each hole, greeting each group of linksters with an assortment of marketing paraphernalia and trinkets. Play is usually slow during these affairs, therefore allowing the players the time to chat with their tee-box host. Our team took full advantage of our new friend's hospitality and ravaged each booth for tsotchkies like a horde of crazed gypsies. By the time we completed the final hole, our golf bags were full of junk and our score fell somewhere between first and last place.
Tired, yet relaxed I headed for my car smiling at the prospect of driving a vehicle with air conditioning. On my way to the parking lot I was stopped by my friend Ron who asked me if I would like to play with his group in the afternoon flight. Ron wasn't looking for a ringer to tip the tourney scales in his favor and hadn't found one in me. My golf game is less stable than a South American government. I once shot seventy-seven and ninety-nine on the same course during the same week. Ron was looking for a warm body.
Quickly, I returned to my trunk, grabbed a spare shirt, changed, and off I went for another eighteen holes.
Waiting at the first tee-box were the same eager business-types that I had visited and chatted with during the morning round. I was pocketing another souvenir from my booth visit when I was approached by the tent attendant who asked if I had played earlier that morning. Before I could answer Ron stepped in and said "That must have been his twin brother Dave, their identical you know."
Temporarily stunned, the woman smiled and told me how much I looked like my brother. Sensing an opportunity to have some fun, I asked her if Dave had been friendly to her and if she had smelled alcohol on his breath. She assured me that Dave was quite pleasant and did not appear to have been drinking, although he did cuss a little when his tee shot vanished into the woods.
The rest of the afternoon I posed as Dave's twin brother. One person noted that I was thinner than Dave (must have been the heat); another thought Dave was slightly taller. Nearly everyone agreed that I was the better golfer of the two (I played eighteen holes as a warm up) and had less of a temper (too tired to care).
During a particularly long wait between holes Ron loudly announced that my family history was particularly fascinating and that Dave and I had been separated at birth, the result of a hospital mix-up. Staring holes through my grinning partner, I launched into a dizzying off-the-cuff tale of mistaken identity which landed Dave in an Amish farming community for most of his youth. My twin had taught himself to play golf with a shorted corn stalk and a ball of yarn back in his family barn in Pennsylvania. Dave would later shun the ways of his adoptive parents and travel to New York, where we would miraculously meet face-to-face when paired as two single golfers by a nearsighted starter at Bethpage Golf Course, home of the 2009 U.S. Open. I could have killed Ron.
By the end of the round I was getting sick of Dave, a twin who did not even exist. As I walked to my car for the second time, a person from one of the business booths waved and wished me a good night. "Thank you!" I said, lowering my clubs into the trunk. "Your welcome" she replied "I'm sorry, which one are you, Jon or Dave?" I wanted to answer "I'm the other brother Larry", but frankly, I didn't have the strength.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Ineptitude Prevails
Somewhere, in a forest near you, the MonsterQuest team is searching the underbrush for something abnormal, something monstrous. Unfortunately, the likelihood of these folks finding anything interesting is slim to none.
In 2007 the History Channel launched Monsterquest, a favorite program of mine which broadcasts weekly safaris into the unknown. Whether it's Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster or the Louisiana Swamp Beast, MonsterQuest "scientists" span the globe searching for mysterious creatures. To date none of these elusive brutes have been captured or even seen by the camera wielding monster unit, yet, in my heart there is always hope for a shocking zoological discovery.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, a typical episode consists of….
A grainy photograph and or video tape of the alleged beast, many of which resemble a filmed costumed high school mascot taking a leak at halftime.
Eyewitness accounts of human encounters detailed by the actual folks who ran afoul of the critter. As you watch the interview it becomes clear why the creature ran back into the woods rather than chat with Bubba from Alabama.
A team of researchers hiding cameras in the woods hoping to capture the animal on film. Often the cameras yield some nice shots of bunnies and deer, but little more.
An unwavering scientific conclusion stating that upon compiling the information gathered during the show, MonsterQuest is confident in saying that they have no earthly idea what that was skulking around that old lady's porch in Fresno last fall.
Frankly I was ready to give up on this program when I caught a promo during the History Channel's cavalcade of serial killers hour which briefly renewed my hope.
Billed as "Super Rats" the MonsterQuest crew would be venturing into the wilds of Manhattan in search of giant rats. Surely even these boneheads could handle this gig? Finding a giant rat in New York should be like finding degenerate gamblers in Las Vegas, right?
My son (born and raised in Roanoke, had never seen a rat the size of a toaster oven before) sat with me as the episode hit the air. The program began with a rat "expert" claiming that the biggest rat ever captured was a mere twelve inches long and that there was no such creature as a "Super Rat."Remembering my childhood I could not believe my ears! No huge rats in New York! My near-sighted grandmother once stopped to pet a jumbo street rat mistaking the behemoth for a cat. Horrified onlookers shrieked and startled the freakish rodent which retreated into a pot hole the size of a greenside golf bunker in great haste.
Perhaps a union delegate from the NYC Rats and Rodents local 415 visited this expert before the taping, standing just off camera during the interview while holding a gun on the rat connoisseurs' next of kin.
Next a crack band of rodent lovers outfitted a normal sized rat with a tiny harness and camera, hoping that their furry partner could provide them with candid shots of a Super Rat in his underground habitat. To the surprise of no one, the rat was able to wriggle off the camera in a matter of seconds and disappeared into the ground. The previous week the same geniuses mounted a camera on a wild boar that ran off with the camera and can now be seen hosting its own public access program airing on Cox 9 opposite MonsterQuest.
The next stop for the intrepid adventures was a basement in the Bronx where a building superintendent had perfected the art of rendering large rodents unconscious with the blade of a hockey stick. This stick-handling terror had racked confirmed kills in four of the five boroughs and was determined to bag a big one for the folks out there in TV land. Sadly, the goal remained empty, not even the Gretsky of exterminators would light the lamp that evening.
MonsterQuest then sojourned into the bowels of the city's subway system and met two hobos who claimed to have seen rats the size of dogs trotting around their underground lair. The ambitious team quickly organized an undercover stake out hoping to sneak-up on the Super Rats with their twelve person camera crew sporting two hundred pounds of
high-wattage lighting, however, curiously, the Super Rats failed to appear.
Much to my dismay, the MonsterQuesters found no giant rats in New York. This week they are in Venezuela hunting giant snakes. You have to admire their pluck. I might have gone for a lighter assignment, like finding a marked-down tray of begonias at Walmart, but that's just me.
Somewhere, in a forest near you, the MonsterQuest team is searching the underbrush for something abnormal, something monstrous. Unfortunately, the likelihood of these folks finding anything interesting is slim to none.
In 2007 the History Channel launched Monsterquest, a favorite program of mine which broadcasts weekly safaris into the unknown. Whether it's Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster or the Louisiana Swamp Beast, MonsterQuest "scientists" span the globe searching for mysterious creatures. To date none of these elusive brutes have been captured or even seen by the camera wielding monster unit, yet, in my heart there is always hope for a shocking zoological discovery.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, a typical episode consists of….
A grainy photograph and or video tape of the alleged beast, many of which resemble a filmed costumed high school mascot taking a leak at halftime.
Eyewitness accounts of human encounters detailed by the actual folks who ran afoul of the critter. As you watch the interview it becomes clear why the creature ran back into the woods rather than chat with Bubba from Alabama.
A team of researchers hiding cameras in the woods hoping to capture the animal on film. Often the cameras yield some nice shots of bunnies and deer, but little more.
An unwavering scientific conclusion stating that upon compiling the information gathered during the show, MonsterQuest is confident in saying that they have no earthly idea what that was skulking around that old lady's porch in Fresno last fall.
Frankly I was ready to give up on this program when I caught a promo during the History Channel's cavalcade of serial killers hour which briefly renewed my hope.
Billed as "Super Rats" the MonsterQuest crew would be venturing into the wilds of Manhattan in search of giant rats. Surely even these boneheads could handle this gig? Finding a giant rat in New York should be like finding degenerate gamblers in Las Vegas, right?
My son (born and raised in Roanoke, had never seen a rat the size of a toaster oven before) sat with me as the episode hit the air. The program began with a rat "expert" claiming that the biggest rat ever captured was a mere twelve inches long and that there was no such creature as a "Super Rat."Remembering my childhood I could not believe my ears! No huge rats in New York! My near-sighted grandmother once stopped to pet a jumbo street rat mistaking the behemoth for a cat. Horrified onlookers shrieked and startled the freakish rodent which retreated into a pot hole the size of a greenside golf bunker in great haste.
Perhaps a union delegate from the NYC Rats and Rodents local 415 visited this expert before the taping, standing just off camera during the interview while holding a gun on the rat connoisseurs' next of kin.
Next a crack band of rodent lovers outfitted a normal sized rat with a tiny harness and camera, hoping that their furry partner could provide them with candid shots of a Super Rat in his underground habitat. To the surprise of no one, the rat was able to wriggle off the camera in a matter of seconds and disappeared into the ground. The previous week the same geniuses mounted a camera on a wild boar that ran off with the camera and can now be seen hosting its own public access program airing on Cox 9 opposite MonsterQuest.
The next stop for the intrepid adventures was a basement in the Bronx where a building superintendent had perfected the art of rendering large rodents unconscious with the blade of a hockey stick. This stick-handling terror had racked confirmed kills in four of the five boroughs and was determined to bag a big one for the folks out there in TV land. Sadly, the goal remained empty, not even the Gretsky of exterminators would light the lamp that evening.
MonsterQuest then sojourned into the bowels of the city's subway system and met two hobos who claimed to have seen rats the size of dogs trotting around their underground lair. The ambitious team quickly organized an undercover stake out hoping to sneak-up on the Super Rats with their twelve person camera crew sporting two hundred pounds of
high-wattage lighting, however, curiously, the Super Rats failed to appear.
Much to my dismay, the MonsterQuesters found no giant rats in New York. This week they are in Venezuela hunting giant snakes. You have to admire their pluck. I might have gone for a lighter assignment, like finding a marked-down tray of begonias at Walmart, but that's just me.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The Sky is Ablaze
Each year (around this time) a friend of mine begins a week long metamorphosis. This pal, who I will call "Harry" for the purpose of self-protection, appears to be a rather quiet middle-class fellow. You might have a neighbor like Harry, someone who blends into society well under the radar, a drab, hardly noticeable chap with no discernable quirks or flaws. You know the type; if Harry were a paint color he would be light beige, Autumn Summer Mist for those who frequent aisle twelve at Lowe's.
What would possess a man like this to become a stark-raving maniac driven by an uncontrollable impulse to destroy, desecrate, and demolish? Turn your calendars to Friday and you will have your answer. Harry is a fireworks super-freak who lives for that one day per year when he can break out of his tedious routine while breaking a little law or two in the bargain.
Harry has loved the Fourth of July since childhood. From the first time he saw a five burst mortar shell nearly destroy his parents garage, Harry was a goner. A native of Long Island, New York, Harry (much to his dismay) lives miles from the nearest legal fireworks depot. In fact, every year "The Mad Bomber" travels through our cozy little town on his way to Tennessee, a safe haven for those with a hint of gun powder in their veins.
Last year, strictly out of curiosity, I accompanied my buddy on his quest for the perfect payload. With an empty truck and a three hundred dollar spending limit (Harry's wife reserves the right to check any and all receipts), we cruised towards the Great Smokie Mountains on I-81. Harry had made many trips to this area before and had mapped out his route precisely.
In all we covered a little over five hundred miles during our journey. My favorite stop was an old converted gas station just outside of Knoxville. The proprietor was a world-weary woman named "Granny" who was missing her right arm. Noticing her handicap I nearly bolted, concerned for my safety. What chance did I have if the owner couldn't stay out of harms way? Sensing my paranoia, Granny assured me that it was safe to enter the store, waving me up the stairs and into the building.
I could immediately see why Harry had scheduled this location for our tour. Granny had everything! She even had DVD footage of every air-born missile for sale, clearly displaying its unique explosion of colors in the night sky. As Harry scurried around the establishment with a shopping cart, Granny and I watched the best indoor, almost live fireworks show I had ever seen. I found out that she had not lost her arm in an explosion, as I previously surmised, but to a piece of farm machinery at the age of three. Her family had been selling fireworks for decades, helping the brood through leaner times.
Harry had filled his cart in less than fifteen minutes and it was time for us to check-out and head down the road. Just before we reached the door I was startled by a loud POP! My back tightened and I gasped for air. Standing with a party popper wedged under her arm was Granny, doubled over with laughter. "Sorry son, I couldn't resist," she chuckled slamming her hand on the store counter. Harry found this hysterical, I, on the other hand, was shaken but pleased that I had not soiled myself.
No doubt Harry's backyard must have sounded like downtown Baghdad later that week, his plunder assaulting the heavens and filling his neighbor's yards with smoke. I confess I too had a hunger for pyrotechnics after visiting Granny's place and squirreled away some projectiles of my own to take back to Roanoke.
If you are a law enforcement official and are reading this story, please be kind. A stranger named Harry and an old one-armed lady made me buy those mortar rounds, honest!
Each year (around this time) a friend of mine begins a week long metamorphosis. This pal, who I will call "Harry" for the purpose of self-protection, appears to be a rather quiet middle-class fellow. You might have a neighbor like Harry, someone who blends into society well under the radar, a drab, hardly noticeable chap with no discernable quirks or flaws. You know the type; if Harry were a paint color he would be light beige, Autumn Summer Mist for those who frequent aisle twelve at Lowe's.
What would possess a man like this to become a stark-raving maniac driven by an uncontrollable impulse to destroy, desecrate, and demolish? Turn your calendars to Friday and you will have your answer. Harry is a fireworks super-freak who lives for that one day per year when he can break out of his tedious routine while breaking a little law or two in the bargain.
Harry has loved the Fourth of July since childhood. From the first time he saw a five burst mortar shell nearly destroy his parents garage, Harry was a goner. A native of Long Island, New York, Harry (much to his dismay) lives miles from the nearest legal fireworks depot. In fact, every year "The Mad Bomber" travels through our cozy little town on his way to Tennessee, a safe haven for those with a hint of gun powder in their veins.
Last year, strictly out of curiosity, I accompanied my buddy on his quest for the perfect payload. With an empty truck and a three hundred dollar spending limit (Harry's wife reserves the right to check any and all receipts), we cruised towards the Great Smokie Mountains on I-81. Harry had made many trips to this area before and had mapped out his route precisely.
In all we covered a little over five hundred miles during our journey. My favorite stop was an old converted gas station just outside of Knoxville. The proprietor was a world-weary woman named "Granny" who was missing her right arm. Noticing her handicap I nearly bolted, concerned for my safety. What chance did I have if the owner couldn't stay out of harms way? Sensing my paranoia, Granny assured me that it was safe to enter the store, waving me up the stairs and into the building.
I could immediately see why Harry had scheduled this location for our tour. Granny had everything! She even had DVD footage of every air-born missile for sale, clearly displaying its unique explosion of colors in the night sky. As Harry scurried around the establishment with a shopping cart, Granny and I watched the best indoor, almost live fireworks show I had ever seen. I found out that she had not lost her arm in an explosion, as I previously surmised, but to a piece of farm machinery at the age of three. Her family had been selling fireworks for decades, helping the brood through leaner times.
Harry had filled his cart in less than fifteen minutes and it was time for us to check-out and head down the road. Just before we reached the door I was startled by a loud POP! My back tightened and I gasped for air. Standing with a party popper wedged under her arm was Granny, doubled over with laughter. "Sorry son, I couldn't resist," she chuckled slamming her hand on the store counter. Harry found this hysterical, I, on the other hand, was shaken but pleased that I had not soiled myself.
No doubt Harry's backyard must have sounded like downtown Baghdad later that week, his plunder assaulting the heavens and filling his neighbor's yards with smoke. I confess I too had a hunger for pyrotechnics after visiting Granny's place and squirreled away some projectiles of my own to take back to Roanoke.
If you are a law enforcement official and are reading this story, please be kind. A stranger named Harry and an old one-armed lady made me buy those mortar rounds, honest!
Friday, June 27, 2008
Accidental Coach
Are you a referee, line judge or umpire? Have you seen the man whose photo accompanies this byline? If so, I probably owe you an apology.
After thirty-five years of torturing officials I am considering retirement from coaching youth sports. Umpires and referees from here to the shores of Long Island will mark their calendars and dance in the streets when informed of this historic surrender. Who can blame them?
Terrorizing game officials since the age of sixteen, coaching was never on my radar screen early on, in fact, as a child I was a coach's nightmare. On every team there is a kid who thinks he or she knows more than the adult who is running the show, a pint-sized fledgling manager who believes that the formula for a winning season resides alone, under his or her 6 ¼ sized baseball cap. A young beardless Jon was that kid.
In my first four years of youth baseball I played for four different coaches. Labeled a "distraction" one coach cleverly announced that I was not to ask him any questions during the game, answering any attempted query with the phrase "Jon, that sounds like a question." Other coach's would either ignore my managerial tips or simply sprint in a different direction if I drew too near. My wonderfully patient Dad would tell me "When you get to be the coach, you can make the decisions", hoping to soften my image and detour my path as a journeyman Little Leaguer. By age fifteen I was out of the local youth baseball system and had moved on to irritating my high school coach.
Following my sophomore year, I was approached by a neighbor who had been coerced into coaching his son's fifteen year old Babe Ruth League team for the summer. He needed a first base coach and someone to pitch batting practice and was unable to pressure any of the team parents into lending a hand. My neighbor even offered to pay me ten dollars per game for my services. Bored, broke and dateless, I agreed to come aboard for a negotiated rate of twelve-fifty per game if we lost and fifteen bucks if we won. The big leaguers were starting to pull in some nice cash during the seventies due to the advent of free-agency, why not me?
The first two weeks went swimmingly. The team was winning and I had a little jingle in my pocket. On the way to a Saturday practice I drove by the coach's house to pick up my weekly stipend and noticed that my boss was loading furniture into a truck. Following a short investigation I discovered that my benevolent neighbor had been promoted to a new position within his company and would be moving to New Jersey in a matter of days. It became clear to me as we spoke that I would now become the head coach of this team and my income would now come in the form of voluntary community service and good will.
Perhaps it was a plot devised by coach's I had wronged in the past sensing a shot at retribution or merely the apathy of parents unwilling to enlist their spare time for the sake of the team, but I was anointed head coach in an eye flash. No background check like today, oh no, just a scorebook and keys to the field hastily dropped on my porch one summer evening.
Admittedly, the prospect of bossing around kids just one year younger than me was an appealing possibility, however, I was reticent, an "accidental coach" if you will. The following day I headed to the ball field and have been there ever since.
Over the next thirty-four years I've coached thirty-one baseball teams, twenty-seven basketball teams, a girls softball team and a faculty basketball team comprised of Rabbi's at a private school. (Note: the Ramblin' Rabbi's finished the season 4-12-1 with one tied Friday afternoon game which ran long and was suspended due to the Sabbath).
I've been thrown out of games by umpires, referees, and even a scorekeeper here in Roanoke. Some of my players are doctors, some have been to prison, and others are in their final resting place.
Pablo Picasso once said "The accidental reveals man," if that is indeed the case I've been fortunate to stumble onto something I love.
Are you a referee, line judge or umpire? Have you seen the man whose photo accompanies this byline? If so, I probably owe you an apology.
After thirty-five years of torturing officials I am considering retirement from coaching youth sports. Umpires and referees from here to the shores of Long Island will mark their calendars and dance in the streets when informed of this historic surrender. Who can blame them?
Terrorizing game officials since the age of sixteen, coaching was never on my radar screen early on, in fact, as a child I was a coach's nightmare. On every team there is a kid who thinks he or she knows more than the adult who is running the show, a pint-sized fledgling manager who believes that the formula for a winning season resides alone, under his or her 6 ¼ sized baseball cap. A young beardless Jon was that kid.
In my first four years of youth baseball I played for four different coaches. Labeled a "distraction" one coach cleverly announced that I was not to ask him any questions during the game, answering any attempted query with the phrase "Jon, that sounds like a question." Other coach's would either ignore my managerial tips or simply sprint in a different direction if I drew too near. My wonderfully patient Dad would tell me "When you get to be the coach, you can make the decisions", hoping to soften my image and detour my path as a journeyman Little Leaguer. By age fifteen I was out of the local youth baseball system and had moved on to irritating my high school coach.
Following my sophomore year, I was approached by a neighbor who had been coerced into coaching his son's fifteen year old Babe Ruth League team for the summer. He needed a first base coach and someone to pitch batting practice and was unable to pressure any of the team parents into lending a hand. My neighbor even offered to pay me ten dollars per game for my services. Bored, broke and dateless, I agreed to come aboard for a negotiated rate of twelve-fifty per game if we lost and fifteen bucks if we won. The big leaguers were starting to pull in some nice cash during the seventies due to the advent of free-agency, why not me?
The first two weeks went swimmingly. The team was winning and I had a little jingle in my pocket. On the way to a Saturday practice I drove by the coach's house to pick up my weekly stipend and noticed that my boss was loading furniture into a truck. Following a short investigation I discovered that my benevolent neighbor had been promoted to a new position within his company and would be moving to New Jersey in a matter of days. It became clear to me as we spoke that I would now become the head coach of this team and my income would now come in the form of voluntary community service and good will.
Perhaps it was a plot devised by coach's I had wronged in the past sensing a shot at retribution or merely the apathy of parents unwilling to enlist their spare time for the sake of the team, but I was anointed head coach in an eye flash. No background check like today, oh no, just a scorebook and keys to the field hastily dropped on my porch one summer evening.
Admittedly, the prospect of bossing around kids just one year younger than me was an appealing possibility, however, I was reticent, an "accidental coach" if you will. The following day I headed to the ball field and have been there ever since.
Over the next thirty-four years I've coached thirty-one baseball teams, twenty-seven basketball teams, a girls softball team and a faculty basketball team comprised of Rabbi's at a private school. (Note: the Ramblin' Rabbi's finished the season 4-12-1 with one tied Friday afternoon game which ran long and was suspended due to the Sabbath).
I've been thrown out of games by umpires, referees, and even a scorekeeper here in Roanoke. Some of my players are doctors, some have been to prison, and others are in their final resting place.
Pablo Picasso once said "The accidental reveals man," if that is indeed the case I've been fortunate to stumble onto something I love.
Monday, June 09, 2008
This is a bitter-sweet time of the year for me. Spending Father's Day with my son Will and wife Janet is an annual treat which I cherish dearly. Sharing that same day with Hank, a father-in-law who treats me like a son and for whom I hold the utmost love and respect, propels that one Sunday in June to near perfect status. The missing ingredient is my Dad, who passed twenty-three years ago while napping.
(Note: Four generations of men in my family died in their sleep at age sixty-eight, including my father and grandfather, a harbinger that sort of stands-up and demands to be noticed. On December 12, 2026 when I turn sixty-eight, I have decided to forgo sleeping, napping and resting of any kind, determined to once and for all end this dynasty of death. You will find me in front of my TV at 2:30 am watching reruns of "Cheers" and guzzling a Red Bull or two, desperately trying to make it to dawn).
Charming, kind, and honest to a fault, my Pop was a simply lovely person. One of my favorite recollections of spending time with my Dad was the time the two of us decided to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. One of my Dad's boyhood friends owned a summer home in the small town of Walton, New York, just twenty or thirty miles from Cooperstown and had offered to board us for the weekend. It was an enormous old home that was rumored to have been a bordello of some note during the Civil War and would splendidly serve as headquarters for the adventure.
Every trip I accompanied my father on was an adventure, for, like me, Pops had no sense of direction. Dad could get lost in a one-way tunnel. Every time we went to Levittown, New York to visit Dad's friend Nat we ended up at the beach miles from out destination. I started packing a swim suit whenever Dad mentioned Nat's name. Come to think of it I am not sure if I ever really met Nat or visited his home.
Unlike his son who has managed to embrace his own ineptitude, Dad took great exception to those who referred to him as "directionally challenged." He would carefully plot his course with a collection of hand-made maps and written directions, shunning the help of his co-pilot. I had flown second seat enough times with my Dad to know that we would be hopelessly astray within minutes of leaving HQ.
Plowing aimlessly through the farmlands of rural New York, dad and I succeeded in turning an enchanting country ride into the Bataan Death March inside of ten minutes. We were so far off of the beaten path that our only hope would be to find a talking cow that was familiar with the area and was coincidently a baseball fan.
While Dad pulled over to check his maps I noticed a small house in the distance. We agreed to abandon our present strategy (pointless wandering) and headed for the farm house. When we arrived a thin old man appeared in the yard and made his way to our vehicle. Dad, rolled down his window and asked the gentleman "How do you get to Cooperstown?" Asked that same question in Brooklyn you might have gotten a wise guy retort like "Practice, Practice," however, this fellow had apparently not caught Henny Youngman's act over the past forty years. The farmer did provide us with detailed directions and punctuated his discourse by spraying my Dad's light green Ford Torino's door panel with tobacco juice.
Confident and well informed, we left our friend the farmer and within minutes we were lost again. Explaining driving directions to the Kaufman boys was like describing nuclear fission to a pair of flip-flops. Things had gotten ridiculous to the point of being funny. We were laughing and enjoying each other's company, barely concerned that the day was getting late.
We spoke about life and about dreams. Dad was a simple person of simply means. He always considered work as a "means to an end" and that he "started" living when he arrived home every night to his family. Often I have to remind myself how fortunate I am to have a family and how lucky I was to have Pop's around as long as I did.
We stumbled upon Cooperstown, purely by accident, sometime around 2pm. We toured the exhibits, walked the grounds and stayed until closing. It was a day that lives in my mind every time I watch the Hall of Fame inductions on television.
Pop and I ate dinner at a local café and loaded ourselves back into the tobacco stained Ford. Several minutes later we were back on the road without an inkling as to where we were or in which direction we were going. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
(Note: Four generations of men in my family died in their sleep at age sixty-eight, including my father and grandfather, a harbinger that sort of stands-up and demands to be noticed. On December 12, 2026 when I turn sixty-eight, I have decided to forgo sleeping, napping and resting of any kind, determined to once and for all end this dynasty of death. You will find me in front of my TV at 2:30 am watching reruns of "Cheers" and guzzling a Red Bull or two, desperately trying to make it to dawn).
Charming, kind, and honest to a fault, my Pop was a simply lovely person. One of my favorite recollections of spending time with my Dad was the time the two of us decided to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. One of my Dad's boyhood friends owned a summer home in the small town of Walton, New York, just twenty or thirty miles from Cooperstown and had offered to board us for the weekend. It was an enormous old home that was rumored to have been a bordello of some note during the Civil War and would splendidly serve as headquarters for the adventure.
Every trip I accompanied my father on was an adventure, for, like me, Pops had no sense of direction. Dad could get lost in a one-way tunnel. Every time we went to Levittown, New York to visit Dad's friend Nat we ended up at the beach miles from out destination. I started packing a swim suit whenever Dad mentioned Nat's name. Come to think of it I am not sure if I ever really met Nat or visited his home.
Unlike his son who has managed to embrace his own ineptitude, Dad took great exception to those who referred to him as "directionally challenged." He would carefully plot his course with a collection of hand-made maps and written directions, shunning the help of his co-pilot. I had flown second seat enough times with my Dad to know that we would be hopelessly astray within minutes of leaving HQ.
Plowing aimlessly through the farmlands of rural New York, dad and I succeeded in turning an enchanting country ride into the Bataan Death March inside of ten minutes. We were so far off of the beaten path that our only hope would be to find a talking cow that was familiar with the area and was coincidently a baseball fan.
While Dad pulled over to check his maps I noticed a small house in the distance. We agreed to abandon our present strategy (pointless wandering) and headed for the farm house. When we arrived a thin old man appeared in the yard and made his way to our vehicle. Dad, rolled down his window and asked the gentleman "How do you get to Cooperstown?" Asked that same question in Brooklyn you might have gotten a wise guy retort like "Practice, Practice," however, this fellow had apparently not caught Henny Youngman's act over the past forty years. The farmer did provide us with detailed directions and punctuated his discourse by spraying my Dad's light green Ford Torino's door panel with tobacco juice.
Confident and well informed, we left our friend the farmer and within minutes we were lost again. Explaining driving directions to the Kaufman boys was like describing nuclear fission to a pair of flip-flops. Things had gotten ridiculous to the point of being funny. We were laughing and enjoying each other's company, barely concerned that the day was getting late.
We spoke about life and about dreams. Dad was a simple person of simply means. He always considered work as a "means to an end" and that he "started" living when he arrived home every night to his family. Often I have to remind myself how fortunate I am to have a family and how lucky I was to have Pop's around as long as I did.
We stumbled upon Cooperstown, purely by accident, sometime around 2pm. We toured the exhibits, walked the grounds and stayed until closing. It was a day that lives in my mind every time I watch the Hall of Fame inductions on television.
Pop and I ate dinner at a local café and loaded ourselves back into the tobacco stained Ford. Several minutes later we were back on the road without an inkling as to where we were or in which direction we were going. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Party Time
There are few tasks which strike terror in the hearts of most parents like planning your child's birthday party. In simpler times the chore was without pretense; a bunch of balloons, a mixture neighborhood kids, candles, a cake, and a happy, exhausted post-party youngster passed out on the living room floor surrounded by half-opened gifts. The world has changed dramatically since that time.
My parents were fairly conservative party throwers, although my Dad did vary
from the model one year when he selected a bowling alley as the venue for my tenth birthday celebration. The premise was sound. My dad and my Uncle Calvin would set everyone up with shoes and balls, then sit back and watch my friends and I attempt to knock down pins. Apparently these two had forgotten the devastation fourteen ten year-olds could create. By the end of the hour my buddies and I had abandoned the balls and were sliding our bodies feet first into the pins. Ice cream and cake were loaded into the ball return which catapulted treats in all directions. It was utter mayhem. According to my Mom, the bash managed to shut down the alley for the rest of the evening and left my Dad shocked and mumbling for over a week.
My son Will turns sixteen this month and is thankfully too old for such a childish spectacle, although he has had his share of noteworthy galas. One year Will decided that it would be fun to set up tents in our backyard for an outdoor sleepover. This idea seemed harmless enough, however, like my Dad and uncle had learned, things are sometimes not how they appear.
A friend lent us a huge tent which could easily sleep our invited guests. Snacks were prepared and the weather was fair. As the partygoers arrived we began to notice some extra faces that were not on the invitation list. Later a group of neighborhood girls showed up and joined the boys in the tent. The guests were just old enough for my wife and I to intercede and thin out the pack. The crashers and the ladies were politely sent packing and we were down to our original group.
With the exception of a few loud voices, the rest of the night went pretty smoothly. Nestled comfortably in our bed, my wife and I were awakened at 6am by the sounds of children hollering in the street. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled down our stairs and was greeted by one of our noisy visitants. When I asked him what all of the commotion was about he explained that one of our guests was missing and they were trying to find him. MISSING? SURELY THIS BOY WASN'T MISSING! The backyard gates were locked the house doors were locked from the inside and the dogs hadn't stirred at all. Some of the kids and I frantically began searching the house and surrounding area. My wife calmly interviewed the rest of the crew for possible clues. Note: If you are a person who is less than tranquil during a crisis (like me) marry someone who possesses that quality.
The young fellow was nowhere to be found. I would need to call the police and worse, I would need to call his mother. Grabbing the phone from the upstairs bedroom I was able to dial 9-1…. when I heard my wife call my name. While grilling my son in his room, Janet noticed a foot poking out from under Will's bed. As she leaned down to investigate a small blond child poked his head out from under the bed and ended the mystery. The manhunt was over, our escapee had slipped into the house slept under the bed for most of the night.
Somewhere in the afterlife my Dad was watching and laughing, his shirt covered with ice cream and cake. Grandchildren are truly karma's favorite vehicle.
There are few tasks which strike terror in the hearts of most parents like planning your child's birthday party. In simpler times the chore was without pretense; a bunch of balloons, a mixture neighborhood kids, candles, a cake, and a happy, exhausted post-party youngster passed out on the living room floor surrounded by half-opened gifts. The world has changed dramatically since that time.
My parents were fairly conservative party throwers, although my Dad did vary
from the model one year when he selected a bowling alley as the venue for my tenth birthday celebration. The premise was sound. My dad and my Uncle Calvin would set everyone up with shoes and balls, then sit back and watch my friends and I attempt to knock down pins. Apparently these two had forgotten the devastation fourteen ten year-olds could create. By the end of the hour my buddies and I had abandoned the balls and were sliding our bodies feet first into the pins. Ice cream and cake were loaded into the ball return which catapulted treats in all directions. It was utter mayhem. According to my Mom, the bash managed to shut down the alley for the rest of the evening and left my Dad shocked and mumbling for over a week.
My son Will turns sixteen this month and is thankfully too old for such a childish spectacle, although he has had his share of noteworthy galas. One year Will decided that it would be fun to set up tents in our backyard for an outdoor sleepover. This idea seemed harmless enough, however, like my Dad and uncle had learned, things are sometimes not how they appear.
A friend lent us a huge tent which could easily sleep our invited guests. Snacks were prepared and the weather was fair. As the partygoers arrived we began to notice some extra faces that were not on the invitation list. Later a group of neighborhood girls showed up and joined the boys in the tent. The guests were just old enough for my wife and I to intercede and thin out the pack. The crashers and the ladies were politely sent packing and we were down to our original group.
With the exception of a few loud voices, the rest of the night went pretty smoothly. Nestled comfortably in our bed, my wife and I were awakened at 6am by the sounds of children hollering in the street. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled down our stairs and was greeted by one of our noisy visitants. When I asked him what all of the commotion was about he explained that one of our guests was missing and they were trying to find him. MISSING? SURELY THIS BOY WASN'T MISSING! The backyard gates were locked the house doors were locked from the inside and the dogs hadn't stirred at all. Some of the kids and I frantically began searching the house and surrounding area. My wife calmly interviewed the rest of the crew for possible clues. Note: If you are a person who is less than tranquil during a crisis (like me) marry someone who possesses that quality.
The young fellow was nowhere to be found. I would need to call the police and worse, I would need to call his mother. Grabbing the phone from the upstairs bedroom I was able to dial 9-1…. when I heard my wife call my name. While grilling my son in his room, Janet noticed a foot poking out from under Will's bed. As she leaned down to investigate a small blond child poked his head out from under the bed and ended the mystery. The manhunt was over, our escapee had slipped into the house slept under the bed for most of the night.
Somewhere in the afterlife my Dad was watching and laughing, his shirt covered with ice cream and cake. Grandchildren are truly karma's favorite vehicle.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Local Justice
I am a horrible driver. Aside from wandering this earth with no sense of direction, I am also quite heavy footed, piling up more moving violations than Britney Spears and Lindsey Lohan battling it out at the Salem Fair's bumper cars venue.
Trained in New York City where one needs only a face to gain a license, I have had a rather difficult time adjusting to southern travel. Honestly, I had never received a speeding ticket until I reached Virginia. In the Big Apple, one can run nine traffic lights in a row, and, unless you clip a pedestrian or two, most police officers barely loosen their grip on the donut they're dunking, much less chase you down from behind.
On a recent trip to Ohio I encountered my most perplexing brush with the law. Heading home I crossed into West Virginia via a bridge which links the two states. Parked at the far end of the bridge I spotted a squad car laying in wait for some unsuspecting motorist.
Glancing at my speedometer, I noted that I was traveling around sixty-one miles and hour in a marked fifty-five zone. Surely I was safe at that speed I thought. As I cruised past the squad car I spied that all-too familiar red and blue bulb combination lighting up my rear window. Could this guy be coming for me?
Immediately, I pulled my car over to the shoulder, closed my eyes and began praying for the sirens to whiz on by. No such luck. Out of the police vehicle stepped a portly fellow with a scowl on his face. Over the years I have collected enough citations to wallpaper my downstairs bathroom, yet all of the troopers I encountered were pleasant enough people, concerned more about my safety than slamming me in the cooler.
A veteran of this situation, I began fumbling around my glove compartment, searching for my vehicle registration. Apparently, the oncoming crime-stopper, thought I might be reaching for a weapon. The trooper drew is sidearm and ordered my out of the car. Hating to be shot for going five miles an hour over the speed limit, I complied.
Cuffed and searched, I was released when my captor realized that I was not a threat to the general public. Jokingly, I asked the officer if roadside execution was the current penalty of barely speeding in the state West Virginia and he promptly rewarded my smart comment with a $210.00 fine. I nearly grabbed his gun and shot myself.
Stewing the rest of the trip, I vowed to fight this injustice at all cost. The summons carried a court date scheduled for the following week and I would be there to dispute the charge. For the remainder of the week I called the phone number on the ticket to find out the location of the court house, however, there was only a scratchy recording which sounded like it was taped directly off of a Wendy's drive-through speaker.
On the day of the court hearing, I left my home heading for Henderson, West Virginia, population 549. Somehow, I would find the seat of legal activity in Henderson and I would have my day in court.
When I rolled off the highway exit I began to notice that there weren't any stationary buildings in Henderson, just a bunch of mobile homes. The more I drove the more I began the realize that this whole town could pick right up and more somewhere else if they wanted to. Suddenly, in the distance, I beheld a small brick building with an American flag flying in front. As I drew nearer I could see that it was a post office. They will know where the court house was, I thought.
I entered the building and asked the clerk where the court house was. She smiled and said there was no court house in Henderson, but I could go to the judge's house.
"I can go to his house!" I bellowed in shock. Please understand, in most places going to the judge's house will buy you a stay in the Graybar Motel, but not in Henderson. The friendly postal worker gave me directions and I was off the see the judge.
When I arrived at the judge's home I knocked on the door several times with no answer. Slightly unnerved, I was about to return to my car when I woman appeared from the house next door and informed me that the judge was food shopping and would be back in around twenty minutes. Resolved to finish this matter, I waited patiently on the judge's steps.
Moments later the judge rolled up in his town vehicle, pops the trunk and begins bringing in his shopping bags. I introduced myself and offered to help him with his packages. How often to you get the chance to soften up a government official by carrying in his milk?
While stocking his cabinets his honor (who was also the mayor, no kidding) and I spoke about my "case". He confided that the officer who apprehended me was on loan from the county and was "a nut-case" who often wrote excessive fines. The Judge/Mayor then thanked me for my help, reduced my fine to ten dollars and changed my charge to illegal equipment.
Driving home I reflected on my experience and thought that one day I might return to Henderson and visit my friend Judge/Mayor. Hopefully he will still be there unless the town decides to pick up and move across the river to Ohio.
I am a horrible driver. Aside from wandering this earth with no sense of direction, I am also quite heavy footed, piling up more moving violations than Britney Spears and Lindsey Lohan battling it out at the Salem Fair's bumper cars venue.
Trained in New York City where one needs only a face to gain a license, I have had a rather difficult time adjusting to southern travel. Honestly, I had never received a speeding ticket until I reached Virginia. In the Big Apple, one can run nine traffic lights in a row, and, unless you clip a pedestrian or two, most police officers barely loosen their grip on the donut they're dunking, much less chase you down from behind.
On a recent trip to Ohio I encountered my most perplexing brush with the law. Heading home I crossed into West Virginia via a bridge which links the two states. Parked at the far end of the bridge I spotted a squad car laying in wait for some unsuspecting motorist.
Glancing at my speedometer, I noted that I was traveling around sixty-one miles and hour in a marked fifty-five zone. Surely I was safe at that speed I thought. As I cruised past the squad car I spied that all-too familiar red and blue bulb combination lighting up my rear window. Could this guy be coming for me?
Immediately, I pulled my car over to the shoulder, closed my eyes and began praying for the sirens to whiz on by. No such luck. Out of the police vehicle stepped a portly fellow with a scowl on his face. Over the years I have collected enough citations to wallpaper my downstairs bathroom, yet all of the troopers I encountered were pleasant enough people, concerned more about my safety than slamming me in the cooler.
A veteran of this situation, I began fumbling around my glove compartment, searching for my vehicle registration. Apparently, the oncoming crime-stopper, thought I might be reaching for a weapon. The trooper drew is sidearm and ordered my out of the car. Hating to be shot for going five miles an hour over the speed limit, I complied.
Cuffed and searched, I was released when my captor realized that I was not a threat to the general public. Jokingly, I asked the officer if roadside execution was the current penalty of barely speeding in the state West Virginia and he promptly rewarded my smart comment with a $210.00 fine. I nearly grabbed his gun and shot myself.
Stewing the rest of the trip, I vowed to fight this injustice at all cost. The summons carried a court date scheduled for the following week and I would be there to dispute the charge. For the remainder of the week I called the phone number on the ticket to find out the location of the court house, however, there was only a scratchy recording which sounded like it was taped directly off of a Wendy's drive-through speaker.
On the day of the court hearing, I left my home heading for Henderson, West Virginia, population 549. Somehow, I would find the seat of legal activity in Henderson and I would have my day in court.
When I rolled off the highway exit I began to notice that there weren't any stationary buildings in Henderson, just a bunch of mobile homes. The more I drove the more I began the realize that this whole town could pick right up and more somewhere else if they wanted to. Suddenly, in the distance, I beheld a small brick building with an American flag flying in front. As I drew nearer I could see that it was a post office. They will know where the court house was, I thought.
I entered the building and asked the clerk where the court house was. She smiled and said there was no court house in Henderson, but I could go to the judge's house.
"I can go to his house!" I bellowed in shock. Please understand, in most places going to the judge's house will buy you a stay in the Graybar Motel, but not in Henderson. The friendly postal worker gave me directions and I was off the see the judge.
When I arrived at the judge's home I knocked on the door several times with no answer. Slightly unnerved, I was about to return to my car when I woman appeared from the house next door and informed me that the judge was food shopping and would be back in around twenty minutes. Resolved to finish this matter, I waited patiently on the judge's steps.
Moments later the judge rolled up in his town vehicle, pops the trunk and begins bringing in his shopping bags. I introduced myself and offered to help him with his packages. How often to you get the chance to soften up a government official by carrying in his milk?
While stocking his cabinets his honor (who was also the mayor, no kidding) and I spoke about my "case". He confided that the officer who apprehended me was on loan from the county and was "a nut-case" who often wrote excessive fines. The Judge/Mayor then thanked me for my help, reduced my fine to ten dollars and changed my charge to illegal equipment.
Driving home I reflected on my experience and thought that one day I might return to Henderson and visit my friend Judge/Mayor. Hopefully he will still be there unless the town decides to pick up and move across the river to Ohio.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Will Brady be taking the Soul Train?
Tom Brady, quarterback for the undefeated New England Patriots is doomed. When I say "doomed" I don't mean that the Pats are ripe for a loss or that Brady will suffer some sort of a debilitating injury, no I mean doomed, like when one spends one's after-life in a fiery underworld, surrounded by pitch-fork bearing goblins. That kind of doomed.
A delusional friend of mine who I will call "Harry," is convinced that Brady is in league with the devil. Harry is a lifelong Ohio State football fan and counts himself as one of the school's most distinguished alumni, although he has never accomplished anything of note in his lifetime. Harry hates anyone who has ever attended the University of Michigan, an institute of learning of which Mr. Brady is truly a distinguished alumni.
As evidence of Brady's secret pact with el Diablo, Harry points back to a snowy Ann Arbor day when Gary Moeller was ousted as the head football coach at Michigan. It was on this day that a fiendish plot against humanity was hatched by none other than Lucifer himself.
Moeller had succumbed to the evils of liquor (oldest trick in the devil's book) and was booted following an altercation at a local bar. To hear Harry tell it, Moeller's dismissal swung the door wide open for an all out blitz by the Prince of Darkness.
In Moeller's place Michigan installed Lloyd Carr as head coach, a man described by Harry as "an unholy minion, and the devil's best recruiter." Sometime during the 1997 season, Coach Carr approached a fresh-faced innocent from sunny California and began bargaining for the lad's soul. The boy was the team's seventh string quarterback with little hope of cracking the starting line-up. Carr offered the boy fame and fortune beyond the boy's wildest dreams in return for the player's mortal soul. The boy would win Super Bowls, date super models and would even impregnate a beautiful movie star (out of wedlock) without feeling the wrath of the public and the press. Some poor schlep named "Pacman" would create a series of clever diversions, covering all of the boy's misdeeds.
Negotiations went on for months. The boy wanted it all and he wanted it now, yet Carr preached patience.
"Mr. Mephistopheles assures me that everything will change for the better in due time," said the Coach pushing an ancient legal parchment before the boy, "just sign here, I promise that this deal is even better than the one that Jeter kid signed with us a few years back." Grabbing a blood soaked pen, the boy scribbled his endorsement.
Years passed and the boy toiled in obscurity, until one November day when his opportunity arrived. The New York Jets, a team only the devil could love, knocked the Patriot's starting quarterback out of the game and forced the boy named Tom into the game. Only the Jets could ruin there own future by making a bone crushing tackle. The Evil One has a strong sense of irony I guess. The Jets have not won a division title since that fateful day.
The rest of the story is still being played-out, you all know the details. Harry despises every moment of Tom Brady's success, yet takes comfort in knowing that someday, sometime in the future, Satan will come to collect his due and that fresh-faced boy named Tom will end up riding the Hades Express on his way to infernal regions.
I know I speak for Harry when I say, go Giants!
Tom Brady, quarterback for the undefeated New England Patriots is doomed. When I say "doomed" I don't mean that the Pats are ripe for a loss or that Brady will suffer some sort of a debilitating injury, no I mean doomed, like when one spends one's after-life in a fiery underworld, surrounded by pitch-fork bearing goblins. That kind of doomed.
A delusional friend of mine who I will call "Harry," is convinced that Brady is in league with the devil. Harry is a lifelong Ohio State football fan and counts himself as one of the school's most distinguished alumni, although he has never accomplished anything of note in his lifetime. Harry hates anyone who has ever attended the University of Michigan, an institute of learning of which Mr. Brady is truly a distinguished alumni.
As evidence of Brady's secret pact with el Diablo, Harry points back to a snowy Ann Arbor day when Gary Moeller was ousted as the head football coach at Michigan. It was on this day that a fiendish plot against humanity was hatched by none other than Lucifer himself.
Moeller had succumbed to the evils of liquor (oldest trick in the devil's book) and was booted following an altercation at a local bar. To hear Harry tell it, Moeller's dismissal swung the door wide open for an all out blitz by the Prince of Darkness.
In Moeller's place Michigan installed Lloyd Carr as head coach, a man described by Harry as "an unholy minion, and the devil's best recruiter." Sometime during the 1997 season, Coach Carr approached a fresh-faced innocent from sunny California and began bargaining for the lad's soul. The boy was the team's seventh string quarterback with little hope of cracking the starting line-up. Carr offered the boy fame and fortune beyond the boy's wildest dreams in return for the player's mortal soul. The boy would win Super Bowls, date super models and would even impregnate a beautiful movie star (out of wedlock) without feeling the wrath of the public and the press. Some poor schlep named "Pacman" would create a series of clever diversions, covering all of the boy's misdeeds.
Negotiations went on for months. The boy wanted it all and he wanted it now, yet Carr preached patience.
"Mr. Mephistopheles assures me that everything will change for the better in due time," said the Coach pushing an ancient legal parchment before the boy, "just sign here, I promise that this deal is even better than the one that Jeter kid signed with us a few years back." Grabbing a blood soaked pen, the boy scribbled his endorsement.
Years passed and the boy toiled in obscurity, until one November day when his opportunity arrived. The New York Jets, a team only the devil could love, knocked the Patriot's starting quarterback out of the game and forced the boy named Tom into the game. Only the Jets could ruin there own future by making a bone crushing tackle. The Evil One has a strong sense of irony I guess. The Jets have not won a division title since that fateful day.
The rest of the story is still being played-out, you all know the details. Harry despises every moment of Tom Brady's success, yet takes comfort in knowing that someday, sometime in the future, Satan will come to collect his due and that fresh-faced boy named Tom will end up riding the Hades Express on his way to infernal regions.
I know I speak for Harry when I say, go Giants!
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
The Swami Speaks
Do you you live in a "competitive" neighborhood? Has "keeping up with the Jones'" reached a whole new level? In the serene mountains of Virginia there is a battle being fought, a skirmish reminiscent of the Hatfield-McCoy feuds which occurred decades ago in a region just west of my home. No live rounds are being fired, no property lines are challenged. This is a war of a different kind. This is a blitzkrieg of one-upsmanship.
For the past ten years a small three block area has been the site of holiday decorations gone wild. It all started innocently with a few Christmas bulbs, a step-stoop pumpkin for Halloween, and maybe a sparkler or two on July 4th. No one new then how this conflict would grow.
This year the games began in July with an explosive aerial show that would make Baghdad look like a quiet neighborhood. Illegal rockets soared skyward as neighbor battled neighbor for supremacy of the heavens over Windsor Avenue (my smuggled stash from South Carolina shamed them all). Oh yes, I do indulge in this childish conflict. Should I just let the Jones' bomb me into the stone age, while spent mortar rounds land on my roof. Not on your life Buster!
Next was Halloween, the grand-daddy of all holidays in this neck of the woods. Christmas is big around here, but Halloween breads creativity that often ups the stakes and this year was no different.
Word at it that Joe Bear (a tool salesperson who lives directly behind me) has a little something special for all of us this year. Last year Joe constructed an elaborate "Wizard of Oz" set on his front yard, complete with flying monkeys zip-lining from tree to tree. Martha Hughes was always a contender with her cauldron full of five alarm chili, which she stirred and served in full witch gear. Mrs. Deyerle, a widow who lives next door often has life-sized dummies impaled on stakes adorning her from yard, but I think she has finally surrendered to the younger crowd, opting to dispense doorfront treats in a more traditional way.
As darkness descended on the final day of October I began to launch my own plan. This year I would be "Swami Jon" the all-knowing, crystal ball gazing mystic and sultan of sweet treats. My crystal was a flipped over fish bowl and my turban was fashion out of aluminum foil. I thought my head-gear looked great until a young visitor remarked that it looked like I was making Jiffy-Pop on my head. Nevertheless, I was ready.
Before forking over the candy, I would stop each trick-or-treater and proclaim "The bubble-gum is yours Sahib, but first I must read your fortune." I would gaze into the ball and make a prediction related to their costume. To a tiny girl dressed as Snow White I offered the prophetic words "you will meet six... no SEVEN dwarfs in the forest." She stared blankly as if to say "Grow-up mister," grabbed a Hershey's Crunch Bar and left. I did get a laugh from a kid dressed as Darth Vader when I correctly predicted that he would be killed by his son in the third movie.
One future attorney asked for my credentials, postulating that I was not a true seer. I assured him that I was genuine and that the famous dish "Veal Swami Jon" was indeed named after me by a thankful client. Overall, I was pretty much a flop as a swami. When I child dressed as the Grim Reaper darkened by door I abdicated my post and sighed "I knew I would be seeing you sooner or later."
Meanwhile, Joe Bear stole the night, converting the entire front of his house into a pirate ship. Cannon blasts echoed throughout the night and kids dug into sweet goodies contained in a full-sized treasure chest. My Jiffy-Pop crown just didn't cut it.
Thanksgiving is coming up. What do you think about a twenty-foot remote controlled turkey that flies around the hood dropping stuffing in it's wake? All I need is some foil and four D batteries.
Do you you live in a "competitive" neighborhood? Has "keeping up with the Jones'" reached a whole new level? In the serene mountains of Virginia there is a battle being fought, a skirmish reminiscent of the Hatfield-McCoy feuds which occurred decades ago in a region just west of my home. No live rounds are being fired, no property lines are challenged. This is a war of a different kind. This is a blitzkrieg of one-upsmanship.
For the past ten years a small three block area has been the site of holiday decorations gone wild. It all started innocently with a few Christmas bulbs, a step-stoop pumpkin for Halloween, and maybe a sparkler or two on July 4th. No one new then how this conflict would grow.
This year the games began in July with an explosive aerial show that would make Baghdad look like a quiet neighborhood. Illegal rockets soared skyward as neighbor battled neighbor for supremacy of the heavens over Windsor Avenue (my smuggled stash from South Carolina shamed them all). Oh yes, I do indulge in this childish conflict. Should I just let the Jones' bomb me into the stone age, while spent mortar rounds land on my roof. Not on your life Buster!
Next was Halloween, the grand-daddy of all holidays in this neck of the woods. Christmas is big around here, but Halloween breads creativity that often ups the stakes and this year was no different.
Word at it that Joe Bear (a tool salesperson who lives directly behind me) has a little something special for all of us this year. Last year Joe constructed an elaborate "Wizard of Oz" set on his front yard, complete with flying monkeys zip-lining from tree to tree. Martha Hughes was always a contender with her cauldron full of five alarm chili, which she stirred and served in full witch gear. Mrs. Deyerle, a widow who lives next door often has life-sized dummies impaled on stakes adorning her from yard, but I think she has finally surrendered to the younger crowd, opting to dispense doorfront treats in a more traditional way.
As darkness descended on the final day of October I began to launch my own plan. This year I would be "Swami Jon" the all-knowing, crystal ball gazing mystic and sultan of sweet treats. My crystal was a flipped over fish bowl and my turban was fashion out of aluminum foil. I thought my head-gear looked great until a young visitor remarked that it looked like I was making Jiffy-Pop on my head. Nevertheless, I was ready.
Before forking over the candy, I would stop each trick-or-treater and proclaim "The bubble-gum is yours Sahib, but first I must read your fortune." I would gaze into the ball and make a prediction related to their costume. To a tiny girl dressed as Snow White I offered the prophetic words "you will meet six... no SEVEN dwarfs in the forest." She stared blankly as if to say "Grow-up mister," grabbed a Hershey's Crunch Bar and left. I did get a laugh from a kid dressed as Darth Vader when I correctly predicted that he would be killed by his son in the third movie.
One future attorney asked for my credentials, postulating that I was not a true seer. I assured him that I was genuine and that the famous dish "Veal Swami Jon" was indeed named after me by a thankful client. Overall, I was pretty much a flop as a swami. When I child dressed as the Grim Reaper darkened by door I abdicated my post and sighed "I knew I would be seeing you sooner or later."
Meanwhile, Joe Bear stole the night, converting the entire front of his house into a pirate ship. Cannon blasts echoed throughout the night and kids dug into sweet goodies contained in a full-sized treasure chest. My Jiffy-Pop crown just didn't cut it.
Thanksgiving is coming up. What do you think about a twenty-foot remote controlled turkey that flies around the hood dropping stuffing in it's wake? All I need is some foil and four D batteries.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Dead Sales Manager Walkin'
Corporate America is a place without conscience. Peek into any office building in this country and you will find a scummy collection of motherless miscreants bent on maximizing profits and minimizing humanity, and that's just in the day care center!
I was planning a colorful tirade indicting all those senior managers who offer-up their charges as sacrifices to the sales gods, however, I shall shelve my bitterness and, instead, begin seeking a angry gypsy to file a curse on all those who treat people as disposable items.
Corporate America is a place without conscience. Peek into any office building in this country and you will find a scummy collection of motherless miscreants bent on maximizing profits and minimizing humanity, and that's just in the day care center!
I was planning a colorful tirade indicting all those senior managers who offer-up their charges as sacrifices to the sales gods, however, I shall shelve my bitterness and, instead, begin seeking a angry gypsy to file a curse on all those who treat people as disposable items.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
"Who are you and what are you doing in my house"?
Years ago, the ten o'clock news would begin their broadcast with the phrase "It's ten o'clock, do you know where your children are"? As a father of a fifteen year-old boy I not only can answer that question with a firm "yes", but I can also account for every like-aged child in our neighborhood.
My house is the central meeting point in our neighborhood. Teenagers dash through our doors like a Springsteen concert offering festival seating. Amazingly, my wife is able to identify 90% of our inbound and outbound traffic (a dizzying blur of hair, jeans and t-shirts), the rest are transient beings who are likely a friend of a friend of a friend of one of our regulars. Me, I couldn't pick most of them out of a line-up, although some look like they might have that experience in their near future.
Along with the constant flux of high school freshmen, we also have a core group who are convinced that they live in our home. A bag of Doritos of a box of cookies don't stand a chance when these guys are around. Their consumption of food and soft drinks rivals that of a small county. Empty wrappers, bags and cups litter our den nightly, looking not unlike the streets of New York after Lindbergh landed. Next year I am writing this posse off as a tax deduction.
The posse always stays overnight although their is no parental authorization on our end. Afternoon turns into evening and evening turns to night and still they linger. When I walk down our stairs in the morning on the way to work our den looks like the aftermath at Gettysburg. Wading through the humanity strewn all over the floor, I often hum the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" quietly to myself, being careful not to awaken the troops. One morning I was greeted by a young girl who was watching MTV in the den as the masses slept. She introduced herself as "Alexis" and assured me that she had escaped an all-girl sleepover down the street, seeking the quiet of another venue. Barely awake, I wished her a good day and toddled off to work not even considering whether she had been there all night or not.
The boys have sort of a set routine when they gather at my home. First they play "Slam Ball", a basketball hybrid game played on a trampoline, which makes me extremely nervous. A temporary basketball goal is set-up next to our battered trampoline and the combatants bounce, leap, push and fight through a one-on-one game. If my insurance agent ever caught wind of this activity he would beat me over the head with my canceled homeowners policy until I was dead.
Next comes the electronic part of the evening. Two of the gang begin playing XBOX 360, one gets on the laptop and is in direct communication (through AIM) with whatever posse member might be grounded or missing (or they are online with the girls down the street), the remaining troops work the cellphones and the frig. Last night the gamers were locked in a war simulation battle with some bloodthirsty Swedish speaking teens (aren't they supposed to be neutral?), who massacred our boys on-line then taunted them in Nordic. It amazes me that boys all over the world can give each other crap without even leaving their homes (or in this case MY home). I guess that is what they call progress.
Finally, a lively Madden Football game is played on the XBOX to determine the sleeping arrangements. The winner gets the couch, runner-up the recliner, and the rest are rug fodder.
By 4am most of the group is sleeping, unless someone has slipped by the guard. Shiloh, our blind, diabetic beagle-mix usually patrols the downstairs and howls at anything that moves, preventing anyone from escaping undetected. However, Shiloh does require some down time which creates a window of opportunity. My son and his buddies once snuck past our defenses and would have completed their mission if it weren't for a young girl's mother who awakened me with a 3am phone call asking why my son was making eggs in her kitchen. My first reaction was "He knows how to make eggs"?, my first action was to round up the escapees and return them to lock down.
Most parents would enjoy the security of knowing where their children are, unfortunately none of them live in my neighborhood.
Years ago, the ten o'clock news would begin their broadcast with the phrase "It's ten o'clock, do you know where your children are"? As a father of a fifteen year-old boy I not only can answer that question with a firm "yes", but I can also account for every like-aged child in our neighborhood.
My house is the central meeting point in our neighborhood. Teenagers dash through our doors like a Springsteen concert offering festival seating. Amazingly, my wife is able to identify 90% of our inbound and outbound traffic (a dizzying blur of hair, jeans and t-shirts), the rest are transient beings who are likely a friend of a friend of a friend of one of our regulars. Me, I couldn't pick most of them out of a line-up, although some look like they might have that experience in their near future.
Along with the constant flux of high school freshmen, we also have a core group who are convinced that they live in our home. A bag of Doritos of a box of cookies don't stand a chance when these guys are around. Their consumption of food and soft drinks rivals that of a small county. Empty wrappers, bags and cups litter our den nightly, looking not unlike the streets of New York after Lindbergh landed. Next year I am writing this posse off as a tax deduction.
The posse always stays overnight although their is no parental authorization on our end. Afternoon turns into evening and evening turns to night and still they linger. When I walk down our stairs in the morning on the way to work our den looks like the aftermath at Gettysburg. Wading through the humanity strewn all over the floor, I often hum the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" quietly to myself, being careful not to awaken the troops. One morning I was greeted by a young girl who was watching MTV in the den as the masses slept. She introduced herself as "Alexis" and assured me that she had escaped an all-girl sleepover down the street, seeking the quiet of another venue. Barely awake, I wished her a good day and toddled off to work not even considering whether she had been there all night or not.
The boys have sort of a set routine when they gather at my home. First they play "Slam Ball", a basketball hybrid game played on a trampoline, which makes me extremely nervous. A temporary basketball goal is set-up next to our battered trampoline and the combatants bounce, leap, push and fight through a one-on-one game. If my insurance agent ever caught wind of this activity he would beat me over the head with my canceled homeowners policy until I was dead.
Next comes the electronic part of the evening. Two of the gang begin playing XBOX 360, one gets on the laptop and is in direct communication (through AIM) with whatever posse member might be grounded or missing (or they are online with the girls down the street), the remaining troops work the cellphones and the frig. Last night the gamers were locked in a war simulation battle with some bloodthirsty Swedish speaking teens (aren't they supposed to be neutral?), who massacred our boys on-line then taunted them in Nordic. It amazes me that boys all over the world can give each other crap without even leaving their homes (or in this case MY home). I guess that is what they call progress.
Finally, a lively Madden Football game is played on the XBOX to determine the sleeping arrangements. The winner gets the couch, runner-up the recliner, and the rest are rug fodder.
By 4am most of the group is sleeping, unless someone has slipped by the guard. Shiloh, our blind, diabetic beagle-mix usually patrols the downstairs and howls at anything that moves, preventing anyone from escaping undetected. However, Shiloh does require some down time which creates a window of opportunity. My son and his buddies once snuck past our defenses and would have completed their mission if it weren't for a young girl's mother who awakened me with a 3am phone call asking why my son was making eggs in her kitchen. My first reaction was "He knows how to make eggs"?, my first action was to round up the escapees and return them to lock down.
Most parents would enjoy the security of knowing where their children are, unfortunately none of them live in my neighborhood.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Around the World in a Daze
My name is Jon and I was born without a sense of direction. I come by this malady honestly, my Dad (bless his soul) couldn't find his butt if he had a bell tied to it either. Technically you could trace my deficiency back many generations when my ancestors were said to have wondered in the desert for forty years looking for the Promised Land.
When most people are faced with a decision to make a right or left turn, the percentages of them guessing correctly is 50-50. Oddly enough Race Horse Jonny's post odds are 99-1 against picking the correct direction every time i break out of the gate.
Last month I hopelessly wandered around two different parking garages desperately trying to escape the premises. As I circled familiar pillars over and over again, I considered heading for the roof and plummeting "Dukes of Hazzard" style towards the pavement. Finally I was able to catch a glimpse of daylight and bolt this driving hell that I had made for myself. Note: A true driving hell would also include my wife and mother-in-law in the vehicle, Satan and an unlimited supply of alcohol, held just out of my grasp. After a few million miles I might even begin to bond with the lord of the underworld who, knowing the other two passengers, would be sharing my misery.
A few weeks ago a took my son to a baseball game in Washington, DC and left plenty of extra time to get lost along the way. Armed with my Mapquest notes I forged on northbound. Incredibly I made it to DC with no wrong turns. Getting to the actual stadium was a whole other thing. We saw monuments, we saw the White House, we passed the Pentagon (several times), but could not find the ballpark. It amazed me how many languages that one would need to know when asking for directions in our nations capitol. I felt like I was taking in a Berlitz weekend crash course. Four innings into the game the field appeared on our left as if by magic. Like my ancestors I had stumbled upon the land of milk and honey but, with over 39 years to spare!
Following the game (while getting lost on the way home) I decided to make an investment in a GPS unit. I heard varying opinions on the reliability of these contraptions, yet at this point I would urinate on a spark plug if i thought it would help me find my way anywhere.
Entering my local Best Buy i scanned the floor for my perfect driving mate. Among the cellphones, ipods and laptops i spied a glimmering reflection is the rear of the showroom. Drawn to this wondrous light i floated across the floor. When my eyes meet her screen, I was a goner. I knew immediately that she was the one, my Garmin Street Pilot 330 (on sale for $249.95). Once freed from her glass covered prison I held her in my arms for the first time. Should I say it, could this be love?
Installation was a painless and even pleasurable experience. Mounted upon my windshield was my savior, my mechanical guide to Nirvana. Before I could say "Where the hell am I" my new partner was spewing directions in a soft, but stern woman's voice. Accessing the menu I changed the voice to that of a lovely electronic British woman who (by the number of her maps) has obviously been around. Just the lady I've been looking for.
My travel friend was a Garmin so I named her "Carmen", Carmen Garmin. Since uniting with Carmen I have not been lost once. With Carmen I am on time to meetings and can find my way anywhere (with the possible exception of my old nemesis indoor parking garages. The satellite reception is too poor for Carmen to help).
To quote the old spiritual "I once was lost, but now I'm found". Thank you Carmen for helping me see the light.
My name is Jon and I was born without a sense of direction. I come by this malady honestly, my Dad (bless his soul) couldn't find his butt if he had a bell tied to it either. Technically you could trace my deficiency back many generations when my ancestors were said to have wondered in the desert for forty years looking for the Promised Land.
When most people are faced with a decision to make a right or left turn, the percentages of them guessing correctly is 50-50. Oddly enough Race Horse Jonny's post odds are 99-1 against picking the correct direction every time i break out of the gate.
Last month I hopelessly wandered around two different parking garages desperately trying to escape the premises. As I circled familiar pillars over and over again, I considered heading for the roof and plummeting "Dukes of Hazzard" style towards the pavement. Finally I was able to catch a glimpse of daylight and bolt this driving hell that I had made for myself. Note: A true driving hell would also include my wife and mother-in-law in the vehicle, Satan and an unlimited supply of alcohol, held just out of my grasp. After a few million miles I might even begin to bond with the lord of the underworld who, knowing the other two passengers, would be sharing my misery.
A few weeks ago a took my son to a baseball game in Washington, DC and left plenty of extra time to get lost along the way. Armed with my Mapquest notes I forged on northbound. Incredibly I made it to DC with no wrong turns. Getting to the actual stadium was a whole other thing. We saw monuments, we saw the White House, we passed the Pentagon (several times), but could not find the ballpark. It amazed me how many languages that one would need to know when asking for directions in our nations capitol. I felt like I was taking in a Berlitz weekend crash course. Four innings into the game the field appeared on our left as if by magic. Like my ancestors I had stumbled upon the land of milk and honey but, with over 39 years to spare!
Following the game (while getting lost on the way home) I decided to make an investment in a GPS unit. I heard varying opinions on the reliability of these contraptions, yet at this point I would urinate on a spark plug if i thought it would help me find my way anywhere.
Entering my local Best Buy i scanned the floor for my perfect driving mate. Among the cellphones, ipods and laptops i spied a glimmering reflection is the rear of the showroom. Drawn to this wondrous light i floated across the floor. When my eyes meet her screen, I was a goner. I knew immediately that she was the one, my Garmin Street Pilot 330 (on sale for $249.95). Once freed from her glass covered prison I held her in my arms for the first time. Should I say it, could this be love?
Installation was a painless and even pleasurable experience. Mounted upon my windshield was my savior, my mechanical guide to Nirvana. Before I could say "Where the hell am I" my new partner was spewing directions in a soft, but stern woman's voice. Accessing the menu I changed the voice to that of a lovely electronic British woman who (by the number of her maps) has obviously been around. Just the lady I've been looking for.
My travel friend was a Garmin so I named her "Carmen", Carmen Garmin. Since uniting with Carmen I have not been lost once. With Carmen I am on time to meetings and can find my way anywhere (with the possible exception of my old nemesis indoor parking garages. The satellite reception is too poor for Carmen to help).
To quote the old spiritual "I once was lost, but now I'm found". Thank you Carmen for helping me see the light.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Et tu Will?
When asked about his age, Hall of Fame baseball pitcher Satchel Paige once quipped "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" I've read that quote a million times and I am still not sure what that old man was saying. Perhaps Satch was saying that you are as old as you feel? If that's the case, my days are numbered.
The aging process has not been particularly kind to me. Various ailments have reduced this once athletic fellow into a lurching, wheezing pile of walking cholesterol. I never really cut a dashing figure (even in my youth) however, I never resembled ten pounds of kielbasa packed into a a five pound casing until I was forty.
Last week I was helping my son study for his History exam and came across an assignment that he had turned in earlier in the week. The homework called for Will to ask his father two historically relevant questions. 1) Who was President of the United States when your father was born? 2) How much did a loaf of bread cost in the year your father was born? I didn't remember my son asking me these questions, but these days I can't remember a lot of things. I saw no answers on his homework sheet and asked him why he didn't do the assignment. Will assured me that he completed the assignment and presented his answers in class. This proactive approach to homework sounded fishy to me. Wasn't this the same kid who brought a frozen 7-11 burrito into Spanish class as his culinary contribution for the Cinco De Mayo fiesta?
Probing deeper, I asked how he was able to research the answers to these questions without conferring with me. His cryptic response was "My teacher is really cool and accepted just about any answer". I pressed on. "What does that mean?" "It means, don't worry about it" he snapped. Now I'm getting mad. "Maybe I''ll just have to call your teacher" I shot back, hoping to crack Will's silence. "Have at it dude" mumbled Will paging through his study guide.
Following a sleepless night, I called the teacher in question. He was a affable fellow who had nothing but good things to say about my son. When I asked him about the homework assignment he began to laugh loudly into the phone. " I thought that you might be calling me" he chuckled. The teacher went on to explain what a great sense of humor Will had and that how my son often lifted his class with a clever line. I agreed that Will was quite a cut-up when he wanted to be. No closer to the truth I continued my interrogation. Cautioning me not to be mad, the teacher finally read me Will's assignment.
1) Who was President when I was born? Answer: Julius Caesar
2) What was the cost of a loaf of bread in the year I was born? Answer: a chicken.
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. The teacher then added that he thought the answer was very imaginative and even linked to the Roman studies chapter which they were reviewing in class. I shared a good laugh together and I thanked him for his time.
For the record, the correct answers are..
1)Dwight David Eisenhower
2) $.19
If Satch is right about being as old as you feel, then this noble Roman is truly ancient.
When asked about his age, Hall of Fame baseball pitcher Satchel Paige once quipped "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" I've read that quote a million times and I am still not sure what that old man was saying. Perhaps Satch was saying that you are as old as you feel? If that's the case, my days are numbered.
The aging process has not been particularly kind to me. Various ailments have reduced this once athletic fellow into a lurching, wheezing pile of walking cholesterol. I never really cut a dashing figure (even in my youth) however, I never resembled ten pounds of kielbasa packed into a a five pound casing until I was forty.
Last week I was helping my son study for his History exam and came across an assignment that he had turned in earlier in the week. The homework called for Will to ask his father two historically relevant questions. 1) Who was President of the United States when your father was born? 2) How much did a loaf of bread cost in the year your father was born? I didn't remember my son asking me these questions, but these days I can't remember a lot of things. I saw no answers on his homework sheet and asked him why he didn't do the assignment. Will assured me that he completed the assignment and presented his answers in class. This proactive approach to homework sounded fishy to me. Wasn't this the same kid who brought a frozen 7-11 burrito into Spanish class as his culinary contribution for the Cinco De Mayo fiesta?
Probing deeper, I asked how he was able to research the answers to these questions without conferring with me. His cryptic response was "My teacher is really cool and accepted just about any answer". I pressed on. "What does that mean?" "It means, don't worry about it" he snapped. Now I'm getting mad. "Maybe I''ll just have to call your teacher" I shot back, hoping to crack Will's silence. "Have at it dude" mumbled Will paging through his study guide.
Following a sleepless night, I called the teacher in question. He was a affable fellow who had nothing but good things to say about my son. When I asked him about the homework assignment he began to laugh loudly into the phone. " I thought that you might be calling me" he chuckled. The teacher went on to explain what a great sense of humor Will had and that how my son often lifted his class with a clever line. I agreed that Will was quite a cut-up when he wanted to be. No closer to the truth I continued my interrogation. Cautioning me not to be mad, the teacher finally read me Will's assignment.
1) Who was President when I was born? Answer: Julius Caesar
2) What was the cost of a loaf of bread in the year I was born? Answer: a chicken.
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. The teacher then added that he thought the answer was very imaginative and even linked to the Roman studies chapter which they were reviewing in class. I shared a good laugh together and I thanked him for his time.
For the record, the correct answers are..
1)Dwight David Eisenhower
2) $.19
If Satch is right about being as old as you feel, then this noble Roman is truly ancient.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Hounds Abound
Sir Thomas Moore once said "Whoever loveth me, loveth my hound". My wife loves the dogs, however,within the pecking order of our home I fall somewhere between the lizard and the fish in her eyes. Flip-flopping Sir Thomas, "She loveth my hounds, yet finds me annoyingth" It's easy to see why the hounds reside in the preferred spot of her heart; They are a appealing blend of comedy, chaos and catastrophe.
Belle, a black and tan coated Bassett Hound, is the senior dog of the group. Most of Belle's day is spent sleeping or being adored by our two male dogs. Belle must be the a pretty hot number in the hound world, as both Shiloh and Roscoe constantly vie for her attention. Shiloh enjoys chewing on Belle's ears (foreplay?) as if they were a raw hide bone, and Belle loves it. I feel almost embarrassed to watch. Roscoe is far more overt in his approach, choosing to deep throat French kiss Belle to the point of gagging her. His clumsy romantic attempts are often spurned by Belle, preferring the ear-work of her other admirer.
Although he had been "fixed" years ago, Shiloh's libido has not shown any signs of slowing. Stricken by Diabetes when he was a pup and nearly blind, Shiloh dashes around the yard and house without bumping into a thing. This bat like sonar is remarkable! Picture Ray Charles dashing around a football field like Barry Sanders and never absorbing a single blow. Shiloh could be a seeing eye for a seeing eye dog. This is not to say that Shiloh is void of vision issues. Often is the time when Shiloh's failing vision will place him in a difficult situation. Lately Shiloh has been mistaking Roscoe (our male Bassett) for Belle (our female Basset), much to Roscoe's chagrin. Shiloh will mount the unsuspecting Roscoe, sometimes from the rear, sometimes from the front, and always when we have visitors. This "Brokeback Bassett" moment normally results in a furious dog-on-dog teeth gnashing melee.
In the Southern vernacular Roscoe is "dumb as a bag of hammers". In the South it is permissible to say something derogatory about someone ("Gee, that baby must have gotten wacked by the ugly stick"), as long as you add the sympathetic tag line "Bless his heart". So when I say that Roscoe is dumber than a bag of cat-eyed marbles, I mean it with the utmost affection, bless his heart. Chronicled in an earlier blog, Roscoe is an iron-stomached hound that has eaten everything from a bowl full of potpourri to a a set of mini-blinds. When Roscoe charges through the house, the entire edifice shakes like a 6.8 Frisco quake. Some people think of Bassett Hounds as small dogs, but they are actually big dogs without the benefit of legs. They are, essentially, a furry ottoman with floppy ears.
Finally, there is Mya the puppy Coonhound. This is the most nervous dog I have ever seen. If she hears a loud noise, Mya dashes through the house, tail tucked, leaving a trail of pee in her wake. When my son plays his drums she darts around like a hell bet squirrel crossing the Major Deegan. She is in love with Roscoe, adding another side to the romantic triangle of hounds. Mya is either chasing Roscoe or she is in a coma-like slumber, no in-between. Her dog wrestling tactics are really quite advanced for a 14 week old. Last week she climbed up on the couch and launched herself down upon poor defenseless sleeping Roscoe. She flew through the air like former WWF star Jimmmy "Superfly" Snuka, a Samoan giant known for his top rope plunges. Roscoe never saw it coming, landing on the head of her would be lover. Fortunately, Roscoe's noggin is as thick as Lincoln's bust on Mount Rushmore (bless his heart) and no permanent damage was done.
When I pass, I would like to return to this world as a hound dog. Other than warding off the prison yard advances of a blind diabetic Beagle, I think I would be happy. I'm not very smart, but I think I can handle the job (bless my heart).
Sir Thomas Moore once said "Whoever loveth me, loveth my hound". My wife loves the dogs, however,within the pecking order of our home I fall somewhere between the lizard and the fish in her eyes. Flip-flopping Sir Thomas, "She loveth my hounds, yet finds me annoyingth" It's easy to see why the hounds reside in the preferred spot of her heart; They are a appealing blend of comedy, chaos and catastrophe.
Belle, a black and tan coated Bassett Hound, is the senior dog of the group. Most of Belle's day is spent sleeping or being adored by our two male dogs. Belle must be the a pretty hot number in the hound world, as both Shiloh and Roscoe constantly vie for her attention. Shiloh enjoys chewing on Belle's ears (foreplay?) as if they were a raw hide bone, and Belle loves it. I feel almost embarrassed to watch. Roscoe is far more overt in his approach, choosing to deep throat French kiss Belle to the point of gagging her. His clumsy romantic attempts are often spurned by Belle, preferring the ear-work of her other admirer.
Although he had been "fixed" years ago, Shiloh's libido has not shown any signs of slowing. Stricken by Diabetes when he was a pup and nearly blind, Shiloh dashes around the yard and house without bumping into a thing. This bat like sonar is remarkable! Picture Ray Charles dashing around a football field like Barry Sanders and never absorbing a single blow. Shiloh could be a seeing eye for a seeing eye dog. This is not to say that Shiloh is void of vision issues. Often is the time when Shiloh's failing vision will place him in a difficult situation. Lately Shiloh has been mistaking Roscoe (our male Bassett) for Belle (our female Basset), much to Roscoe's chagrin. Shiloh will mount the unsuspecting Roscoe, sometimes from the rear, sometimes from the front, and always when we have visitors. This "Brokeback Bassett" moment normally results in a furious dog-on-dog teeth gnashing melee.
In the Southern vernacular Roscoe is "dumb as a bag of hammers". In the South it is permissible to say something derogatory about someone ("Gee, that baby must have gotten wacked by the ugly stick"), as long as you add the sympathetic tag line "Bless his heart". So when I say that Roscoe is dumber than a bag of cat-eyed marbles, I mean it with the utmost affection, bless his heart. Chronicled in an earlier blog, Roscoe is an iron-stomached hound that has eaten everything from a bowl full of potpourri to a a set of mini-blinds. When Roscoe charges through the house, the entire edifice shakes like a 6.8 Frisco quake. Some people think of Bassett Hounds as small dogs, but they are actually big dogs without the benefit of legs. They are, essentially, a furry ottoman with floppy ears.
Finally, there is Mya the puppy Coonhound. This is the most nervous dog I have ever seen. If she hears a loud noise, Mya dashes through the house, tail tucked, leaving a trail of pee in her wake. When my son plays his drums she darts around like a hell bet squirrel crossing the Major Deegan. She is in love with Roscoe, adding another side to the romantic triangle of hounds. Mya is either chasing Roscoe or she is in a coma-like slumber, no in-between. Her dog wrestling tactics are really quite advanced for a 14 week old. Last week she climbed up on the couch and launched herself down upon poor defenseless sleeping Roscoe. She flew through the air like former WWF star Jimmmy "Superfly" Snuka, a Samoan giant known for his top rope plunges. Roscoe never saw it coming, landing on the head of her would be lover. Fortunately, Roscoe's noggin is as thick as Lincoln's bust on Mount Rushmore (bless his heart) and no permanent damage was done.
When I pass, I would like to return to this world as a hound dog. Other than warding off the prison yard advances of a blind diabetic Beagle, I think I would be happy. I'm not very smart, but I think I can handle the job (bless my heart).
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Fragrance Foul
Do you remember the old days when stores didn't have their own unique smell? When industrial floor cleaner was the only scent you noticed when shopping. I, for one, miss those days. Shopping has become an assault on the senses, a dizzying combination of lights, sounds and smells.
Yesterday I accompanied my wife to the local mall to return a gift bathrobe which was the wrong size. Deep down I knew that this errand would not entail a short trip to the Customer Service counter, an exchange of items, and a quick trot back to the car, but I was hoping. After taking care of the matter at hand, my wife turned away from the outer door from which we entered and pointed herself towards the wide open spaces of the main mall. Dutifully, I shuffled behind.
Thankfully, my wife is not a marathon shopper, but rather a brisk moving hunter who visits only her select stores. A former gymnast, she is five foot nothing and less than one hundred pounds, yet has shoulders like an NFL strong safety. Clothes shopping is a chore for her, an annoying search for frocks that fit. Rarely am I present when she shops for things to wear.
However, I always seem to be with her when she is nick-knack shopping.
Last night we ran the nick-knack circuit. All of these shops carry a strong potpourri aroma that immediately attacks my sinuses upon entering the store. Tears drip down my cheek, my eyes burning from the pungent odor. I stumble through the brick-a-bra ck feeling my way through the aisles. I need to get out of this store! How many wooden Santa Claus's can one person look at anyway? Finally, through my stinging peepers I am able to spot daylight. Brushing past the crowded register I exit and vigorously rub my eyes. My wife leaves the store, beholds my blinking, flinching form before her, shakes her head and forges onward.
It's on to the candle store.
The moment we enter the candle store, my nose hair stages an immediate revolt. It feels like I am going to sneeze, but I don't, I just have that pre-sneeze inhale with no payoff. My face is now contorted in sneeze mode, prompting a concerned sales person to check and see if I am alright. I assure he that I am currently loosing a battle a yet undetermined scent and that I will be fine once I am able to breath again. Sensing that I am disabled and therefore a prime sales target, she attempts to sell me on the healing benefits of the Mandarin Cranberry candle. I politely decline the sales pitch and spot my wife leaving the store. I suck in the fresh mall air like a prisoner just released from solitary confinement.
My wife continues on with me in tow. Before entering yet another nick-knack store, my wife graciously offers me a pardon, pointing to a vacant bench in the middle of the mall. My plan was to make that bench my temporary mall home for the duration of the visit. I sat down, my nose relaxed and happy. Minutes later a woman talking on her cell phone sits down beside me. With her is a huge shopping bag from Bed, Bath and Beyond. A familiar stench rises from the bag and heads directly for my adenoids. Sugar and Fig bath sets are 50% off. Help!
Do you remember the old days when stores didn't have their own unique smell? When industrial floor cleaner was the only scent you noticed when shopping. I, for one, miss those days. Shopping has become an assault on the senses, a dizzying combination of lights, sounds and smells.
Yesterday I accompanied my wife to the local mall to return a gift bathrobe which was the wrong size. Deep down I knew that this errand would not entail a short trip to the Customer Service counter, an exchange of items, and a quick trot back to the car, but I was hoping. After taking care of the matter at hand, my wife turned away from the outer door from which we entered and pointed herself towards the wide open spaces of the main mall. Dutifully, I shuffled behind.
Thankfully, my wife is not a marathon shopper, but rather a brisk moving hunter who visits only her select stores. A former gymnast, she is five foot nothing and less than one hundred pounds, yet has shoulders like an NFL strong safety. Clothes shopping is a chore for her, an annoying search for frocks that fit. Rarely am I present when she shops for things to wear.
However, I always seem to be with her when she is nick-knack shopping.
Last night we ran the nick-knack circuit. All of these shops carry a strong potpourri aroma that immediately attacks my sinuses upon entering the store. Tears drip down my cheek, my eyes burning from the pungent odor. I stumble through the brick-a-bra ck feeling my way through the aisles. I need to get out of this store! How many wooden Santa Claus's can one person look at anyway? Finally, through my stinging peepers I am able to spot daylight. Brushing past the crowded register I exit and vigorously rub my eyes. My wife leaves the store, beholds my blinking, flinching form before her, shakes her head and forges onward.
It's on to the candle store.
The moment we enter the candle store, my nose hair stages an immediate revolt. It feels like I am going to sneeze, but I don't, I just have that pre-sneeze inhale with no payoff. My face is now contorted in sneeze mode, prompting a concerned sales person to check and see if I am alright. I assure he that I am currently loosing a battle a yet undetermined scent and that I will be fine once I am able to breath again. Sensing that I am disabled and therefore a prime sales target, she attempts to sell me on the healing benefits of the Mandarin Cranberry candle. I politely decline the sales pitch and spot my wife leaving the store. I suck in the fresh mall air like a prisoner just released from solitary confinement.
My wife continues on with me in tow. Before entering yet another nick-knack store, my wife graciously offers me a pardon, pointing to a vacant bench in the middle of the mall. My plan was to make that bench my temporary mall home for the duration of the visit. I sat down, my nose relaxed and happy. Minutes later a woman talking on her cell phone sits down beside me. With her is a huge shopping bag from Bed, Bath and Beyond. A familiar stench rises from the bag and heads directly for my adenoids. Sugar and Fig bath sets are 50% off. Help!
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
What is that?
In a season known for giving, my sister-in-law is a gift terrorist. Not a person I would ever describe as "friendly", Debbie uses presents like weapons in her not-so-subtle attacks upon other family members.
It started nine years ago when she presented my wife (her sister) with a colorful box full of used towels. Christmas towels were on my wife's wish list and nothing says "I care" more than pre-stained towels. Over the years Debbie has cast her scorn upon all of us. One year my son received a one dollar gift certificate to Dairy Queen from his aunt. Even if she skipped him completely he could reason that maybe he was forgotten, but a one dollar gift certificate says "I remember, I just don't think much of you".
A few years back I received a lovely book on how to write a winning resume from Debbie, although I was gainfully employed at the time. Apparently, either Debbie knew something about my job situation that I didn't know, or she just didn't have much confidence in my ability to keep a job. I worried for weeks that somehow she had psychic insight into my employment future.
This year my wife was, once again, a target. Aside from her statement gifts (like my resume book), Debbie likes to buy odd gifts as well. She must enjoy watching others as they strain to figure out what exactly an item is. This years enigma was a two foot tall ceramic object that looked like a cross between a flower pot, a pizza serving platter and hockey's Stanley Cup Trophy. I half expected my wife to strap on her skates and lap the rink, holding this think over her head. My father-in-law though it looked like a satellite dish and I guessed that it was an indoor bird bath, but none of us could be sure. My son suggested that we all wash our feet in it, which sounded like a pretty good idea.
Whatever it was, it sure was a topic of conversation. I kept the box it came in hoping to re-wrap it and give it back to Debbie for her birthday. Won't she be happy.
In a season known for giving, my sister-in-law is a gift terrorist. Not a person I would ever describe as "friendly", Debbie uses presents like weapons in her not-so-subtle attacks upon other family members.
It started nine years ago when she presented my wife (her sister) with a colorful box full of used towels. Christmas towels were on my wife's wish list and nothing says "I care" more than pre-stained towels. Over the years Debbie has cast her scorn upon all of us. One year my son received a one dollar gift certificate to Dairy Queen from his aunt. Even if she skipped him completely he could reason that maybe he was forgotten, but a one dollar gift certificate says "I remember, I just don't think much of you".
A few years back I received a lovely book on how to write a winning resume from Debbie, although I was gainfully employed at the time. Apparently, either Debbie knew something about my job situation that I didn't know, or she just didn't have much confidence in my ability to keep a job. I worried for weeks that somehow she had psychic insight into my employment future.
This year my wife was, once again, a target. Aside from her statement gifts (like my resume book), Debbie likes to buy odd gifts as well. She must enjoy watching others as they strain to figure out what exactly an item is. This years enigma was a two foot tall ceramic object that looked like a cross between a flower pot, a pizza serving platter and hockey's Stanley Cup Trophy. I half expected my wife to strap on her skates and lap the rink, holding this think over her head. My father-in-law though it looked like a satellite dish and I guessed that it was an indoor bird bath, but none of us could be sure. My son suggested that we all wash our feet in it, which sounded like a pretty good idea.
Whatever it was, it sure was a topic of conversation. I kept the box it came in hoping to re-wrap it and give it back to Debbie for her birthday. Won't she be happy.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Hard Times Hanukah
About an hour and a half drive from my home lies a small wooden framed house with an historic past. Now housing the "Walton Mountain Museum", the house was once home to the real John Boy and the rest of the Walton clan. If you were alive in the 1970's or watch any of the retro TV channels, you know of this poor, close knit family who struggled through the Great Depression with a gritty determination and unwavering ethics.
Last week I overheard some co-workers reminiscing about "Walton-like" Christmas's when times were tough for their families and gifts were sparse and often home-made. Everyone was very respectful of each others stories and listened intently as the heart-warming tales unwound. As I listened to these holiday anecdotes I thought "Why don't I have any tear-rendering Hanukah stories?" There are many reasons for this, which are addressed in the text below.
About an hour and a half drive from my home lies a small wooden framed house with an historic past. Now housing the "Walton Mountain Museum", the house was once home to the real John Boy and the rest of the Walton clan. If you were alive in the 1970's or watch any of the retro TV channels, you know of this poor, close knit family who struggled through the Great Depression with a gritty determination and unwavering ethics.
Last week I overheard some co-workers reminiscing about "Walton-like" Christmas's when times were tough for their families and gifts were sparse and often home-made. Everyone was very respectful of each others stories and listened intently as the heart-warming tales unwound. As I listened to these holiday anecdotes I thought "Why don't I have any tear-rendering Hanukah stories?" There are many reasons for this, which are addressed in the text below.
- Scheduling
Maybe it's me, but Hanukah seems to be around the December time frame but never on the same days from year to year. Do they spin a big wheel in Tel Aviv every year to determine the exact dates for Jewish holidays? Each year someone at work stops me in the hall and wishes me a "Happy Hanukah" much to my surprise. I never know when it is, I have to hear about it from a gentile who has spotted it on his Garfield calendar that morning. Lets make a real date and stick to it. While we are at it let's settle on a spelling as well. One word meaning the same thing should not have multiple spelling options. It's confusing to me, much less the goyem.
2. The Eight Day Myth
Non-Jews in the South are under the mistaken impression that Jewish children receive a lavish gift each and every day during the Festival of Lights, a myth perpetuate as often as asked. "Yeah, when I was eight I got a solid gold calf on the first day and Corvette filled with hookers on the second day." However, I am thinking of about taking the Walton road on the next go around. Something like "The first day I got a brand new sock and on the second day I got the other sock." I need to contribute something to the discussion in the hallway outside of my door don't I?
3. Time honored One-Ups-manship
Jewish people, in general, struggle when listening to another person's hard luck story. Many (and I include myself) are simply waiting for the tale-spinner to draw a quick breath so they can cut in with their even more horrible story. My mother and her friends were experts in this field. Once, I witnessed a group of Mom's cronies top each other on ambulance experiences. Each story stretched the bounds of the human imagination and each account was more excessive than the last. How can I join in on the discussion when I am ethnically compelled to dominate the forum with with yarns which are specifically designed to minimize any and all stories previously told?
4. Limited Memory
For the life of me, I cannot remember a specific Hanukah in my life. Years melt into years like some over-worked shamus. I remember getting socks, pants, toys and a stereo one year, but nothing more than that. I wonder if my sisters have any Hanukah memories?
Has anyone out there had a Walton's-like Hanukah? Maybe you made a dreidel out of some hardened matzoah balls or your dad fired up the boiler for eight days in a rare moment of Hanukah spirit. Did Judah Maccabi visit your home with a bag full of pants that were one size too big, hoping that you would grow into them?
I am in need of Hanukah memories and I don't mind stealing from others.
Friday, December 01, 2006
No Joy in Dadsville
Every December my son and I sojourn to the hills of Southwestern Virginia in search of baseball magic. Amidst the cattle pastures and hidden stills, sits a baseball/softball warehouse filled with treasures beyond the dreams of a 14 year old baseball fanatic. Attached to this wondrous palace of pitching machines is a retail showroom, stacked with everything baseball. This is my son's favorite spot on the map.
Will is barely able to contain his excitement as we ramble along the highway, giddy with the thought that somewhere in that warehouse lies the excalibur of Easton's, the "Holy Flail" of bats.
The moment we enter the store, employees scatter towards their desks, like some warehouse musical chairs game, hoping that they will not have to be the sorry salesperson who has to wait on us. It is immediately obvious to me that the employees of this establishment recognize my son Will on sight. Will is a high maintenance customer in much the same way, I imagine, as Zsa Zsa Gabor would be when she goes frock shopping in Beverly Hills. These poor people know that they will be wearing out the carpet from the showroom to their warehouse, dragging out every bat, bag and spiked shoe in their massive inventory.
Will decides to start with three bats from three different manufacturers. Like a connoisseur of fine wines he samples each bat, swinging from both side of the dish (his jacket on the floor of the showroom representing home plate). He then holds a bat in each hand weighing them against each other. He repeats the weighing process with all three bats, two at a time.
Will remarks "Dad, those were nice but I need to see some more models before I make my final decision". The salesperson and I exchange sympathetic eye rolls and press on.
In total, fourteen bats were weighed, swung and tested. Our exhausted salesperson remains smiling and helpful throughout. Finally, we were down to the final cut and some of the telemarketing people have emerged from their desk areas to witness this historic sales moment. A crowd of a dozen or more people gather as Will takes his final test cuts. White smoke billows from the ventilation ducts high atop the warehouse. The moment of truth has arrived!
A audible gasp can be heard from the crowd as an Easton Stealth thirty three inch and thirty ounce beauty is trust to the sky in triumph!
'This bat shall be mine" cried Will, and the people smiled with approval.
The salesperson fell to the ground, thankful that the worst was over, only to feel something poking in the small of her back.
'Hey, lady, get up" said Will "I need to look at some catcher's bags too".
Hours later we exited the store with several hundred dollars in merchandise. The showroom closed early that day so that the "I waited on Will" support group could meet and welcome its newest member.
It was not only an exhausting day for me, but an expensive one as well.
Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. A band is playing somewhere and someone's wallet is light. And somewhere my son is laughing and I can hear my junior shout, "There is no joy in Dadsville, that's what Christmas is all about".
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Shake Before Serving
Each year, about this time, my father-in-law heads for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and spends nearly a week playing golf and getting re-acquainted with his college buddies. Hank is a wonderful guy and the perfect father-in-law, however, his annual departure unleashes an unholy hellfire that compels me to start praying, almost immediately, for his quick and safe return from the links. Why would I want to deprive such a fantastic fellow a trip to this putters paradise? The answer is simple: When Harry departs, my mother-in-law moves into my home.
I realize comedic material regarding the subject of mothers-in-law spans centuries and even ions. The earliest unflattering portrayal of in-laws were probably found etched in a pre-historic cave somewhere near Henny Youngman's boyhood home, launching one-liners that live even today. Legends are truths with a little age added, don't you think? Why would mothers-in-law be so scorned if history had never recorded their kind as shrews?
If you had ever had the opportunity to spend a week in the presence of my mother-in-law, you would agree that myths have some connection to reality. Sometimes a very strong connection.
Possessed with a blunt nature that would make an IRS auditor blush, Jane has the ability to make one feel unwelcomed in your own home. Phrases like "What are you doing here?" or "I thought you were gone" can make a mortgage paying homeowner like myself want to run out in the street and re-check my address.
My son, a stoic lad, is unfazed by his grandmother, citing his IPOD as his source of comfort. "Nana is best heard through the muffled sounds of Green Day" he explained. Ignoring grandparents has come quite a long way since I was a kid.
The person that suffers the most during this week long siege is my wife. She is a petite, angst-ridden insomniac who receives a Christmas card from the Augustus Busch family for her continued support and consumption of their products. The mother-daughter bonding time that the golf trips creates is both painful for her and painful to watch. This combination of guilt, criticism and downright meanness are a recipe straight out of Freud's cookbook.
The best way to explain this angonizing interaction, is a model I call "The Pepsi Metaphor". Here's how it works.... First, think of my wife as a can of Diet Pepsi (I know that's weird, but stay with me on this). Next I place my mother-in-law in the role of a disturbed and thirsty infant. Finally, I will play the part of an unsuspecting schlemeel (not a stretch for me).
When the infant meets the canned drink she throws the Pepsi into the air, rolls it on the ground, steps on it a few times, and then hands it to me to open for her. Anyone who has ever had a shaken can of soda knows what happens next. Now take that metaphorical scenario and replace the Pepsi with my wife's emotions. GUUUUUUUUSSSSHHHHHH! All over me.
Every night, when I arrive home, I am greeted by a geyser of mom-induced rage. All I can do is hug my stuttering, convulsed spouse and keep her head from flying off. The are moments when, approaching my driveway, I nearly head for the lifeboats and drive off, leaving my wife to fend for herself. My love for that disfunctional little woman keeps me coming back, allowing her to vent herself into exhaustion every night.
Tonight marks the final night of this yearly ritual. Harry will return, I will have one final soaking until next year, and my wife will sleep until Tuesday. Next year, I get an IPOD.
Each year, about this time, my father-in-law heads for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and spends nearly a week playing golf and getting re-acquainted with his college buddies. Hank is a wonderful guy and the perfect father-in-law, however, his annual departure unleashes an unholy hellfire that compels me to start praying, almost immediately, for his quick and safe return from the links. Why would I want to deprive such a fantastic fellow a trip to this putters paradise? The answer is simple: When Harry departs, my mother-in-law moves into my home.
I realize comedic material regarding the subject of mothers-in-law spans centuries and even ions. The earliest unflattering portrayal of in-laws were probably found etched in a pre-historic cave somewhere near Henny Youngman's boyhood home, launching one-liners that live even today. Legends are truths with a little age added, don't you think? Why would mothers-in-law be so scorned if history had never recorded their kind as shrews?
If you had ever had the opportunity to spend a week in the presence of my mother-in-law, you would agree that myths have some connection to reality. Sometimes a very strong connection.
Possessed with a blunt nature that would make an IRS auditor blush, Jane has the ability to make one feel unwelcomed in your own home. Phrases like "What are you doing here?" or "I thought you were gone" can make a mortgage paying homeowner like myself want to run out in the street and re-check my address.
My son, a stoic lad, is unfazed by his grandmother, citing his IPOD as his source of comfort. "Nana is best heard through the muffled sounds of Green Day" he explained. Ignoring grandparents has come quite a long way since I was a kid.
The person that suffers the most during this week long siege is my wife. She is a petite, angst-ridden insomniac who receives a Christmas card from the Augustus Busch family for her continued support and consumption of their products. The mother-daughter bonding time that the golf trips creates is both painful for her and painful to watch. This combination of guilt, criticism and downright meanness are a recipe straight out of Freud's cookbook.
The best way to explain this angonizing interaction, is a model I call "The Pepsi Metaphor". Here's how it works.... First, think of my wife as a can of Diet Pepsi (I know that's weird, but stay with me on this). Next I place my mother-in-law in the role of a disturbed and thirsty infant. Finally, I will play the part of an unsuspecting schlemeel (not a stretch for me).
When the infant meets the canned drink she throws the Pepsi into the air, rolls it on the ground, steps on it a few times, and then hands it to me to open for her. Anyone who has ever had a shaken can of soda knows what happens next. Now take that metaphorical scenario and replace the Pepsi with my wife's emotions. GUUUUUUUUSSSSHHHHHH! All over me.
Every night, when I arrive home, I am greeted by a geyser of mom-induced rage. All I can do is hug my stuttering, convulsed spouse and keep her head from flying off. The are moments when, approaching my driveway, I nearly head for the lifeboats and drive off, leaving my wife to fend for herself. My love for that disfunctional little woman keeps me coming back, allowing her to vent herself into exhaustion every night.
Tonight marks the final night of this yearly ritual. Harry will return, I will have one final soaking until next year, and my wife will sleep until Tuesday. Next year, I get an IPOD.
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