Those Were the Days

Interstate 15 runs about five miles to the east of Snake River High School, where I proudly graduated first out of the bottom 0.5% of my class.  Unfortunately the Interstate actually runs through Blackfoot, Idaho which was also one of our main sources of entertainment.  The Interstate, I mean, not Blackfoot.  Why do I have such a disdain for Blackfoot?  No reason, I just like to hate on it.

Back in my rebellious days I, and a few of my close friends, made an excursion to I-15, Exit 93, which was our closest access point to Idaho’s only contiguous connection with southern California.  Coincidentally, 1993 was also the year that I graduated, which is why a picture of the sign for Exit 93 is prominently portrayed on the cover of my senior yearbook.  It’s also why the actual Exit 93 sign is probably collecting dust somewhere inside of Blackfoot High School, because they don’t teach photography or honesty there.  Oh wait, they probably do teach photography.  

Exit 93 really looks more like a park than a traffic way.  It has nice green lawns with evergreens and a lovely slope up to the freeway.  Perfect for ice blocking, which is what we went there to do.  Now most people, including myself, upon seeing a rowdy group of teenagers on the side of the freeway, would probably assume that they were up to no good.  That’s because most people, including myself, are too judgmental.  We were simply there to have some good clean fun, a few feet away from large trucks moving at a high rate of speed.  

Nobody was hurt, except that I got "accidentally" shoved into a roadside reflector by one of my friends.  This is the same friend who a few years ago caught me in the shin with a wickedly slicing second shot on the ninth fairway.  Somehow he managed to send the ball on an 18 inch high trajectory about 30 yards directly behind him.  Well, maybe not directly behind him but I was definitely outside of his peripheral vision.  There I go, off the topic again.

With my group of friends, our fun often started out at the same shady hang out.  Shady, because of the big Elm trees, it was actually the seminary teacher’s house across the street from the church.  We never really had a desire for real mischief.  The hardest stuff I ever drank was a Jolt Cola, “all the sugar and twice the caffeine” and I have thankfully never had one since.  We mostly played party games or tag and if our outings ended up at the same shady hangout then we would often end the affair by sitting in the living room eating cookies and drinking freshly squeezed cow juice.

Those were good, good times and I wouldn’t change any of it.  Except maybe that time with the ATV’s and the cow pasture, but even that turned out okay.  There has never been a more sober or fun-loving group of characters than those that I was privileged to be a part of.  

We even took the occasional opportunity to scare the whits out of ourselves.  One of our favorite spooky spots was Tilden Bridge.  With the help of some cleverly modified Indian legends we could put ourselves into such a panic that even the slightest sound would bring on fits of hysterics.  At least I assume it would have if I'd ever gotten out of the car.  Hey, somebody had to stay with the vehicle...with the doors locked...in case there was a car thief out there in the middle of nowhere.  You never know.  Again, nobody was hurt and the stories were only marginally scary.  They probably wouldn't even muster a PG rating.

I'll bet there are other stories that I have forgotten, I wish somebody would write those down somewhere.  I only hope my kids will find such a group of friends.  I'll even be happy to provide them with shin guards.

Threw the Looking Glass

It has been said that necessity is the mother of invention.  I think then that the father of invention must be curiosity and the siblings of invention are disaster, triumph, honor and disgrace.  How's that for existentialism?  Whatever that means.

When I envision my brain in a cartoony sort of way I see the typical things such as gears spinning, whistles blowing and little green men that build things out of glass.  But way back in a deep, dark corner of my mind there is a tiny philosopher with a flair for the eccentric.  My philosophies tend to border on insanity and I too have a serious illegal immigration problem across that border.  At any given moment there are countless undocumented aliens swimming through my thoughts.

It only tends to be a problem when I'm interacting with other people, or when I'm by myself.  This accounts for approximately 95% of my time.  The other 15% is spent in finding ways to make 10% of my time account for 5% of my anti-time.  Hypothetically speaking of course.

Now that we are all in the same foggy kaleidoscope I think we can see eye to eye to eye to eye.  We are not, after all, cyclopes.  But just in case you are feeling nauseous, please feel free to start over from the beginning.  It should all make sense to you as long as you try hard enough and don't fall under the misguided notion that any of this means anything.

Sometimes there is a point to things that are being said.  Other times things are being said specifically to discourage rational thought.  It's election time again, so I'm just trying to go with the flow.  I hope I have achieved an acceptable level of nonsense to fit the occasion.

Why Does My Wife Worry About Leaving Me Home Alone?

I feel it is my obligation to set the record straight on something.  However I'm not exactly sure, nor even remotely sure what that thing is.  It seems perplexing, I know, but deep down I just know that I'm destined to shine a light on some hitherto misunderstood concept and thereby alter the course of humanity.  I accept my duty with humility and determination.  I have no delusions of grandeur because popularity has nothing to do with it.  I'm just rolling with the circumstances I've been given.

You might wonder where I would get such an idea.  Well, I really like Chinese food.  Not the fancy authentic stuff but the cheap, triple portion, just out of the microwave take-out stuff.  It satisfies my taste buds like a paternity test to a daytime talk show addict.  Oh yes, and I do use chopsticks.  I find that they give me an exhilarating sense of dexterity. 

It goes without saying then that I have eaten my share of fortune cookies.  I have even come to like the way they taste especially with a little of that bright red sweet and sour sauce on them.  I love to read the fortunes and in the past I have written them off as silly novelties that were meant only for entertainment.  However, after many, many fortunes I have yet to read one that said "you will never reveal an important new finding."  After so many years of never having such a fortune I have come to the conclusion that, novelty or not, this must be a sign.  

I don't like to be superstitious because the Sixth Sense really freaked me out and I don't want to worry about creepy apparitions haunting me.  But the evidence in this case is quite irrefutable.  No matter how you look at it something big is coming and it's coming by way of me.  I try not to speculate too much on what it might be but I'm pretty certain that it will include a campaign against prevailing wisdom and time honored traditions.  Obviously you can't have something new without first throwing away the old outdated stuff.  I'll probably end up taking my fight all the way to congress and giving my loyal followers enough sound bites to keep them happily chirping into as many megaphones as we can get our hands on.

I sincerely hope that this foreknowledge about my upcoming duties doesn't cause alarm.  I'm simply following the plan set out before me by so many others.  I am no egomaniac and I fully comprehend that I am not the first to have this responsibility placed upon me, nor will I be the last.  I can think of several recent issues that give me a firm confidence that I am not the only one who has read between the lines of the fortune cookie.

So for now we wait.  I will shoulder this burden with a happy heart content in the knowledge that somewhere out there is a secret that nobody really cares about nor benefits from and I get to spill it to the world.  And how will I know it when I find it?  Easy, the eight ball will tell me.

Investing in Gold

Coincidentally, the year my wife lost her mind, was the same year we got married.  Although she has since completely regained her faculties, we have nevertheless remained together.  Just another example in the long list of undeserved miracles that is my life.   

At the time I was married, almost 13 years ago, my parents had been married for over 37 years.  I mention my parents for two reasons:  First of all, they too are an example of my undeserved blessings, and secondly, if you do the math you’ll notice that they are celebrating 50 years of marriage this year.  I’d like to clear this up for all of you non-mathematicians out there.   A little less than 13 plus a little more than 37 equals exactly 50.

Fifty years of marriage is no small feat, although small feet were involved.  There were 10 of them to be precise, 4 girl feet and 6 boy feet.  Now those feet have turned into more feet than I care to count at the moment, besides, I think I’ve carried the feet thing far enough.

Fifty years seems like an impossibly long amount of time.  Waiting a few seconds for a computer to boot up often seems like an eternity to me.  That’s probably because I’m not a good multi-tasker.   I see things one event at a time which makes time itself seem to be at a standstill.  However, I am often reminded that time does continue its methodical march forward with unrelenting force.  I see it most often when I notice the increasing size of the six little feet in my own home.  Sorry, I promise I won’t mention the feet thing again.  

This reminds me of a story.  I can’t remember where I read it, probably on a cheesy Hallmark card, but it seems appropriate:

I once met a man who’s journey began nearly a thousand lifetimes before

So I followed a while and he said with a smile, “I’ll try not to be a bore.

You see I move slowly, to those who don’t know me, and that causes some to yearn

For a much quicker pace, to move up in the race on the path to the prize they will earn.

But the more we progress the more you’ll request not to go so terribly fast,

For despite how it seems, as you wait for your dreams, there’s great joy in the times that have passed.”

So I took his advice, trying to be nice, but deep down I wondered if ever

I would really believe that he hadn’t deceived me just to show me that he was more clever.

Yet now I have seen how naïve I had been not to believe what he knew,

As the days quickly speed by and I wonder why I can’t just stop and enjoy the view.

I could never understand why my parents always wanted to get in the car just to go for a drive.  We would simply pull out of the driveway and take the long way home.  Sometimes it would only take a few minutes and sometimes it lasted several days.  We often called the longer drives vacations, but we all knew what my Dad had in mind… he was always on his way home.  I think I get it now.  My parents taught us to go out and have experiences and see new places, but to never forget the things that are most important.

Mom and Dad, Happy Anniversary!!  You’ve both led inspirational lives, but try not to let that go to your heads.  It’s good to look back and see how far you’ve come, maybe reminisce for a while, but keep in mind, the best is always yet to come.  That's the way I learned it anyway.

All in the Name of Safety

Back in the stone age, when we still dragged our women about by the hair, we didn't give a rip about safety.  In those days airport security x-ray vision was limited to your luggage (ooh la la), computer mice weren't ergonomic and ATVs only had three wheels!  These three wheeled contraptions were the source of too many injuries and so production was discontinued in favor of their four wheeled cousins. 

Three wheelers had a certain dynamic that simply couldn’t be matched with a four wheeler.  While I suppose it may be possible to tip a four wheeler on its side and ride on two wheels, it was much easier to do on a three wheeler.  Ironically this easy tipping action was one of the main reasons that three wheelers were banned.  What a shame. 

We had a three wheeler when I was growing up.  It was a blast!  We took it camping and used it for work and just rode it around the yard for fun.  It carried me out every frigid Idaho summer morning to move sprinkler pipe.  My sister would drive and I would sit on the back trying to remember what my fingers felt like.  In a cruel climatological joke, common to Idaho summers, by the time we finished our work the temperature had gone from sub-zero to what seemed like the high 140's, which made that parka I had put on earlier seem silly, and the three wheeler was our salvation from mosquitoes so thick they showed up on weather radar. 

One time the three wheeler was our pack mule on a hunting trip, which should be a good indication of how far I typically ventured from the road while hunting.  I have a general philosophy about big game hunting, which is; it has to be cheaper and easier than going to the grocery store.  Consequently I haven’t been hunting in many, many years.  I still remember riding along the road with my brother when we spotted a deer approximately 30,000 feet up the mountain.  He stopped and quickly got to the side of the road, aimed and fired.  His shot was too low and the deer he was aiming at gently loped away.  But the unfortunate deer that had been lying unseen in the brush a few yards downhill wasn’t so lucky.  Further evidence that safety can have detrimental effects.  Sometimes you’re better off staring a threat in the face than trying to avoid it altogether.

The three wheeler did have its dangers.  Most of these I avoided for one simple reason, I couldn’t start it by myself.  I couldn’t pull the rope that cranked the engine.  I think I’ve mentioned in the past that I am somewhat vertically challenged.  Always have been.  As a teenager I had to stand on my tip toes to reach the car door handle.  I’m perfectly content with my height though, and the only reason I buy shoes with a two inch sole is in case of a flash flood.  A two inch deep flash flood is by far the most dangerous because it almost never causes any damages or injuries and therefore proper caution is neglected.  I think I’ve wandered from the topic…  When you are two feet shorter than a five foot long rope it makes it difficult to pull said rope far enough to make an engine roar to life.  Needless to say, the day I was finally able to start the three wheeler all by myself still holds a special place in my memory.  Right there with the time that I scaled Mt. Everest and the time that I broke the land speed record.

Crashes on the three wheeler did happen upon occasion.  When my sister crashed she would do everything she could to avoid having anyone find out what she had done:

“Hey sis, why is your arm dangling by a single tendon?” 

“Oh... um... square dancing got a little rowdy today.  Nothing to worry about.” 

As for me, I milked any injury for all it was worth:

 “Mom, I fell off the three wheeler and my knee is bleeding!”

 “Where?” 

“Out in the field.” 

“No, no, where is it bleeding?” 

“On my knee!!” 

“Are you sure?  That looks like a freckle to me.” 

“NO DON’T TOUCH IT!!  I feel faint… I don’t think I can move pipe in the morning… and I might need to eat ice cream for dinner.”

“Oh you’ll be fine, and for heaven’s sake stop squirming, I keep missing the spot with this mini band aid!”

My sister was always tougher than me anyway.  I’m pretty sure she broke her collar bone playing tackle football in the sixth grade.  I, on the other hand, was still begging everyone to play two-hand touch until… well, last week as a matter of fact.

I suppose our continuous quest for a safer world has been beneficial.  It certainly fits my personality better and we have avoided countless accidents.  But, as with the deer lying unseen in the bushes, all of this safety can take a mighty toll on our adventures.  Can you imagine the fairytales that will be told in future centuries about our times?  “Humpty Dumpty sat on an ergonomic chair with his feet on the ground.  Humpty Dumpty did not fall.  On the advice of the safety committee, all the King’s horses were replaced with four wheelers and all the King’s men played touch football.”  I'm sure they'll be awestruck.

The Way Things Really Are

I remember the very first political question I ever asked my father.  It was 1980 and I was all of 5 years old.  Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter were running for President and I innocently asked my dad, "how is the President picked?"  Without a seconds hesitation he coolly responded "the one who gets the most money wins." 

I tried hard to imagine how that must work.  Of course I didn't know anything about fund raising or costly political campaigns back then.  In my mind I envisioned the two candidates dressed in their nicest suits and squaring off on a big stage, each one with a large bin of pennies in front of him.  Someone would fire the starting pistol and they would madly reach into the bins, pull out handfuls of coins and stuff them into their pockets.  In fact, as I watched the news footage of Ronald Reagan when he got shot, I mistakenly assumed that it was already election time again.

I hate to admit how old I was when I finally realized that this is not really the way the President is chosen.   Although it may be more meaningful than the circus that we actually have to endure.   I still have a vivid picture in my imagination of Ronald Reagan dancing in celebration on a penny covered stage with Jimmy Carter looking on in disappointment.  You'd think, for that sort of work, that a peanut farmer would have better hands than an old actor.  Go figure!

It's funny how our first impression of something stays with us even after we've learned that it's false.  I remember thinking that California was a row of three houses near the high school that I attended just outside of Blackfoot, Idaho.  Of course I wasn't in high school at the time.  Even now that I live in California, at least for a little longer anyway, whenever I go back to visit and pass that row of houses, I still picture redwoods and smell the ocean.  Well, to be more accurate, I picture gang tags and smell the smog.  I know very well that California is not a trio of houses in Idaho but for some reason it was deeply ingrained in my mind at a tender age and that impression stuck.

We just passed Memorial Day and I remember as a child preparing flowers and taking them to the cemetery to place on the graves of loved ones.  To this day I will do everything I can to avoid walking directly on top of a grave site.  I always try to walk as close in front of the headstone as possible in order to stay on the narrow strip between graves.  I'd like to say that I do this wholly out of respect, however, that's not the only reason.  You see, when you're a child, at that age where understanding and innocence are still sort of muddled together, a cemetery is just another park with lots of ornately carved playground equipment.  So in order to keep me from disrespecting the dearly departed by leaping from headstone to headstone my parents told me that if I climbed on the headstones, or even stepped on a grave, then that person would raise their foot up out of the dirt and kick me. As I pondered this phenomenon, I looked at the neatly cut grass covering the grave sites and the riding lawnmower parked near the caretaker's shed and thought to myself "that must be one bumpy ride."  I've never had a curious nature about creepy things and this was one thing that, whether true or not, I wasn't going to mess with.  If all I have to do to avoid the remote possibility of a dead person's foot rising out of the ground and kicking me is to not step on a grave, then I'm happy to oblige.

I could go on but I fear that I may be revealing a bit too much about how I perceive the world around me.  I would hate for anyone to get the wrong idea about the strength of my grasp on reality.  Although it does strike me as odd that our current President went about his entire election campaign desperately looking for change.

One Step Forward, or is it Backward?

I'm told that my brain has two different sides.  A right side and a left side.  Apparently each side controls the side of my body opposite to it.  So the right side of my brain controls the left side of my body and the left side of my brain controls the right side of my body and vice-versa.  Am I the only one like this?  I can't imagine this is according to design.  Not only are my wires crossed, but each side of my brain supposedly has different characteristics from the other.  One side is more creative and the other side is more logical. Unfortunately my logical side is stronger than the creative side.  I say unfortunately because it seems like the people who have more creativity and less logic have more fun.

The only logical explanation is that my head is on backwards.  Think about it.  What direction do almost every other creature's hind legs bend?  Have you ever noticed that walking uphill backwards is easier than walking forwards?  Hang your arms limp at your sides.  Which way do they face?  It all makes sense.  At some point in the past our heads must have gotten turned around backwards and ever since we've been all mixed up.  No wonder they say hindsight is 20/20.  It must come from the days before we got twisted.

How different would life be if we had our heads on straight?  I'm pretty sure low rider pants would go out of style in a hurry if those people could see what everyone else has been seeing all along.  It's quite disgusting!  Also, imagine all of the stubbed toes and dented shins that would have been avoided.  That inside pitch to the mid-section back in little league wouldn't have hurt so bad either.

I wonder if someday we will get our heads back on the right way.  Maybe then we won't try so many backward solutions to so many of our problems.  I suppose it's not likely to happen any time soon. 

That's Just Not Normal

We all have our eccentricities.  Somehow we end up incorporating them into our lives in such a way that we can become as normal as possible.  In statistics the term "normal" is defined as the average of a group of numbers.  If we apply that definition to life, then being "normal" depends largely on the company that you keep.  Of course when I mention this to people in casual conversation they often tend to scatter... I'm not sure what that means.

Now, I don't mean to say that our personalities automatically match those of our peers.  Although this is often the case.  I'm simply saying that the social definition of normal is relative to the society at large.  So when somebody calls me abnormal, it doesn't mean that there is something wrong with me, it might just as easily be said that there is something wrong with everybody else.

Some people go out of their way to be abnormal.  I can relate to this.  I don't want to be totally predictable.  This doesn't mean that I don't want to be stable.  Stability and predictability are two totally different concepts.  Unpredictable means coming home from work and taking the family out for ice cream before eating dinner.  Unstable means coming home from work wearing a suit and tie and then going out for the evening wearing high heels and a gown.

In reality, no sane person by themselves can claim to be normal.  Being normal requires a group, otherwise there is nobody to compare with.  This is where the schizophrenic has the upper hand.  They are the only people who can be completely alone and still call themselves normal because they keep most of their social network conveniently tucked away in their own minds.  Ironic isn't it?  It's only when they are amongst other people, who don't happen to be figments of their imagination, that their behavior becomes abnormal.  It's sort of like the scenario where a tree falls in the forest with nobody around.  Does it still make a noise?  Likewise, if a crazy person is alone and there are no normal people around to define him, is he still crazy?

The point is that we expect people to behave a certain way, and when they don't, it makes us uncomfortable.  We can't predict what they will do, and more than anything else, we fear the unknown.  In fact I would guess that the majority of our time, energy and resources go towards protecting ourselves from the unknown.  Like scary parts in movies, the anticipation of what will happen next is much more unnerving than the actual event.  Except for the flying monkeys on the Wizard of Oz.  The sight of them still creeps me out.

It's not just abnormally bad behavior that worries us either.  When a bad person suddenly does something good we tend to put ourselves on guard.  This abnormal behavior, although good in itself, is nonetheless abnormal and leaves us wondering what will happen next.  There is comfort in predictability, but when we break out of the molds that we build for ourselves, then what happens next is anybodies guess.

Any change we make in our lives, be it for the better or worse, brings uncertainty because it isn't normal for us.  The comforting thing is that there are countless others who are also making changes and seeking a new normal.  Thank goodness for Facebook, which is full of abnormally normal people.  If you can't find like-minded people there, then you could always consider schizophrenia.  It works for me, and me, and me...

Honored to Serve You

Wow, I'm in a bit of a spot.  Like the rest of you, I recently read, to my horror, that this years federal work force is going to be the largest ever!  Appalling!  But that's not the worst part.  Guess who their latest recruit is?  You're lookin' at him!  (Well, not literally looking at him, only figuratively, unless you're reading this while I'm standing near you.  Hi Melissa!)  Yep, my new big boss is none other than Mr. Change himself.  

Don't let my tongue in cheek fool you, I'm very excited about my new job.  I'll be going to work for one of the only federal agencies who ever gave a dam.  In fact, they gave several thousand dams.  That's right I'm going to be the newest engineer with the Bureau of Reclamation.  Love them or hate them, they made the western United States what it is today.

I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am at the prospect of endlessly repeating every dam joke I've ever heard and hopefully learning some new dam jokes.  "Meet you at the dam store."  "Better check the dam safety guide..."  "I got lost on the dam road... " "Has anybody seen my dam pamphlet?"  Oh, the tears are flowing!

On March 15, 2010, I officially take up my post at Yuma, Arizona.  Home of the famous... um... (quickly googling "yuma arizona famous") ... Home of the Famous Footwear?  Hmm, I'll have to check that out.

Needless to say my family feels terribly excited.  Only, leave off the "excited".  We've made some great friends here and we have had an all around great time living in southern California.  Much better than I had expected.  Change is never fun, no matter what anybody says.  But I am hopeful that things will turn out just as good, if not better, for us in Yuma.  It's like my good friend John always says, "you get to take the most important things with you."  

Shadows and Arrows

February has always sort of confused me and not just because of the way it's spelled.  On the one hand, we celebrate Valentine's Day which is an all out, over-the-top, mushfest of sentimentality and affection.  For women it is a day of hopeful anticipation that they will receive a token of admiration from that special someone.  For men it means a mad dash to the grocery store the night before to find that the only thing left is a broken chocolate cupid and some road flares.  Nothing says you care like emergency preparedness and a naked, one armed greek god.

It is generally a time to show that we care enough about our most cherished relationships to take at least a little extra thought and do something out of the ordinary.  In essence it is a time of either renewing old bonds or giving fresh new life to a budding relationship.  Sort of like Spring.

This brings me to the confusing part of February.  Before we get to all this lovey, dovey, "Spring is in the air", celebration, we must first find out if Spring is indeed in the air.  And who is the wise sage that brings us tidings of the changing seasons?  Wrong, it's not Al Gore.  We have a much more trustworthy source in the form of a rodent.  Yep, Groundhogs day.  This furry little critter comes out of his warm home just long enough to give us the weather forecast and then he's done for another year.  Must be a rough life.

See there's no problem if he pops his head out and proclaims - yup, it's Spring, let the good times roll!  In that case it is perfectly appropriate to celebrate Valentine's Day two weeks later.  But what if he comes out and says - sorry, six more weeks - shouldn't we postpone the festivities until mid March?  That way it would coincide nicely with St. Patrick's Day and all of those red and green Christmas decorations that are still up in the yard won't seem quite so out of place.  But no, instead of a Top o' the Mornin' Valentine's Day, we go on undeterred and celebrate Valentine's Day in the dead of winter.

So here's my question, why do we even bother the groundhog?  We aren't going to change our plans anyway, we should just leave him alone.  It's like asking for directions when you are lost and then continuing to wander aimlessly.

As usual, I'm probably the only person in the world who is worried about this, so I should probably just let it go.  You can't really expect logic from a culture who insists on randomly changing their clocks twice a year in the name of saving daylight.  It seems that the last four hundred years of increased knowledge about our solar system would make it clear that the sun doesn't stay up longer just because we adjust our clocks.  It's enough to make Copernicus roll over in his grave!

Well, at least I know what my plans are for next Saturday night.  Fortunately I live in a place where there is no winter so none of this really matters in the slightest.  As for those of you who are still entrenched in the snowy depths of winter; at least you can warm your hearts with a store bought sign of your undying affection.  Awe, isn't that sweet?

Say What?

I don't like ugly words.  Ugly words are the words that can't be classified as swear words but that nonetheless detract from an otherwise harmonious atmosphere.  The bad boys of the ugly words are "shut up" and "stupid".  If you say either of these words in our house then you'd better be prepared to receive a harsh lecture from the Uglyword Patrol, which consists of an 11 year old boy and a 6 year old girl.  I never realized what a serious combination that could turn out to be. 

I normally don't have a problem avoiding the words 'shut up'.  I'm not big enough to enforce that on anyone but my children anyway, and that just seems weak and bullyish.  Besides, they can be taken care of with a simple threat of grounding.  The word 'stupid' on the other hand is much more difficult for me.  Not that I call my kids stupid, but it slips out so often when I'm talking about other things.  For example, when I'm discussing the current popular social themes, it's difficult for me to complete an entire sentence without using the word 'stupid'.  Maybe I'm just not sympathetic enough with the whining, gimme this and gimme that, mentality that I hear from every stupid bleeding heart that get's their fat face on my television.  See there I go again!

What I need is to find another word that can suit the purpose.  How about asinine?  Yes, that sounds much less ugly.  It's also a little more gratifying to say, for some reason.  Let me try it out -- Maybe I'm just not sympathetic enough with the whining, gimme this and gimme that, mentality that I hear from every stupid asinine bleeding heart that get's their fat face on my television.  Oh yes, that's much better!  I'll add more asinine to my vocabulary.  I'll work on "fat" later.  (Hmm... that sounds eerily similar to my diet and exercise routine.)

I guess the other solution would be to take a more positive approach to confronting the differing opinions of the day.  I do admire those who seem to be able to hold their cool in the face of a riotous crowd that is fully engaged in a mindless chant.  I only wish I knew how to do that.  For me there is no peace until I have said something that I know I will regret later.  It's a strange kind of therapy, kind of like acupuncture.  First the barbs and then the relief.

I suppose I'll try to keep the ugly words to a minimum.  I just hope nobody is around when I tell the next stupid asinine political pundit  to shut up.  Oh dear, here comes the patrol.  Quick, what can I ground them from?

An Even Dozen

I saw the strangest thing in Walmart the other day.  (Bet you've never heard that before.)  I was walking through the mens hygiene section, as I often do, and I came across a bottle of all-in-one shampoo, conditioner and body wash.  Aren't those all the same thing?  I always thought all those bottles in the shower were just for variety.  I guess that might explain why every third day I have such a hard time making the soap lather up.

I'm just not very knowledgeable about such things.  I'm not sophisticated.  My favorite color is plaid, my favorite pants are Levis, I cut and style my own hair and, you guessed it, back in high school it was whitey tighties all the way baby.  I am the exact opposite of a metrosexual male.  Although I don't wear flannel.  I know flannel doesn't really itch, but it looks like it should.

So you might be wondering, who on earth would marry this person who is merely one step, give or take, above a Neanderthal?  Well I can tell you she is very patient.  Patient enough to have lasted twelve painfully un-color-coordinated years.  She has a sense of humor too.  The other day she was headed to the craft store and she considerately asked me if there was anything I wanted her to pick up while she was there.  I told her I wanted some denimfleece so that I could make myself a hat, with tassles, and a matching man-bag.  And what was waiting for me when I got home from work?  Yep, she made the whole thing, even down to the Magenta thread.

What a remarkable woman I got!  I can hardly believe it's already been twelve years.  But I'm sure that it has because that's what she wrote on the calendar.  That calendar has saved my bacon on more than one occasion.  Just another example of what a caring wife I have.  She is actively helping me to avoid being thoughtless.  (I'm not saying all of this because I'm in trouble right now.  Honest!  It's how I really feel.)

She walks beside me, while my knuckles drag, and together we have faced every challenge that has come our way.  Hopefully that's how it will continue.  It gives me hope for a bright future ahead.  (Hmm, this is getting too sappy.)

It's not that I'm trying to act uncivilized.  I just don't see the problem with wearing a brown shirt, brown shorts, white tube socks, brown shoes and a brownish yellow baseball cap.  The beauty of it is, she understands that I don't care and she helps me anyway.  That's devotion.  And I am getting better.  I even ventured into the womens clothing section to pick out her last birthday present.  I was certain that the Homeland Security's Masculinity and Counter Heartwarming Operations (MACHO) team would repel down from the ceiling at any moment to extract me from the premises.  However, it was actually pretty uneventful.  I picked out a couple of sweaters and a shirt.  Of course I got all the wrong sizes.

So here's to many more years of fumbling my way around the color wheel and putting myself into uncomfortable situations in search of the perfect gift.  I may not be able to find matching socks, but I know I've coordinated at least one thing right.

Happy Anniversary Melissa!!!!

Common Fugitives

I went through enough toilet paper when I was in high school to account for at least two thirds of Connell National Forest.  Fortunately for me, it wasn't all used in the traditional way.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that most of it never came anywhere near a bathroom, unless you count the bathroom window.

I was a frequent participant in the great American pastime of launching as many rolls of toilet paper as possible, in  ten minutes or less, into some unsuspecting person's yard.  Of course the houses weren't chosen at random.  I wasn't out decorating the homes of widows or anything like that.  I typically chose people that I was friends with.  You know, just to show them that I cared, in the only way that a high school teenage boy knows how.  By annoying them.

I wasn't alone either.  I won't name any names but I'm pretty sure that the vast majority of all five people who will ever read this were co-conspirators with me.  Of course I feel safe in confessing all of this because the statute of limitations on toilet tissue crimes has long since passed.  Besides, I've moved away and, therefore, no longer fear retribution.

Walking into a grocery store at 10:30 PM and buying a case of T-P is a rite of passage that every teenage boy must go through.  Incidentally, if you want to have some fun, try adding some things to your purchase.  Toilet paper and a magazine is always good.  You might score points with a cute cashier buy purchasing a tear jerker movie, like Old Yeller or Empire Strikes Back (it always gets me when Vader confesses his paternity), to go along with your case of toilet tissue.  The girls all like a sensitive man, or so I'm told.  However, my favorite items to go along with a late night toilet paper purchase are pork rinds, bratwurst, sauerkraut and root beer and then throw in a can of Lysol just to sweeten the deal.  This combination also helps to keep people from asking too many prying questions.

Picking the house is always somewhat of a challenge.  You have to choose somebody who won't get all bent out of shape when they wake up to a two-ply blizzard the next morning.  As I recall we usually chose girls' houses because, well, we were boys.  It just seemed natural. We never could keep it a very good secret though.  In fact sometimes we would even leave a trademark as a hint.  For instance, one night we left Snapple bottles on the doorstep.  They were empty of course.  Not that it matters.  The whole next week, every time we passed the victim at school, we tried to be either holding a Snapple or mentioning something about it.  Gosh, we were the clever ones!  I wonder if folks ever worried that they would someday see my face next to the caption, "Worlds Dumbest Criminal"?

There were hazards involved.  Of course we always ran the risk of getting caught.  This only happened once, and our punishment was being invited inside for hot chocolate.  Oh and cleaning up the mess the next day.  It was funny though, I could have sworn that there were four of us the night before, launching T-P grenades, but the next morning it turned out that there had only been two.  At least, that's all that showed up to clean anyway.

We also had to watch out for electric fences.  Oh how I still laugh out loud when I remember hearing the sudden shriek of pain piercing the night air.  Twice!!  The same night!!  I'm not sure what those folks were trying to keep out of their garden, but I do know of one individual who never entered it again.  And no, it wasn't me.

I guess what we were doing could be classified as vandalism.  Ancient petroglyphs were also technically vandalism when they were perpetrated.  Now they are priceless artifacts of past ages.  That's how I like to remember my late night escapades with my friends.  At least we were giving something useful.  You never know where or when that bratwurst might rear its ugly head.  We were simply making sure those folks were prepared.  So why not let the good times roll?

What is the Airspeed Velocity of an Unladen Swallow?

I can think of a thousand other things I would rather discuss than politics.  Unfortunately the massive political turmoil in our world right now is kind of like a big black hole that sucks... everything into it.  The result is that any topic, especially the price of rice in China, ends up leading to politics.

I could be talking about popsicles and that would lead to popsicle sticks and popsicle sticks look like tongue depressors and tongue depressors are used in doctors offices which are soon going to have pictures of President Obama in them, just like every other government building.

Or it could be as simple as discussing my favorite breakfast cereal, which of course has almonds in it.  More than 75% of the worlds almonds are grown right here in California, which has seen thousands of acres of farmland idled due to a combination of drought and rampant fish brained environmental regulation.

It's hopeless.  There is no topic that won't lead me on a collision course with some political mumbo jumbo.  It's even worse when I'm conversing with somebody besides myself, although I don't draw as many stares when I'm not alone.

I want to be optimistic and say that things will settle down soon and we can resume our pointless discussions about the weather without leading to a debate over global warming climate change.  I try hard every day to think positively.  I really do.  But then I get cut off in traffic and I'm reminded of birds sitting on my hand at the zoo, which reminds me that all of the animals are going extinct and, unless I live in a hole in the ground in the middle of prime farmland, then my livelihood isn't important enough to be protected.

Still, I hang onto the hope that one day I won't be enveloped in all this constant political upheaval.  I'm pretty sure the founding fathers hoped for that day too.  In fact, the hope probably stems all the way back to Adam and Eve.  After all, they were the pioneers of the two party system.  Polar opposites who simultaneously depended on each other for survival and, I'm sure at times, wished to annihilate one another.  And the debate has stirred ever since.

In the midst of all the chaos, it's good to keep in mind that life is about having experiences, both good and bad.  With those experiences comes knowledge.  With that knowledge comes freedom.  With that freedom comes the ACLU.  Doh!!!! 

Finding Outstanding New Ways to Celebrate Mediocrity

Okay, so what just happened?  Here we all are, standing on this lovely spinning ball, as it travels in an endless arc around a massive eternal explosion.  Each day of the year is nothing more than a calculated position along a well defined trajectory.  So what's the big deal?  Why all the celebration?

I understand celebrating something that has never happened before, and will never happen again.  That is a truly significant event.  But this is all going to happen again next year, and then again the year after that.  It's like watching a car race and celebrating each lap as if it were some incredible accomplishment.  The track goes around and around, where else was the car going to go?  Likewise with the earth, where else would it go but around and around?

If there were some obstacles in there, then that would be something different.  Instead of a car race, make it a demolition derby.  Now, there's excitement!  If the earth were bouncing between planets like a pinball, then celebrating each lap around the sun would definitely be appropriate.  In that case it is entirely likely that each lap could be our last.

As it is, la-dee-dah.  Been there, done that.  Here we are at the beginning, see you at the end, happy new year.

Nothing New, Nothing Original

Christmas has been written about literally since the beginning of time.  The imagery and allegory surrounding the Saviors birth have been described in countless writings.  The story has been told from the perspective of kings, shepherds, angels, animals, trees and even Whos.  What more could possibly be written of that great event?

Well, it's never been written about from my perspective.  Of course, I'm not exactly sure what my perspective might have been.  Was I in the heavenly choirs?  I don't think so.  Judging by my voice now, the veil would have to be made of some kind of cosmic titanium cement in order to so effectively muffle that sort of talent.  I'm pretty sure I wasn't with the angelic messengers either.  Statistically speaking, it's highly improbable.

I'm guessing that I was probably worrying about all the little stuff that was going on and missing the bigger picture.  That's typical of me.  I can't just enjoy the moment.  I have to scrutinize every last detail and try to find obscure resolutions to all the insignificant events.  It's quite likely that I created at least one spreadsheet during the whole sequence of events.  Spreadsheets, after all, are the staff of analytical life.

Instead of marveling at the humble circumstances of the stable, I was probably doing some quick figures to see just how many more hotel franchises were necessary in order to accommodate the sudden influx of travelers.  I'm sure that, instead of relishing in the symbolism of the lowly shepherds being the first to visit the manger scene, I was probably worried about what was happening to their sheep while they were gone.  When the star was shining in the east, I was probably thinking about the west.  Mostly because I prefer the west.

More than likely, I was just one of the countless masses who were gathered to experience the singular events that were about to take place.  Nothing spectacular, just one of the crowd.  But I was one.  So were you.  We were there, watching.

So I guess my perspective is that I am just one of many, many others who still  marvel at such an extraordinary event.  But I am one.  He knows me and He knows you.  And that's a mighty comforting perspective.

Merry Christmas!

Do You Take Cream?

I'm sure we've all been stuck in a refrigerator at one time or another in our lives.  For me, that time came when I was probably around 6 or 7 years old.  I had a very good reason for getting into the fridge, but my plans took a serious turn for the worse when I failed to properly communicate my sound logic to the nearest responsible adult.

It all started with a cow.  I've never had much use for livestock.  I prefer mine medium to medium well.  But this particular cow was a lovely holstein named Daisy, who gave enough milk to keep us and at least two other families well mustached.  Every day, after we milked the cow, mom would put the milk in a refrigerator out in the garage.  I use the term "we milked" very loosely.  I usually just watched.  After the milk and cream had separated, mom would go out and skim off the cream.  I liked to accompany her while doing this, again, just to watch, because it looked cool as she carefully spooned the cream from the top of the milk.  Simple minds, simple pleasures.

As an aside, and this has nothing to do with the story, she used to take some of the cream and pour it over some freshly picked raspberries.  Add a little sugar and you have one of my fondest childhood memories.  Okay, back to the story.

This one particular day, she was skimming cream and I was less interested in her work than normal. So I thought up a game, all by myself I might add.  The idea was that I would climb into the fridge, shut the door and then after a few minutes, mom would open the door and let me out.  I know, this astounding creativity truly foreshadowed a mind destined for greatness.

I carefully explained my plans to mom, climbed inside, and shut the door.  In case you've never skimmed cream, or seen it done, it requires total concentration and a steady hand to make sure that you don't scoop up any milk or leave too much cream.  My mom was good at it.  So good, in fact, that she could shut out any interruptions, including the carefully planned out strategies of her youngest prodigy.  In her defense, who really ever thinks that their child is in danger of getting trapped inside a refrigerator?  I'm pretty sure it's not something that most parents ever take a second thought about.

I have to explain here that this was an older fridge.  Apparently back in the early days of refrigerators, folks were quite concerned about their food escaping so they installed latches on the doors.  Since there is no door handle on the inside of a refrigerator, of course you can see what an alarming safety hazard this could be.

There I was, shivering inside the fridge and anxiously awaiting the moment when the door would pop open and I would triumphantly climb out and greet my cheering fans.  Waiting... still waiting... Okay, now I was getting a little concerned.  I don't remember how long I was in there, but it must have been at least two and a half, or three minutes.  Long enough for me to fully comprehend some deep flaws in my otherwise foolproof plan.

Luckily I was a chatterbox as a child and so my mom, upon returning to the house, instantly noticed the relative peace and quiet.  Like most parents, she was deeply concerned when there was peace and quiet in the house.  Peace and quiet when you have children is sort of like having that extra dessert.  It's seems so nice at the time, but there are unseen consequences that won't be fun to fix.

Needless to say, since I am writing about it nearly three decades later, mom quickly found me and set me free.  It makes me wonder if the fridge was typically the first place she checked when she was looking for me.  Although, to this day, it's a safe bet that if you don't know where I'm at, check the fridge.  As my wife can attest.

Well, there you have it.  Your typical harrowing experience of cheating death from being trapped in the fridge.  It just goes to show that no matter how well thought out your plans are, it's probably best not to climb into the fridge.  Words to live by.

Problem Solved

I've got it!  Talk about killing multiple birds with one stone, I have an idea that is far reaching and multifaceted.  Let's outline some of todays greatest challenges:

- cheap alternative energy
- health care
- high unemployment

They all have the same answer.  Exercise!!!

Are you with me?  Let me explain.

We have an exercise machine known as an elliptical.  You've probably seen one, its like a cross between a stationary bike and a stair climber.  Today I was somewhat considering the possibility of thinking about maybe deciding to make a goal of climbing on it and trying to get some exercise.

Then the idea hit me.  All three times I've used the elliptical I've been fascinated that it measures the wattage that I'm generating with my workout.  Just now I got on and I was putting out a full 500 watts.

Now do you see where I'm going?  We've got a lot of people out of work right now...

Just think about it.  Renewable energy, healthier people, new jobs.  It's the ultimate cure-all.

Who's with me?  I can see it now.  We'll put an exercise place next to every sub-station and everyone will have to take their turn in it, just like jury duty.  Let's just call it an energy tax.

If I Could Only Remember the Color of That Yellowbrick Road

I am not always right.  In the past I've said this, but I'm not sure I've always believed it.  Sometimes I think I was just playing along to make everyone else feel good.  Deep down, I've always been pretty secure that my judgment was without reproach.

That is until recently when it occurred to me that I am truly not perfect, nor have I ever been.  Talk about a shocker!  I do stupid things.  Things that any sane person would have to shake their head at in disbelief.  What's more is that, even when my opinion has merit, somebody else might have an equally viable approach that seemingly contradicts me. 

I've always judged my perfection status on how well things are going in my life.  My life is pretty good.  I've got a wonderful wife, great kids and we've got what we need to live.  So one could only assume that my decisions have been spot on.  Turns out I can't take any more credit for how my life has turned out than I can for the autumn leaves changing colors.  The real kicker is that my life has turned out well almost in spite of some of my past choices rather than because of them.

As you can imagine, this new found self-awareness has been more than a little disconcerting.  I find myself second guessing everything I do, and then I second guess my second guesses.  I suppose that would be called tertiary guessing, or would it be quaternary, or maybe I should just call it poly-guessing?  Oh, who knows what is right?

You see, now that I know for sure that I'm not always right, I'm not sure if I should keep on going as before, making stupid mistakes, that I believe to be correct, and hoping that things will continue to turn out well.  Or, am I now obligated to making no more mistakes and, if I'm ever wrong again, facing the fact that irreparable harm has been done to my future?

It seems like the more I think something is right, the more I'm sure that I must be completely out of my mind.  This is the dilemma that doesn't end but instead it perpetually regenerates itself.  I am truly at a loss with this one.  I can't continue forward because I will certainly make the same stupid mistakes that I have made in the past.  I might even make some entirely new mistakes and add a whole new dimension to my imperfection.   

There really is no moral to this story.  I can't draw any conclusions or wrap up my thoughts into a neat little package of polished enlightenment.  Sorry to disappoint.

I suppose I could give the old stand-by responses of "keep trying" and "never give up."  Those sound good in theory, but in practice, well, they kind of make me want to find the happiest person I can see and break an egg over their head.  Serves them right.

What I really need is a set of specifications to follow.  Clearly worded and not in the least bit vague.  The problem is that I could never write them for myself, for obvious reasons that I have already explained.  But I can write them for everyone else because, even though I'm not always right about my own life, I can tell you that if the world worked the way I think it should then everyone would be much better off.

So here are just a few rules to live by, and as always, no charge.

1 - If possible, choose the graveled over the paved road.  You may not get to your destination as fast but, in the event of an unexpected blizzard, you'll have better traction.  Anyone who lives in Idaho can tell you that, on any day of the year, blizzard conditions could be only moments away.

2 - To my knowledge, nobody has ever actually died from yellow snow, but that is no reason to test your luck just because you're not quite sure it's the real thing.

3 - Toilet seat ... down!  It's just not worth the convenience, no matter how long you've been holding it.

4 - Pick the diesel truck every time.  I'm sorry, but that is truly the way an engine is supposed to sound.

5 - A 12oz RibEye with no sauce and nothing for dessert, definitely qualifies as a lowfat meal.  Live it up!

In Their Own Special Way

How do you give thanks?  What does it really mean to give thanks?  I can give a person a dollar or an ice cream cone but it escapes me how I can give someone a thing that I can't see, feel or smell.   Rarely do I give things that can only be smelled, and usually it's on accident.

There is something about giving thanks that defies all logic.  On my birthday, for example, I receive gifts.  My response to receiving these tangible items is two words, "thank you."  I am a cheapskate but this takes it to an extreme!  The crazy thing is that those two words seem to do the trick, and not just for me.  It seems to be somewhat universal.

The whole thing just doesn't make sense.  How can a gift giver be satisfied with a simple phrase expressing gratitude?  It's human nature to want something in return, yet most people are more content with a simple acknowledgment of the gift and a word or two of sincere appreciation from the receiver.

It seems that there must be something deep down inside each one of us that triggers our most complete joy when those around us are thriving.  Indeed, there is something a little more shallow within us that wants to thrive just a little bit more than everyone else, but that joy is fleeting.  Maybe when we get a "thank you" from someone it triggers the deeper joy because we had some small part in improving the well being of another.

So here we are at Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday of the year by the way.  Probably because it involves engorging myself with a weeks worth of outstanding cuisine in one afternoon.  Yes, I like Thanksgiving  even more than Christmas, and, what's more, I have a grown-up reason for liking it better.   I think it's because, in my opinion, Thanksgiving still celebrates what Christmas is supposed to be all about.  Saying thank you for a Gift, and giving in return, the truest sense of joy to the Giver.

It's good to be thankful and it's nice to be thanked every once in a while, even though it defies all logic and goes against human nature.  I suppose, as they say in the Hoky Poky, "that's what it's all about."