Life

Softball

My daughter Jillian was never big into softball. This was her second year playing and she was just going through the motions taking it in stride. In the beginning she seemed to be excited about playing short stop, first base or even pitching for the Palmer Inferno. Alas, as most nine-year olds tend to do in anything that involves commitment, every time a practice or game rolled around she became adamant about not wanting to go.

For most of this season her team did great. They even started the season with six straight wins. But then it seemed like the wheels just fell off. Many of the girls on the team, Jillian included, went into games not really wanting to play and it showed. Poor play, not hustling to field balls and striking out a lot. It was painful to watch and the losses started to mount.

There was even one game where we had to arrive late because Jillian had a conflicting dance class. We got to the game an hour into it and as we arrived everyone was already packing up and leaving.

When I asked what happened I was told that they had to invoke the “mercy rule” because the team was getting beaten so badly there was no way they would catch up. Many parents of her teammates told me they’ve never seen them so lazy. And yet, none of the girls seemed to care about it. Little did they know that laziness was going to come back to haunt them.

Yesterday was the final game of the season. Even with the lack of enthusiasm the Palmer Inferno had still somehow managed to be only one game away from getting the final spot in the playoffs. And as much as I tried to get Jillian excited about the game and the possibilities that existed with a win, the glumness persisted. She seemed more eager to just have this game over with so she could go back to doing what ever it was kids do prior to summer vacation from school.

Ironically, a brief rain shower had just ended and a rainbow appeared overhead on our drive to the softball field. I told Jillian that seeing the rainbow was a sure sign that good things were to happen. I don’t think she bought it.

Down 9-2 to the Forks Cougars after the second of six innings it looked like it was over. I was even considering packing up and getting a head start on traffic but then something happened. A walk, a single, a run, another run, a walk. Before any of us knew it they had scored eight runs, taken the lead and suddenly it was a ball game.

During the bottom of the fourth inning her team did the unthinkable: a triple play. Something I doubt has ever happened in a softball league with nine-year old girls. I began to see the excitement in her eyes as she could taste victory. I wondered if maybe that rainbow we saw was really an omen after all.

The game wound up going into extra innings. The Inferno was able to get the go ahead run and lead 11-10. By this point Jillian and the rest of her team were whole heartedly into the game. The smile she had on her face was priceless as she stood playing third base. I have to admit, I was pretty stoked too. But in the end, with two outs down, the Cougars wound up hitting a two run single to end the game. A heartbreaking defeat for the Inferno but without a doubt, the best game I’ve ever seen.

As we’re walking to the car for the ride home Jillian starts tearing up. I could have told her about how they shouldn’t have been so lazy in those earlier games and then this one wouldn’t have even mattered. They would already be in the playoffs. But this wasn’t the time for I told you so’s.

I do my best to comfort her and tell her that it’s ok. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. Then she looks up at me and says something profound: “Daddy? The reason I’m crying is because my heart is broken”. That’s when mine broke too.

For the first time I think she understands what it’s all about. The rainbow was an omen. Good things were going to happen. And I couldn’t be more proud of her.

Stories and Writing Prompts

Dear Jim Letter

It was a rainy Saturday morning and very apropos if you ask me. I awoke to the sound of thunder and could sleep no longer. As I stumbled down the stairs listening to the rain pound on the rooftop the grumpiness I once had for the Sandman’s lack of personal attention slowly began to subside.

You see, the routine I have every Saturday morning is simple and never changes. I like to sit on my nice comfy couch, drink coffee and read the morning newspaper. My wife and daughter would still be asleep and there’d be no television or phone calls. Just peace and quiet. Caffeine and news print. This was definitely “ME” time. And the idea that I was awake even earlier than usual only reinforced my joy. I knew that now I’d have even more quiet time alone then usual. So all I could think about was getting the old Keurig fired up, grabbing the newspaper and curling up on the couch. The fact that I could also listen to an early summer rainstorm in the background was a bonus.

The kitchen seemed darker than usual this morning. Natural light had just begun to fill the room and I could see the rain pounding the outside window above the sink. The sound of the refrigerator turning itself on was comforting. But that’s when I noticed something was missing from the nearby family room.

The big comfy couch. The one that I spend my Saturday mornings reading newspapers and drinking coffee on was gone. Surprisingly, all of the end tables and lamps were still in their places. Even my beloved 50″ flat screen television that was my portal to Hollywood and grid iron games was still mounted on the wall untouched. Only the couch was gone.

My heart sank as I thought immediately that my home had been robbed overnight. I thought of all the things that would be missing and all the horrible things that could have been done to my family while we slept. I reached for the phone to dial the police but noticed a simple white letter lying on the kitchen table. The hand writing on it was one that I didn’t recognize. Too neat to be my daughter and not in the style of my wife.

Something told me to pick it up and read it. The paper was white and crisp and the ink on the page barely dry. I’ll read it to you now verbatim:

Dearest Jim,

I know this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be done. Writing like this. But it’s the only option I have left. I’ve put up with a lot these past few years and I am left with nothing but tears.

Being with you has been wonderful at times. You’ve taught me so much and for that I will always be grateful.

But the time has come to say goodbye. We’re simply not meant to be together.

I’ll always cherish the way you’d leave crumbs from your sandwiches and popcorn lying in my cushions. The long naps we’d take together. The laughs we’d share when you’d “accidentally” break wind on me. But most of all, I’ll remember our Saturdays together.

Sadly though, you have your ways and I have mine. Nothing in the middle seems to make sense.

I do still love you. But the pain that lies beneath the happiness has become more than I can take. We are too good to settle for something that will just never be.

I wish you everything good life has to offer and a happiness that will endure.

Goodbye,

Couch

A tear came to my eye and there was a feeling of emptiness in my heart. I won’t sugar coat it.  I’m the first to admit that I’m not perfect. And I’ve had plenty of relationships end badly before. I can’t remember if I’ve ever received a “Dear Jim” letter before but there is one thing I do know. I’ve never been dumped by a couch. Ever.

As the Keurig finished brewing I took in a deep breath and blew it out. Rain continued to pound on the roof and for a moment I felt like dashing out and finding my beloved. In the end though I realized I had to just let it go and move on.

I dragged a chair from the kitchen table to where the couch used to be and sat down. The coffee didn’t taste as good as it normally does. I only hope this isn’t a sign of the way Saturday mornings were now going to be.

Thought and Opinion

My Take On The Tracy Morgan Incident

A few nights ago SNL and Thirty Rock star Tracy Morgan appeared at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville to do a stand up performance. This was a show that patrons had to pay to get in to. Apparently, some weren’t prepared for the remarks that awaited them.

At on point during his routine Mr. Morgan proceeded to go on vicious rant about homosexuality. Even at one point stating he would kill his own son if he came home one day and told him he was gay. To me, it’s definitely pushing the envelope to say you’d murder you own son but I also took into account that this is a comedy show and he can say what ever he wants. A lot of other people didn’t think so and have called for his head.

Personally, I don’t have a problem with what Mr. Morgan said or did. I also have nothing against being gay. And I’ve heard plenty of jokes that put me down for things I am or was. People can say what they want. If Mr. Morgan really feels that way about the gay lifestyle then soon enough he’ll get what’s coming to him. But I can’t call for his execution for what he says in a stand up comedy show.

Thing is, if you don’t like him, don’t watch his show or buy his DVDs. But please don’t stand there and raise holy hell that he apologize for a show in which he created and that people paid money to see.

What people don’t seem to understand is that the envelope is pushed every single day. Comedians, film makers and even musicians for that matter couldn’t survive without pushing it. Most do it all the time and no body bats an eye. But every so often it seems someone needs to be sacrificed to the people with the pitch forks and torches and appease them for the next few years. It’s now Mr. Morgan’s turn.

So why all the hub-bub? Especially since we are such a hypocritical society.

Look no further than your late night television. Remember how saying bad words was taboo? Not any more. Even Mr. Twilight himself Robert Pattison dropped the “F” bomb during the MTV Movie Awards last week. Live television and the censors missed it.  Everyone kind of just of blows that one off.  But tell me, how many eight to sixteen year old Twilight loving girls were watching him talk about what he did to Reese Witherspoon in Water For Elephants?

I think we should call for an apology. He should also do public service announcements on the benefits of safe sex. But most importantly, they should immediately cancel the release of any more Twilight movies. Much to my dismay though, they won’t. Especially the part about cancelling future movies.

We all know how artists like Lady Gaga, Katy Perry and Ke$ha like to use sex to push the envelope to kids. And how hard core rappers and death metal bands rant about doing drugs and killing everything and anyone. At least for them there’s some element of restriction. The infamous “Parental Advisory” sticker that most parents simply ignore anyway. But what about those places where it’s just one big free for all?

Take a good look at the Kidz Bop website. There are lots of children posting videos of themselves covering Bruno Mars’ single, Grenade. Good song actually, but do you really think it’s appropriate that Kidz Bop would let kids post videos of them singing how they’d “take a bullet straight through my brain”?

Where’s the outrage?

I remember watching an episode of MASH thirty years ago when Hawkeye Pierce called a North Korean torturer a “son of a bitch”. It was the perfect line to say in the context of the show and my mouth dropped when I heard it. I even thought my Dad was going to wash my mouth out with soap just for hearing it. That was pushing the envelope then. It’s way past the female dog stage now.

Now a days, I think a hairy ass, a boob and the word “shit” are all allowable. But not until after 9PM. Or maybe it’s no left boob until after 10PM. Well, you get my point.

Only time will tell if Tracy Morgan can survive this little episode. He’s already apologized for his own comedy show. I’m just not sure if that’s going to be enough.

But if you ask me, I’d much rather see the big wigs from movies, music and television apologize for what they’re doing to our children.

Childhood Memories

PayCheck Friday

Ah, another Paycheck Friday. My favorite day of the bi-weekly cycle. I only wish there could also be a Pay Check Monday through Thursday to go along with it.  I’d probably sleep better at night wondering how I’m going to save for my daughter’s college education. But if you stop and think about it, there aren’t too many days that can compete with the day the money is literally in the bank.

I’ve been a Clinical Systems Analyst for five years now. Time sure flies doesn’t it?  I love my job and the people I work with. Seriously, I really do. Although some days may be challenging depending on the number of  people who call me with Malware issues they have from perusing the Internet.

By now you also know my love for revisiting the past. So as we celebrate another Paycheck Friday I’d like to share with you the story of my first job.

From April to October of 1986 I was THE biscuit baker at McDonalds with secondary skill as fry cook. I wouldn’t even categorize me in with any other because quite frankly, there was no comparison. I was in a biscuit league all my own. Light and fluffy. Just the right amount of browness to them every time. You wanted a Sausage, Egg and Cheese Biscuit? You came to The Woodsman. Yeah, my biscuits had them ALL coming back for more.

My tenure there was not all happiness and rainbows. Oh no, there was plenty of  tribulation. Managers being a pain in the butt and off the wall things happening.  One day in particular I’ll never forget.

I was training a new employee, Dude, on the fine art of  making twelve “regs” (as in regular cheeseburgers) and following it up with six macs (Big Macs). You have to learn the language of Mickey Dee if you plan to survive there.

Now I’m not sure if he did this deliberately or by accident but at one point Dude wound up pulling the fire alarm over the grill which caused foam to cover the contents of the grill and all fry vats. Essentially closing the store until it could be cleaned up. He looked at me dumbfounded.

So as we’re in the process of busting ass and cleaning up the mess the manager starts looking for Dude, the one who pulled the alarm. It’s at that point that one of the cashiers informs him that she had watched Dude walk out with two cases of frozen burgers, put them into his car and drive off. Dude sacrificed his job for a hamburger.

Well, I have to be honest. It did give me a chuckle when I heard the news. But with the way management had treated employees I thought for sure that Dude was going to wind up coming back and become my boss the next week. But alas, they wound up firing Dude instead. Go figure.

During those six months I did every thing at that joint for a measly $3.35 an hour. I heard the torment of laughter from friends because THEY didn’t have to work all summer but I had to go make the biscuits. They’d even say things like “Burger Flipping Biscuit Bakin….Burger Flippin Biscuit Bakin” over and over ad nauseum. It was a feeling that would break the heart of most working sixteen year olds.

But rather than pound my friends into dirt I decided to channel that energy creatively. And it was that inspiration that helped  me invent and perfect the  first McDonalds Triple Cheeseburger. Yes, while most others were at home watching Scooby Doo and listening to Culture Club I was busting ass over the grill creating just the right combination of grease and pickle to make a triple decker bomb. Just thinking about it now fills me with pride and makes me have more respect for Sponge Bob Squarepants.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, “There’s no way the manager would let you do that” and you would indeed be right. But you see, most night managers at McDonalds liked to hang out up in the drive thru window. Quite a distance away from where I stood with my spatula. So I would appoint a lookout, some other of lower intelligence, to stand guard while I perfected my craft and alert me if a manager entered my zone.

Of course, no test would be complete without sampling the creation so frequent trips to take out the “garbage” were made. And on the way out there was also always a need to stop by the Chicken McNugget bin. You never know when those will have to be thrown out. That summer I made $3.35 an hour. I think I also gained 15 pounds.

It was then that my senior year of high school began and I quit my position as head fry cook/biscuit man. I would not have another job until school was out but still think often of Dude and my days at the Golden Arches. Well, actually, no I don’t.

So, as we celebrate the occasion of another direct deposit it’s nice to look back and see where it all began. Just like always, the money deposited is usually in the bank and gone by Monday on silly things as mortgage, food and electricity.

In my effort to eat healthy I’ve tried to minimize my visits to fast food joints.  Truth be told I haven’t made a biscuit since my departure but I’m willing to bet mine would still be the best.

And finally, in closing, just remember the next time you see or hear a commercial for a Triple Cheeseburger at Mickey Dee’s that you know who you can thank for it’s creation.

You’re welcome.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary: In The Beginning

The following is an excerpt from one of my journals I recently stumbled upon. I had kept a journal through out my senior year in high school detailing my journey to achieve fame and fortune.  With the 25th anniversary of those glory days fast approaching, I’d like to share much of it with you over the course of the year.  So get ready to laugh and if you were on that journey with me, maybe you’ll recall some of the good times you had as well.

This first entry is from the summer of 1986 recalling how I first began playing guitar:

It was another boring day as a musician. I had just gotten my first guitar: a cheap copy of a Les Paul model. I was so thrilled at this I dashed to my room to play. I didn’t even hook it up to my amp – a Fender Vibro Champ.

With that, I began my very first guitar lesson. One that I had sent away for in the mail. It said, “Play the third string, third fret” and so I did. I placed my first finger ON the third fret and played.  The sound of course was so awful (as any sound played on the fret wire itself would be). But I kept trying and failing. Finally, I had enough. The guitar my Mom had rented for me went back in it’s case and collected dust until the end of the month.

My interest continued. I had lied to classmates several times that I had a guitar and could play. One day, a year or so later, my Mom rented me a red Hondo Flying V guitar and actually paid for a month’s worth of guitar lessons.

My teacher explained to me how to really play a note and I guess I owe my guitar abilities to him because without that knowledge I would’ve never got off the ground. Soon I gradually got notes going and amazed myself with chords – E, G, A and D and even switching positions! I also began to learn scales and three songs I wanted to learn:

Metal Health by Quiet Riot, Rock You Like a Hurricane by the Scorpions and Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap by AC/DC

These were real simple to learn for beginners and I practiced constantly to master them. Well, after playing Rock You Like A Hurricane two thousand times at home I started to hear it from my brother and sister. In fact, I still do: “TURN IT DOWN!” And in the beginning, it really disheartened me.

During the summer of 1985 I walked with my flying V about a mile every Thursday afternoon for lesson.  My case was broken so I wound up strapping my “V” to my back with a cheap strap I had made.  I was getting yells from people passing by in cars. Saying things like “Alright! Rock on MAN” and countless other things. But it never really bothered me. Only the long walk did. Being a musician sure had its disadvantages then.

October of 1985 also brought along my 16th birthday and my father bought me another Hondo. This time, a Fender Stratocaster imitation. I immediately fell in love with that baby and it became my personal toy for the next ten months. During this time, I began playing hard. I had learned nearly twelve songs and also did studies in sight-reading too.

Stories and Writing Prompts

The Phone Call

I decided to try something a bit different. Let me know what you think:

Chicago has always been my kind of town. I’ve been there several times, mostly on business or training, and did not regret a single minute of it.  From the moment I enter the subway at O’Hare and take the Red Line south there’s a familiarity about it that almost feels like home.

Here I was again arriving alone for more training on software the hospital I work for uses. No one ever goes to training with me at work and, quite frankly, it doesn’t really bother me. I actually like flying solo on my excursions. But I never realized that this visit would change me in ways I didn’t think possible.

I had just finished eating my usual deep dish pizza at the original Uno restaurant. Yes, the one that started it all. Don’t bother going to the chain ones you see. Those just aren’t the same. Corporate always has a way of ruining things. But I highly recommend the original if you’re in town. I like to sit at the bar and order a Chicago Classic when I’m there. That and a Goose 312. The deep dish and beer is more than enough to put me into food coma for the rest of the night.

As I waddled outside into the twilight I began to take in the whole Chicago vibe. The lights on the Harley Davidson store down the street caught my eye and although they don’t actually sell the motorcycles there it was a place to go to get some swag. A way to be biker even if you didn’t ride. I began to wonder how a store like that stays in business in downtown Chicago. I surmised that just the presence of Harley Davidson in the big city was more than enough for the company to just pump endless amounts of cash into an unprofitable store.

I thought about the possibility of taking in a Cubs game if the conference sessions got out at a reasonable time.  That is, unless the sales guy wants to take a bunch of attendees out to dinner. I was never one to pass up a free meal. And in my world free food trumps baseball every time. I could easily find time to hob nob and chat with other people from different hospitals I’d probably never see again. Provided of course, a steak was involved. 

And that’s when I noticed it.

It was all too familiar but something I hadn’t seen for a very long time in it’s natural habitat. I was standing next to what was probably the last phone booth on the face of the Earth. The same one that has the word “Telephone” etched across it or the one that Clark Kent used to change into Superman. The ones I thought had gone the way of the dinosaur since cell phones became all the rage. 

I’ve always loved using the old school phone. Even when I was around eight or nine and would only receive maybe one or two calls a week from the neighbor kid across the street, the whole telephone process fascinated me. As a child I loved how you could pick up a receiver and roto dial (we’re talking “old school” here) a number and someone else would answer. And when my family finally talked AT&T into giving us a push button phone, I was living in the big time for sure.

I even have some battle wounds to show for my phone touting experience. But the scars are in a place I usually keep covered. You see, I used to like to dial the operator just for the hell of it. There’s something about dialing a zero that was just too good to pass up.

Of course, when she would answer I would always giggle and then hang up.  And after about the third or fourth time doing so my father would later receive a phone call from her scolding him for allowing children to dial the operator. Let’s just say it didn’t end well for me.

And don’t get me started about those old “Dial a Joke” Jim Backus commercials on television. “Just call 976-JOKE for today’s joke… CALL NOW!”, Mr Howell would plead. And who was I to pass up anything when the guy who also played Mr. Magoo told me to call? I think at one point my ass was red for a week when the phone bill had an extra $25 on it from me half listening to his stupid jokes at 99 cents a minute. Funny now, not funny then.

Even before Dad passed away three years ago I still remember us having a good laugh about it at his bedside. As the IV’s pumped morphine into him and he was in so much pain it was unbearable something about me telling him the red ass phone stories made him laugh so hard it was infectious. And for a moment I wondered if  laughter could possibly be the cure for cancer. It was not.

But yeah, me and the phone go way back together.

This booth actually still had the phone book dangling from one of those little chains and I imagined how many people let their fingers do the walking over the years. I had a strange urge to see what year the phone book actually said. My guess would be 2001. But before I could verify and claim victory for my guess the phone abruptly started ringing. Ringing and no one there to answer it. No one but me.

Ring one.

Now I was never one to pass up an opportunity. Or maybe it was my subconscious telling me that it was Jim Backus calling but that deviant young kid who liked to have his phone fun started to come out. I’m in a big city, there’s no possiblity of a red ass and besides, I have absolutely nothing to do until my training conference starts tomorrow.  So I began thinking of ways I would answer the phone. Would I say something like “Dave’s Pizza – We Deliver”? Or maybe I could talk in a Chinese voice and be the dry cleaner down the street. Either way, this was going to be good.

Ring two.

Just to be sure, I  looked around again  just to verify that no one else was there waiting for a call and slowly stepped into the booth. I could feel the claustrophobia of the small booth and the smell of old cigarettes engulfed me but I was on a mission.  

Ring three.

When I finally picked up the receiver I had already decided on being a rep for Dave’s Pizza.

“Dave’s Pizza – We Deliver. Can I take your order?”, I said.

That’s when my heart-felt like it stopped. I could feel a vacuum in the phone booth taking out all of the air. It was hard for me to breathe. Dave’s Pizza was out of business and everything turned to black and white. The person on the other end simply said “Jimmy… Jimmy it’s me”…

“Dad?”….

Life

My Memorial Day

I usually can’t remember what I do on Memorial Day each year. I believe it typically starts the week prior to the actual day itself. I’m usually reading the stories from World War II veterans in the newspaper all week. Ones about the years they spent “over there” fighting Nazi Germany. Most stories reflect their accounts of the D-Day Invasion.  True heroism and sacrifice that I will never be worthy enough to accept.

The weekend itself is usually quiet around my house. One day typically set aside for the annual visit to some relative’s home for a cookout (or in my case a birthday party since many coincide with this time of year).  Making merry, partaking of adult beverages and eating so much food someone has to wheelbarrow me to the car for the drive home since I can’t move. Good times indeed.

The actual Memorial “Day” is normally spent quietly for me. I’ll try to sleep late (something I don’t normally do) and lounge around on what feels like Sunday.

But this year was a bit different.

My daughter, who has an obsession with all things swimming, decided bright and early she wanted to visit the Palmer Pool today.  I had thought she would have had her fill of aqua related activities yesterday in my cousin’s pool. A large inground one she had all to herself for several hours. But she was bound and determined to drag her old man to the community pool.

I’ve only been to the Palmer Pool a few times. I grew up on south side Easton which is quite a ways away. And let’s be honest here folks: growing up I believe I would definitely have been considered riff raff had I gone. But now I am a full fledged member of the Palmer community so I decided to partake of the opportunity.

When we arrived I noticed the flags were flying at half mast and I reminded my daughter as to why they are so. Mouthing the same old lines that countless other parents and teachers have spewn to young ears. Hoping that the meaning might somehow get across.

As we swam I noticed a few things that jarred my memory. The part of the patio that was reserved to the Dip and Dance crowd. The long lines to get funnel cake and french fries. And of course, the diving boards where children would line up to jump into rather chilly water.

What else did I notice? Ladies that should be in bikinis and those that most definitely should not. Men’s guts hanging over their shorts so far they probably could not see their toes. Then there were the ones who had their guts sucked in (most likely to impress the ladies who looked good in the bikinis).  I swore I even saw a guy there not wearing a shirt who looked like Magilla Gorilla. The dude’s back was covered with layers of hair. I’m talking werewolf here. Not a good look. Although I ‘m not really sure what part of the lunar cycle we’re in this week.

I had an encounter with my old high school classmates too. Well, at least I thought I did. I believe I saw Jim Prendergast there with his children waiting in line. I haven’t seen Jim in well over twenty years and wasn’t 100% sure it was him. I believe his nickname in high school was “Stickman” or something like that. I was tempted to walk up to him and call him that but I was afraid that if it wasn’t him my nickname might have been met with a fist. So that meeting never happened.

Later on, while sitting pool side, I noticed a young girl throwing a hakee sack (do they still make those things?) with her Dad. I kept going over and over in my head that I had seen them before and finally I realized that it was Michelle Eck’s husband and daughter. I know this only because of Michelle’s Facebook updates. She and I had also graduated together but she was no where to be seen. Her husband and daughter I have never met and they would have absolutely no idea who I was so I let that encounter go by as well.

But the most important thing happened as I waited outside for my daughter to go in and change to go home. Out of the locker room came a woman who was rolling a wheel chair. I watched her wheel the boy who rode upon it to a grassy area where upon he slowly got up.

I’m not sure if he had cerebal palsy or some other condition that made him so frail but I watched him struggle to move independently down towards the pool. Time seemed to stop for me as I watched the woman (who I assume to be his Mother) catch up to him and meet him at the steps. They held hands together and walked towards the water.

I kept thinking about how difficult it must be for both of them in their day to day lives. Simple things like dressing, eating and getting around must be a chore. But come hell or high water they were going swimming today. And damnit, they did. It also looked like it was something they do quite often together. Meanwhile, I spend most of my time taking so much for granted.

So this Memorial Day was a good reminder for me. I enjoyed every minute I got to spend with my daughter but for the first time in quite a long time I’m also remembering why we are all able to enjoy the things we do.

I hope yours was special too.

Thought and Opinion

Ten Things I Think

For what it’s worth, here are ten things I think. You may agree or disagree and that’s cool. I’m just glad you gave it a read.

10. Osama Bin Laden is Dead. Almost ten years to the date of the worst terrorist attack we’ve ever known. We should be proud as Americans that he is finally dead. But ineveitably, instead of giving praise to the President, we have some politicians and media whores spinning this with conspiracy. Any way to make President Obama look bad and raise their political clout.

Before you paint me as a bleeding heart liberal or some other nonsense please understand that I’m not taking sides.  The fact is we actually had democrats and republicans unified in saying it was a great thing he was finally brought to justice. It kind of reminded me of the early days after 9/11 when we all rallied around President Bush.

But in this case  it wasn’t a even a day later and we went right back to politics as usual with republicans trying to heap all the praise on Bush and bitching about Obama like nothing ever happened.

Sadly, had this exact same thing happened three years ago when President Bush were still in office the Democrats would have done exactly the same. Both sides rally for their side and vilify the other no matter how good.

My point: Don’t listen to anything any of them say. Democrats, Republicans, Tea Party, whatever. Do your own research and make up your own mind. This goes especially for when you VOTE!

9. I know that if I ever get pulled over for running a stop sign and they found a bag of weed in my car I’d go immediately to the clink for weeks. So I really wanna know why Lindsay Lohan can drag out a simple theft trial forever.

8. Don’t ever tell me there’s no favoritism in the US Justice System. A few weeks ago a judge ruled the NFL lockout is not valid. However; the NFL appealed to a more “Business Friendly” appeals court (everyone in the media even trumpeted this fact about it). Sure enough, a day later the appeals court put the previous decision on hold. What the Fu$K is that all about?

7. And speaking of #8: How come some justice trials can be delayed and delayed for YEARS but the NFL work stoppage issue can be ruled upon almost immediately?

6. Arnold…Arnold…Arnold…I wonder how the bodybuilding magazines will spin this one so he doesn’t look like a piece of shit.

5. I spent a ton of money on just labor to have my kitchen remodeled these past two weeks. I’m looking at the finished product with admiration at all the work I was spared of doing. I figure I get to enjoy it at least four months earlier then if I done the work myself. And it feels SO good!

4. American Idol will crown a winner next week. I’m guessing it’s going to be that dude with the deep voice. The voting block of Idol is all young females so it makes perfect sense. Those girls aren’t going to vote for a girl. But here’s my prediction for the future: None of these people you’ve wasted your time listening to and voting for since January will be doing music in ten years.

3. People made fun of Steven Tyler for being a judge on Idol. Especially the tried and true metal heads. The fact of the matter is he’s a genius who just rebuilt his brand. He’s got a whole new generation of people to peddle his book to and that will surely come see him in concert when Aerosmith gets back together. Brilliant.

2.  I’m supposed to go to Saratoga Springs New York on Tuesday for a three day conference. I’m not looking forward to the four hour drive. But I may get out of it because of #1.

1. We already know all about when American Idol tryouts for 2012 are and the new lineup for the fall television season. Can someone please explain to me why the end of the world is tomorrow but I only found out about it last week? Where are our priorities?

Childhood Memories, Life

Nicknames

My cell phone rang last night and as I glanced down to see who it was I could see the word “Bones” blaring off the screen. A feeling of comfort came upon me. Usually, phone calls on my cell in the evening are work related. Someone locking themselves out of the computer and needing assistance or maybe a server was down. Always an inconvenience. So it was a great relief to see “Bones” on there.

Bones, as it turns out, is actually the nickname for my brother Louie. He’s been going by the name of “Bones” for at least 35 years. I don’t think there’s a single person who knows him that hasn’t called him that name at one point or another. Before “Bones” he was called “Gooey” which is how we as young children would say “Louie”. But as we all got older Gooey fell by the way side in favor of something that would better describe his skeletal frame. And he’s been Bones ever since.

What’s in a name?

The most logical nickname in my family has to be “Woody” and a lot of us have had that name bestowed. But we Wood’s were never ones to just go with the status quo. No, we needed to be different. I myself had several nicknames growing up. The earliest one I can recall is “Bipper”. To this day, I am not sure why my father decided to dub me with this surname.  But then again, why would my father’s brother nickname his own son “Chump”?

Bipper soon turned into “White Cap”. A nickname my brother loved to use that described the color of my hair which was over the top blonde. I always remember not liking this name for some reason. Although with the mass exodus of my “White Cap” today….I’d much prefer it to, oh say being called “Skullcap”.

White Cap soon fell by the way side too in favor of something more diabolical. My brother knew that of all the things I loathed as a youth, my middle name topped the list. Edward. I hated it. I always wanted it to be “Michael” or “Steven”. Anything but Edward. It sounded funny and indeed my brother knew he had found my achillies heel.

So Edward it was. And as much as I tried to get him to stop calling me that it only made it worse. Begging, telling my parents and even some threats of violence were all to no avail. I was Edward. Soon every child in my family was calling me that and for quite a while I was a mess about it. He’d even introduce me as Edward to his new friends. Eventually, I became adjusted to it and was fortunate enough to have the name “hipped” up over the years to be “Eddie” instead.

What other nicknames have been used for members of my family? Let’s see, there’s been Lard, Nark, Hermie, Eye, Bop, Rosie and Pumpkin. You can draw your own conclusions as to where those names came from. And then there’s the story about “Bowlman”.

My brother went through a period in high school where he liked to dabble in weed. I was never into that stuff but one day stumbled upon the mother load of ALL nicknames for him. I decided the best way to not only bring attention to what he was doing but also to degrade him would be to call him “Bowlman” or “Bowl”.  If you’re a bit confused let me explain. A “bowl”, in addition to being a container for cereal, is also a term used to describe a marijuana pipe.

In the beginning, my bro did not like it at all that he was being called the Bowlman. Mostly because it would make my grandmother (God bless her) question him as to why I was calling him that. Then he would have to struggle to try to explain it to her without giving away his dirty little secret.

Of course, that’s when he would tell her that “Bowl” was really MY nickname. I remember getting into a LOT of arguments with him about it… “Oh NO..I am NOT Bowlman…YOU ARE!” I’d scream. There was absolutely no way he was turning the ULTIMATE nickname back on me without a fight. Brotherly love be damned.

As the years went on his bowl use stopped but the nickname didn’t. The name took on a life of it’s on.  In fact, we still call each other “Bowl” even in mixed company. It’s become part of our common vernacular. Now a days, “Bowlman” or “Bowl” has become a joke between us. A memory of growing up.

So the next time you see me I won’t shed a tear if you call me Eddie. And calling me “Bowlman” will give me a chuckle.  But in the battle of childhood nicknames I’m still vindicated and I’ll tell you why.

My brother’s grandson calls me “Uncle Jimmy”…. but my daughter still calls him “Uncle Gooey”.

Life

Hey baby…I’m no handyman

If the law of survival was such that the only way you could get food on the table was to do some kind of manual labor I’d starve.  I’ve never been into building things. You want me to fix your computer, write you a song or paint you a Bob Ross masterpiece? I’m your man. I can even get by with mowing the lawn. But if you want someone to build you a house from a set of match sticks you’ll need to look elsewhere. I even cringe at the notion of such things as my wife bringing home a new light fixture and asking me to replace the old. My first thought on situations like these is to let her know that’s it been quite a while since my brother last visited.

You see, my brother is the handiest person I know. He finished my entire basement pretty much all by himself.  He laid the sub flooring, framed the entire thing, dry walled, primed and painted. About the only thing he didn’t do was hook up the electric and carpet the floor. He’s built a detached garage at his own home by himself. There’s pretty much nothing he can’t do. Me? All I’m pretty much good for is holding a flashlight or ladder. But I’m ok with that.

It’s not like I wish I could be more handy or took an interest in it. The fact of the matter is, I don’t care. Call me lazy if you want. I’d much rather pay someone else to do it. And in these desparate economic times, there’s a contractor out there who is happy I am the way I am.

Right now we’re in the middle of a kitchen remodel. My wife and I decided to get the kitchen cabinets painted white, put a new laminate wood floor through four rooms, get a new kitchen sink and hang two new light fixtures. What part of this have I accomplished? I put up one of the light fixtures. And even that took some doing.

My problem I think is that I’m not patient enough. I want that new thing up as fast as possible. Which means that I usually don’t read directions thoroughly. And inevitably, I’ll get to the point where I’m almost completely finished and realize that there’s something I’ve got on backwards and need to undo the last twenty minutes I’ve spent just to fix it.

Don’t get wrong though. I love the euphoria I get when i complete a task by myself. I just don’t like the process of getting there.