Sports Injuries

My high school basketball career was tragically cut short by injury. I hurt my pride my first year of playing for the school team and was never quite the same.

I initially injured it on the first day of practice. We were told to to form a line by our 6'4'' coach, the tallest and meanest member of the team, for a “whistle drill.” A whistle drill is when the coach blows the whistle and you sprint as hard as you can until he blows it again, which was about fifteen steps later. You then changed directions and sprinted as hard as you could the other way until he blew it again, and so forth. It was a lot of fun.

I committed a basketball faux paus on the very first drill. I got in line right between the two senior stars. I didn't realize you weren't supposed to be within five feet of either star unless they had happened to ask you to carry their jock strap. They hadn't (yet) so I was where I wasn't supposed to be, socially.

The whistle blew and they both immediately shoved me to the ground and then ran over me. This is where the School of Hard Knocks gets its name from. I always lined up with the rest of the freshman peons after that. Unfortunately, this was just a quiz from Hard Knocks U, the big exam was coming up.

Later in the year we ran another drill called the “Charging Drill.” It was designed to help the big ape men on the team learn how to pick up an offensive foul by holding their position when someone “charged” into them. And they call basketball a non-contact sport.

My job in the drill, of course, was to be the poor sucker who charged into them. I offered to save them time and just run head first into the wall and then raise my hand acknowledging that they had successfully picked up the charge, but it didn't work. And you couldn't just run into the big guy because that wouldn't be simulating game conditions. You were being chased by one player as another passed a ball to you at which time you completed your suicide mission by running into the defending player. It was a lot of fun.

Of course, when it was my turn I was being chased by one the two superstars whose deity I had offended earlier in the year, and was being passed the ball by the other one. The guy I was to run into was also a senior who was actually built more solid than the wall I offered to run into.

As soon as our Nazi coach blew the whistle I began running like I was being chased by the Hound of the Baskervilles, which wasn't far off. Unfortunately, he caught me and immediately reached around and punched in what was then my burgeoning manhood. At the same time his partner threw a pass from five feet away that was going fast enough to land in the next county. It bounced off my head just as I reached the target, who, instead of keeping his arms to his side to pick up the charge, raised his forearm and caught me flush on the jaw. I was knocked senseless, admittedly not that far, but it hurt like hell. Especially in my burgeoning manhood. I was sick and had to sit out for a while. Quite a while. That would have been bad enough but it wasn't where I hurt my pride. That came next.

If you've ever been part of a male team situation you know that being hit in the nether regions is just about the Nirvana of humorous situations. It was compounded by having to be taken into the locker room to get checked out by the JV coach. Our JV coach was also the seventh grade math teacher, so I suppose he could count to two, which is about all I could figure out he was going to do. As we came out of the locker room I limped over to the sideline while he whispered something to the head coach, who burst out laughing. All right, I thought, a little private joke at my expense, I can live with that. That's what team bonding is for. But no, he shared the whole joke with the whole team. I won't repeat it here, but it wasn't anatomically correct, which gave it just the right amount of hilarity to send the team into convulsions.

I had to go home and explain to my father why I looked seriously ill, and he decided to take me to the doctor. He told me beforehand however, to refer to the injured area as my “testicles”, lest I look really stupid. Which I did, explaining that I was “accidentally” hit right in the testicle. He replied; “Ah, got it right in the balls eh? That really hurts.” Which taught me another valuable lesson; when explaining something important use words that everyone understands. I was eventually alright, but I was moved up from bass to the soprano section of the choir for a week.

So now my pride was seriously hurt, but like any sports trooper, I decided I could play with the pain, both mental and physical. Now I use the word “play” in the figurative sense, since I didn't actually play all that much. I was one of the dreaded “scrubs” who only got in when the game got out of hand. If we got far enough ahead (occasionally) or far enough behind (more likely) our seventh grade math guru would look down the bench and say, “All right you guys, get in there.” This was the cue for all the fans to head for the concession stand while we ran out the clock. It was usually about two minutes, but we got to run around and shoot the ball whenever we managed not to dribble it off our feet out of bounds. I even scored four points in Warsaw. Warsaw, NY, that is, which means there wasn't a lot of people who witnessed the event, even if they could have seen it from the concessions stands.

But the wounding of our pride came in one home game where we were actually up by a lot, and we were hoping to get in. But math boy seemed oblivious to the situation. We sat there pleading silently to get into the game but on the clock precious minutes continued to click away. Until there was less than thirty seconds to play. Then we silently pleaded NOT to be sent in. It counted down to ten, and then math boy realized that this was a scrub situation, and we got sent in with NINE seconds to play. It was humiliating to say the least. It was a foul situation and I lined up on the foul line wishing I was anywhere else. The player took a shot, it bounced harmlessly off the rim right into my hands. And the horn sounded. After the game someone actually said to me “Nice rebound.” That was it. My pride was now broken, my dreams shattered. There was only one thing to do.

I walked into math boy's classroom the next day and told him I was quitting. He mumbled something without looking up that sounded like “thanks.” He could at least have had the courtesy to look up and say it, but that would have involved using two motor skills at the same time. Only the eighth grade teachers did that.

Just singing in the Pain

Today was such a gorgeous day that I couldn't help belting out a couple of strains of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.” Be thankful you weren't there. The dogs are still howling.

One of my regrets is never having been able to sing. I can't draw either, which is another regret. I can't draw a straight line with a ruler. My stick figures don't even look like sticks. I have trouble drawing a conclusion for that matter.

But at least with a computer I can do some “art.” Just ask my brother Chia Bob. As long as it's humor related that is. To do something serious is beyond me.

But at least the dogs don't howl when I draw something.

Musically speaking, it's not that I can't hit the notes, it's that I can't keep from bludgeoning them to death. In my fantasy life I would be a singer-songwriter. There is only two things keeping me from fulfilling this dream; my fingers are two stubby to play the guitar and my voice causes chickens to stop laying eggs.

Of course, it would also help if I wrote a song once in a while. Other than “I Feel Sick and It's All Because of You” my one and only classic.

Perhaps if I could play the guitar I could join the ranks of such “singer”-songwriters as Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Rod Stewart. They certainly haven't let a lack of singing ability hinder them. If you've heard Bob Dylan's Christmas album you know he's in the “I can do whatever I feel like” category of humans. All I can say is it brought tears to my eyes. It set Christmas back two thousand years.

Gordon Lightfoot was one of my two all-time favorites but he continued to sing, well after his voice had given up the ghost. Carole King also comes to mind. Great songwriter. Her voice? She's a great songwriter.

Maybe it's worth a try. I'm going to sing my only song for you now, just read the lyrics and try to accompany them in your mind to the sound of tires screeching and babies crying;


I feel sick, and it's all because of you
I gave you a goodnight kiss and you gave me the flu
And now you sit there wondering, What is wrong with me?
What's wrong with me is you my love; You're an allergy.

There's more verses, but I'm guessing that you can't hear me over the dogs howling.

Forbidden Fruit and Chicken Gonads

I think when the bible refers to the Tree of the the Knowledge of Good and Evil it uses the term “fruit” figuratively. It might have been a vegetable. I think the actual forbidden fruit was really a Brussels Sprout. The phrase “The knowledge of Good and Evil” refers to the concept of “Good for you but tastes awful.” I'm sure God wanted to spare us from that knowledge which is why he told Adam and Eve not to eat the thing. If God tells me not to eat something that looks like green gonads my response is “No problem.”

You have to be deceived into eating something like that. The devil came to Eve and said “How come you're not eating the green gonads? Didn't God say that greens are good for you? Eve replied “God has said that on the day we eat of the fruit we will die. Right after retching. The fruit is a wretched thing.” The devil replied “No, you won't die. God knows it tastes like chicken.” So Eve ate of the fruit. And it turns out that the devil was right; on the day they ate of the fruit they didn't die. They just thought they were going to. Turns out God was right about the retching though.

I was deceived about this forbidden fruit once. I was told they taste like chicken if you dip them in butter. Chicken gonads maybe. I couldn't even swallow the thing, but it didn't matter. I now knew the difference between good (ice cream) and evil (anything with sprouts in its name). They have the most vile of tastes. I know there are people who like these things but I can only say you are hopelessly deceived. And evil.

So now we live outside the Garden, where everything tasted good and is good for you, and we live in an accursed land where we eat food that squirrels left behind and call it Trail Mix. So go ahead, “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” Unless you eat a Brussels Sprout. Then it will be today.


I ate a Brussels Sprout today
It didn't go down all the way
I tried to chew it but it wouldn't chew

There was nothing I could do but spew

You Can Call Me Chuck

He calls me Chuck.

My little five year grandson calls me Chuck, not grandpa. Nobody knows why, but he's always done that, for both of his grandpas. His other grandpa is "Buddy Chuck" and I'm "Chuck Schmitt." His grandma's are called grandma but something funny seems to have happened on the way to grandpa. He calls my son Micah "Uncle Nut" but that's actually a fairly accurate name. I'm not sure where Chuck came from.

There is some precedent in the family history for this. My mother, when she was just over a year old, went with her older brother to live with her grandparents. They couldn't pronounce "grandma" or "grandpa" and it came out "Gangi and Bompi." I called them that the whole time I was growing up. So it could be worse. Chuck sounds a whole lot younger than Bompi.

Being at the hospital when my grandson was born was a strange experience. There was a group of us, my daughter-in-law's parents, my wife and me and two of my sons, huddled outside the door of the birthing room trying to hear whatever we could. Mostly we heard the groans of my poor daughter-in-law, but finally we heard the nurse say "It's a boy." There was an audible shiver of excitement hearing that he had arrived. Of course, he was there the whole time but now we would get a chance to hold him.

I remember my first glimpse at him. The door to the room was opened as nurses went in and out and I looked in and saw my son standing in the corner of the room looking into the bassinet that held his son. He was just staring at him and running his finger over his head. I felt jealous.

That's one of the aspects of becoming a grandfather that you don't anticipate. It reminds you of what you've lost. I've always remembered the thrill of being there when my sons were born, but at this moment I felt it again. And all I could do was watch. It was really a proud moment watching my son with his son, but it was also very melancholy. It hit home just how gone those days were, relegated now to the bin of pleasant memories.

His other grandparents and I got together last year and recorded a storybook for my grandson as a Christmas present. It was a lot of fun and we hope it lasts so he can hear our voices long after we're gone. And that's the trouble. You think more about being gone. So it is a different role being the grandparent than I originally thought it would be. You are at the same moment celebrating the next generation and being reminded that your own time has passed.

Not that there isn't still a lot of life left to live. My grandson is also a constant reminder of how blessed I've been to have a family and to watch them grow. It was a lot of fun. He's a lot of fun, and he brings back a lot of forgotten times. That's great.

So he can continue to call me Chuck as long as he wants. Just as long as he calls.

John Adams; History Lesson #2

Who do you think the following quote is talking about; “He is distrustful, obstinate, excessively vain, and takes no counsel from anyone.” If you said Donal Trump you’re wrong, though I can’t say why. It was actually said by Thomas Jefferson about John Adams. Jefferson was Adams Vice-President. John Adams was the first Vice-President to be elected President. Being elected after Washington must have been a tough act to follow. It must be distracting, trying to fight a war with France while they are building a city named after your predecessor right next door. Even if it's in a swamp. The city planners showed good foresight; there's no need to waste good land on something that's going to become a swamp anyway. Speaking of the war with France; it was an undeclared war called the Quasi-War. A couple of our ships bitch-slapped a couple of theirs and that was it. It ended on September 30 1800 with the Treaty of MortFontaine in Paris. It was called that because it was negotiated by some guy named Mort Fontaine. Adams passed the Sedition Act, which enabled the government to fine or imprison anyone for "publishing malicious or false writings against Congress, the President or the government." This pretty much covered everything; if you write something about the government that's not malicious than it's obviously false. When someone pointed out that this law effectually nullified the Bill of Rights, Adams replied; "You're under arrest." Not really, but he probably wanted to. Every president since has condemned this act, while secretly wishing he had thought of it first. President Obama tried to get something similar passed, calling it the Fox News Act. Adams helped pass the Judiciary Act, which reduced the number of Supreme Court Justices to five. They also shortened the name from Supreme Court to just The Supremes. People got really ticked off when George Bush appointed one guy to a Federal Judgeship when Congress had its back turned (motto-don’t go on vacation every other week). John Adams used such a loophole to appoint 200 Judges just days before Jefferson was sworn in, making Mr. Bush pale in comparison. Which is hard to do because George Bush gets a lot more sun in Texas than John Adams ever got in Massachusetts. John Adams was the first President to live in the Executive Mansion. He lived there just long enough to unpack his dishes before he was defeated by Thomas Jefferson. Always a gracious loser, he left DC and skipped Jefferson’s inauguration, a practice Donald Trump reestablished.

Crap is in the Eye of the Beholder

I recently read where it took Leonardo daVinci twelve years to paint the lips of the Mona Lisa. Must be because she never stopped talking. It's a good thing he wasn't painting Mick Jagger's lips, he'd still be at it. Come to think of it though, with Jagger he could have used a roller.

Leonardo should have lived long enough to see the advent of modern art. Modern art is technically crap that people pay to look at. I was recently looking at one of these modern marvels at art museum on Niagara University. It looked like someone had vomited after eating a whole box of crayons. Or a little like Mick Jaggar. I doubt that the artist took twelve years to master this particular piece; I couldn't imagine the whole thing taking much more than twelve minutes.

They don't really “paint” the “picture”, they just fling paint on a canvas. I've seen that same technique at the zoo with a monkey flinging his do do on the glass of his cage. I even think the monkeys give it a name; they call it “What are you looking at?” Instead of washing it off the glass maybe the zoo should display it as art.

My son Paul had the temerity to mention to a particular “art lover” that one particular piece consisted of nothing more than cereal boxes dangling from strings. He must have felt like one of the characters from the Emperor's New Clothes; this art patron proceeded to tell him why it was art. His quote; “If it provokes a reaction in you then it's doing its job; it's art.” My son should have provoked a reaction by punching the guy and calling it performance art.

Performance art is a category all its own; it's where some guy who shouldn't even be allowed out on weekends performs some inane action in front of a lot of unsuspecting patrons. Apparently the dumber the better. The epitome of this new form of art/entertainment is the phenomenon known as Lady GaGa. Or Lady Gag Me With A Spoon as I like to think of her.

I could go on ranting, but the truth is that modern art is not really about art; it's about marketing. It's telling somebody that Salvador Dali was a painter, even though he couldn't seem to color within the lines. It's convincing us that Picasso is an artist too, even if his painting looks like a paint-by-numbers picture using Morse code. And Lady GaGa is an artist, not a whack job dreamed up by Stephen King under heavy medication. Good one.

So while artists like to fancy themselves as anti-establishment, the fact that they get “educated” types to hang these rejects from a kindergarten finger-painting class in art galleries proves that they are merely snake-oil salesmen in disguise. So now, as a former salesman, when I look at this nonsense hanging seriously up for public view, I think, “Wow, you guys are GOOD!”

This Day in History; The Dumber Mummers

On January 1, 1876, in honor of the American centennial, the first area-wide New Year's Day Mummers' Parade was held in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Now your first reaction, if you're like me, was to wonder aloud; "What the hell is a mummer?" Turns out it's one of three things, in descending order of decency; 1. A masked or costumed merrymaker 2. One who acts or plays in a pantomime. (That's right, a god-*%# mime) 3. An actor (feel free to shudder at this point).

According to the History Channel website, "Mummers' celebrations in America date back to colonial times, when the boisterous Swedish custom of celebrating the end of the calendar year with noise making and shouting was combined with the tradition of the British mummery play. Reciting doggerel and receiving in return cakes and ale, groups of five to 20 people, their faces blackened, would march from home to home, shouting and discharging firearms into the air while burlesquing the English Mummers' play of St. George and the Dragon." Talk about your gay parades before their time.

So essentially it was a combination of Halloween and New Year's Eve, or a typical rednecks family reunion. Of course, rednecks would be shouting lines from Married With Children.

Philadelphia, which had a sizable Swedish population, was said to be the center of America's Mummers' celebrations. I guess this would explain the Phillies. You can't see many more costumed merrymakers doing a pantomime than at a baseball game.

Now that you've read about "Reciting doggerel and receiving in return cakes and ale, groups of five to 20 people, their faces blackened, would march from home to home, shouting and discharging firearms into the air while burlesquing the English Mummers' play of St. George and the Dragon" you no doubt recognize the forerunner to the Academy Awards, Cannes Film Festival, the Emmys, and other daily award shows that actors feel inclined to subject us to. It doesn't seem fair that Mummers get to fire off their guns without giving us a chance to shoot back.

Mummer parades weren't the only acting related events to have happened on January 1. On January 1st 0404 - The last gladiator competition was held in Rome. It would be fourteen hundred years before that kind of exciting sporting event was seen again; in 1840 - The first recorded bowling match was played in the United States. After watching it, Rip Van Winkle fell asleep for twenty years, a tradition that continues today.

In 1966 - The final episode of "The Adventures of Ozzie & Harriet" (with Rick Nelson) was filmed, though admittedly this doesn't have much to do with acting.

Speaking of dressing up in funny costumes and making a lot of noise, You can't find a bigger collection of costumed actors than in politics (oh that they were all mimes!) Or religion. In 1622 the Papal Chancery adopted January 1st as the beginning of the New Year (instead of March 25th). I think we can file this in the Getting With the Program category.

1930 - "The Cuckoo Hour" was heard for the first time on the NBC-Blue Network. It is known today as the Fox News Channel.(I was going to say MSNBC but nobody's ever heard of it).

Also of note on January 1; 1959 - Fidel Castro overthrew the government of Fulgencio Batista, and seized power in Cuba. 1804 - Haiti gained its independence. 1956 - Sudan gained its independence. 1981 - Greece joined the European Community.

Moral? If you want to start a country you might want to pick another day to do it.

Good Will Hunting

I should have looked in the mirror when I took my dog for a walk yesterday. Since it was hunting season I wore my bright orange Syracuse sweatshirt. On top of this put my bright red jacket vest. With my signature brown hermit hat I looked like a giant pumpkin.

No need I guess then to worry about getting shot while taking my walk near the woods. I think I heard some laughter from the trees; it was hard to tell if it was hunter's or forest animals laughing. Lucky for them I no longer hunt.

Not that I was ever much of a hunter; I've only gone hunting once. As a kid I killed a pigeon with a bow and arrow; I felt guilty for a long, long time. We used to hunt rats in the grain barn behind our house back then too. I even killed one with a stick. Not too bright a choice of weapons to be sure; I wouldn't go within a hundred feet of a rat now with anything less than a bazooka. So all in all I never fashioned myself much of a hunter.

That changed when I got married. My wife's family were all avid hunters; the first day of hunting was a stay-home-from-school holiday for her and her brothers. My wife would get all decked up in her hunting outfit and head out the door with her gun, looking like a cross between Annie Oakley and Elmer Fudd. She relates the story of how her Dad had her crawl up into a deer stand to wait. After a few hours of shivering alone in the cold she decided to get down, though she was sure her Dad would be upset with her. She found them back at the house drinking coffee and eating doughnuts.

I decided that it would help me fit in a little better with the family if I gave it a go, at least once. I love to walk through the woods as much as anybody, as long as I'm not dragging some 250lb carcass. Make that some other 250 lb carcass. Since my wife now had little ones to watch back at the house, and with her family all being expert shots that sort of made me the designated doofus for the day. My main task was to help get the deer moving, or at least laughing, then the real hunters would know where they were.

The day I went was really cold, about zero degrees. At least it was zero when I found myself sitting in my designated spot deep in the woods at six o'clock in the morning on top of a new layer of freshly fallen snow. Better for tracking they say. Better for making sure my ass stays frozen to ground when I try to stand up I say.

While the deer were not in any more danger from me than they had been from my wife (her only shot at a deer went straight up in the air. If any had been hovering about she would have had one) I still actually saw one, close enough for even me to shoot it. Unfortunately, I was trying to slide down a steep little tree-covered hill at the time. Since there was a better than average chance I'd fall head first, I put the safety on my gun and slid it forward ahead of me. As I hung between the tree I was clutching and the bottom of the hill, Bambi's mother ran right by me, just ten feet away. I could have sworn she stuck her tongue out and went “booga-booga” as she galloped by. I slid the rest of the way down the hill to grab my gun, like Hawkeye in the Last of the Mohicans. It turns out my caution in putting my gun down before coming down the hill was justified as I tumbled forward in an inglorious heap, going Natty Bumpo off a tree. At least I didn't shoot off any valuable limbs. Score that; deer 1, next-to-last-of-the-Mohicans 0.

That was the only time I ever officially went hunting for live food, now I track it down in the frozen food section. I prefer to take my camera with me when I venture out into the woods, it's a whole lot easier to shoot them digitally, and its not 6 in the morning when I do it. So if you're ever out walking through the woods in my area and you see a tall pumpkin, wave and say “Cheese!”

Cats; Dumber Than the Stump They Came From

It just recently came to my attention that this was Cat Week. That’s the kind of information you miss when you turn your TV off for the summer. I hope this doesn’t mean they are going to run the musical Cats all week; if you have ever thought that there is still hope for the world all you have to do is sit through that musical. That musical should have been neutered after its first performance. If I had known it was that awful I would have brought extra shoes to throw.
We have two cats and they are both sort of special. I was just finishing up my morning work on the computer one Sunday morning when my wife called to me from outside; “We’ve got dead kittens in the yard.” Since this is not the usual greeting I’m used to on a Sunday morning it got my attention right away. I hurried outside and true enough, there were three dead kittens. We weren’t sure where they had come from, though we had seen a dead cat in the road a few days before. Since we live near a farm with lots of barn cats that’s, unfortunately, not uncommon. It’s part of that country charm; when the turkey buzzards show up it’s a real teaching moment for the young ones. We use it to explain Taco Bell.
The bodies of the three kittens were near a tree in our yard and we discovered a rather large hole in the bottom of it.  My wife got down on her hands and knees and began to call “Here kitty, kitty.” It was such a pathetic sight I didn’t have the heart to tell her that cats don’t come from trees. They come from hell.
Imagine my surprise then when a cute little tiger kitten waddled out from the hole in the tree. We scooped it up and took it to take care of since it was obvious that mama wasn’t going to make it back. The next day we found its brother, an all black kitten who was sticking his cute little head out an even tinier hole on the other side of the tree.
That was about four hundred pounds ago. Now he couldn’t get his paw out that same hole. Their official names are Keebler and Pitch but they’re only called that at the vet’s office. Around the house they go by names that seem to fit them better; Prissy Bitch and Big Fatty Fat Cat. Prissy Bitch is our Valley Girl cat; she’s beautiful and seems to know it. She just kind of saunters around the house swishing her tale in what she thinks is both seductive and dismissive at the same time; “You can look, but don't touch.” She will occasionally lie down on your lap, usually when you're trying to sleep, and manages to usher up a half-hearted purr; “OK, I'll let you pet me now.” I usually roll over quickly to give her a little change of perspective.
Fatty Fat Cat seems to be trying to fashion a career for himself as a hot air balloon. However, the physics involved in getting him off the floor are going to squash that idea. If you are required to pick him up for some reason you have to hold him at arms length (no mean feat) because he sinks his claws into you the minute he can't feel the floor anymore. And he is surprisingly fast. He and Prissy Bitch will go charging through the house after each other at lightning speed, right over the top of you if you have the bad sense to be occupying any of the living room furniture at the moment. Prissy Bitch is like some light breeze that suddenly flashes by; when Big Fat Fatty Cat runs over you it's like being hit by a comet. I don't think he's seen his paws in several months, but he remembers how to work them. I guess he didn’t take well to being fixed. “Fixed” is our term, I don’t think he feels you should call it fixed if it doesn’t work anymore. Obviously he’s never taken a car in to be “fixed.”
Our dog doesn’t really like the two cats; she’s more of a people person. The cats seem to think she should be their surrogate mother; this is kind of creepy since we think our dog is the one who did in their siblings. It has a sort of Stephen King ring to it; two little kittens trying to become cuddly with Cujo. You know it isn’t going to end well. For the dog.

We've only had two or three good cats over the years. One of our earliest cats was Succotash, so named because when you looked at him that's what he looked like. He was a calico who looked liked he was designed by Salvador Dali. He was butt ugly.
But he was a great hunter. We were living in an old farmhouse and the upstairs was in an “unfinished” condition, as in “the fire didn't finish it off.” Mice would run upstairs; we think they were mice anyway. They sounded like a pack of elephants. I was afraid to go up there myself in case it was a remake of Ben (the squeaking sounded a little like Michael Jackson) so we opened the upstairs door and tossed Succotash in. In less than 30 seconds it was dead quiet up there, with the emphasis on dead. I don't think we ever heard another mouse. Or bird, or squirrel or even the mailman after about a week. We took to calling Succotash “The Hater of All That Lives.” He would leave us the heads of red squirrels on the porch each morning. Our little dog Casey gave him a wide berth when they passed each other.
Whitesox was the best cat we ever had because he was more like a dog. He never used a litter box; he would stand by the door to be let out. He was the smartest cat I've ever seen. We would watch him walk over to the road, look both ways, and then cross. We had him for many years. We had some other cats but they would invariably get wiped out by cars. We used to think Whitesox would lead them out into the road on purpose but there was never enough evidence to convict him.
For that reason we keep our present two felines in the house all the time. Our poor dog just lies there looking forlorn as they try to snuggle with her, wishing she had finished them off with their siblings. We've had them fixed so there won't be any other surprises. We had the tree filled too, just in case.

In My Mind I'm Off To See Virginia

We were supposed to be in Virginia this weekend visiting my Father, as well as my brother and his wife Bonnie. Instead, I'm sitting here in the comfort of home enjoying a rare day off doing nothing (doing nothing is not rare, just the day off). This is because the entire East coast of the United States is under a Noah-like deluge. The forecast called for heavy rains and strong winds all the way from New York to Florida, and since we drive a car that weighs about the same as a bag of pretzels we decided it would be prudent to not go.

This is only the second trip we've planned in the last couple years. The first was only a day trip to New York City to see the Christmas lights. There was a snowstorm and we couldn't go. This time it was to be a three-day trip and the entire east coast was under water. I'm afraid if I ever take a two-week vacation it will be the apocalypse. I knew that my brother and his wife taught dance, so I kiddingly said to my father; “You know, if you didn't want us to come down you could have just said so. That was quite a rain dance you did.” Without batting an eye he replied; “Well, Rick and Bonnie helped.” Fortunately, I don't take these things personally.

Actually, I blame my sisters. My three sisters, plus my Aunt Betty, all got together just the other day. A storm that blankets half the US seems to be an appropriate natural response to such an event. I'm not saying any bat wings or eyes of newt were involved, but one of the nieces mentioned something about having to put a caldron in the dishwasher.

The only other time we went to Virginia was on our way to Tennessee several years ago, where I had to attend a business conference. There were tornado's and flooding in Tennessee that year too. As I mentioned, I'm not the kind of guy who takes these things personally. The highlight of that trip was driving around Knoxville on the way. I had been driving for quite a while, so Paula took over. I was tired from driving and she was tired from talking on the phone while back-seat driving. We were going through the city but it was all expressway that was supposed to take us around the major traffic areas. Except that the entire freeway system was under construction. You could only drive in one lane and there were huge cement walls on both sides. It began to rain REALLY heavily; looking through the windshield was like looking into a murky aquarium. I think we even saw some fish. Perhaps my sisters were having lunch again. Anyway, this meant that the tractor trailers had to slow down to 85 mph as they went past you leaving a tsunami of water over your car.

Freeway construction also played a major part of our last major road trip. We took a trip to Chicago when our second son Micah graduated from his Navy training. The trip to and from Chicago was great; the time in Chicago can only be described as a circular descent into Dante's hell. There was construction everywhere. Our cheerful desk clerk informed us on the Sunday morning we left that we should have no trouble getting out of the city. About two hours later we were sitting on the expressway, not moving at all. The brilliant city planners had designed that where two lanes of traffic merged together with three other lanes of traffic would be a good spot to have them all merge into one lane. It took us nine hours to get out of the city. I would have had plenty of time to walk back the five miles to our hotel and strangle the clerk, but as I said, I don't take these things personally.

So I'm guessing that road trips should no longer be on our agenda. The only solution is to not plan any trips farther than the grocery store, which is fine with me. I am taking dance lessons however; I plan on keeping the storm chasers in Virginia busy for a while. As I may have mentioned, I don't take these things personally.

The Mennonite Menace

There seems to be a new infestation in the county where I live; Mennonites. We live in a very rural area and these pests seem to be overrunning all the local farms. Overrunning them in the sense that they're buying them all. You can tell that they are a Mennonite farm because they are neat and well organized and there isn't liquid manure spread as far as the eye can see. It's UnAmerican.


Traditionally, Mennonites have worn bonnets ranging in color all the way from black to gray. The caps, which are different from bonnets (don't ask me how) have been white. The reason is that in the bible it says a woman must worship with her head covered, in obedience to the commands given in 1st Corinthians 11:2-16. These commands state that a Christian woman should have long uncut hair, and that it should be modestly covered with a veil that is a sign of her being under the authority of her husband or father. These commands come from the Apostle Paul, who also suggested that a woman's mouth should be covered in church as well, a practice that most churches sadly don't follow.

People confuse the Mennonites with the Amish. The Amish are an off-shoot of the Mennonites; in 1693 Jacob Amman led an effort to reform the Mennonite church. He wanted to include the practice of shunning, where you refuse to have anything at all to do with anybody who leaves the church. Actually, if you've ever left a church for any reason you know that shunning is widely practiced today.
When the discussions fell through, Jacob and his followers split from the Mennonite church. Amman's followers became known as the Amish; and they all moved to Pennsylvania. The Amish are considered very backward in their social customs, so they figured they wouldn't stand out so much in Pennsylvania. They would have gone to West Virginia but they aren't that backward.

Today the Amish are very similar to the Mennonites except they don't take take Visa. They like to think of the Mennonites as Amish Lite. The Mennonites have tended to take a slightly different tack on some modern conveniences, such as motors. They drive vans, (usually black), tractors and riding lawnmowers. Apparently, a Mennonite one day saw a tractor plowing through a field and suddenly looking at the rear end of a horse didn't seem so appealing anymore. Oh, and they run their own schools.

Mennonite boys and girls aren't all that different from their non-Mennonite counterparts. Take away the modesty, respect and clean language and you can hardly tell them apart. The girls wear a bonnet in school because “The bonnet fosters the proper sense of godly reserve and shamefacedness, especially in regards to interaction with the opposite sex, that is becoming of a young woman.” There is shamefacedness in public schools as well, only it's on the faces of the teachers as they walk down the hallways in the midst of the interactions between the opposite sexes, which make Roman orgies look like English tea parties. Thank God there's only three minutes between classes.

Mennonites have also embraced free enterprise; there is a Mennonite run grocery store that we shop at. I know it's contributing to the takeover of our county, but hey; the prices are good and so is the quality. And unlike Aldi's, they even put it in a bag for you. You can buy all the major food groups there; fresh fruit, sliced deli meats, homemade bread and donuts. And unlike the major supermarkets, there's no need for a bank located inside where you can get a loan to pay for everything.

Back when I was calling on churches for the photography company I worked for, we did a few large Mennonite churches. My photographers complained because the people were too nice; they wouldn't stop feeding them. The waiting was orderly and polite, the children weren't running all over the place knocking down equipment, and they bought a lot of pictures. So my crew told me; no more cults!

So I guess that being overrun by Mennonites isn't the worst thing in the world. In fact, it could be much worse; we could be overrun by Democrats or Republicans. There's no getting rid of those pests even if you spray every four years.

50 Things You Shouldn't do in Your Lifetime # 37 Be a Telemarketer

One of the most telling aspects of modern life is when you sit down together to enjoy a nice dinner at the end of the day only to be interrupted by a telemarketer trying to sell you feminine deodorant products. Or asking you if you know that the country is under attack from the far other political side, and only a check to them will help them stem the tide. Annoying as these intrusions are, there is only one thing worse than getting one of these calls at dinnertime; that's being the person making the calls.

Telemarketing ranks one rung away from sewer worker on the ladder of successful career options. One rung below.

When I worked a short time for a telemarketing firm we sold three products; a diet shake, a discount airline plan and male enhancement products. You could lose weight in one area, gain it back in a different area, then head out to parts unknown.

The shake was probably the most reasonable of the products. A couple of the girls who worked with me were drinking the shake two times a day. They said they lost some weight, but I just don't think they were looking hard enough. I tried the shake once; it tasted like banana flavored Elmer's glue. And that was the chocolate one. It helped you lose weight because you couldn't eat anything for several hours while the glue dried in your stomach.

The travel plan did give some some very hefty discounts, if you could fulfill three basic criteria; 1) You could leave at a moment's notice. 2) You didn't mind riding in the cargo hold. 3) You didn't particularly care where you were going. The travel company for whom we were trying to sell this package could very honestly promise 50-80% savings. It's just that it only applied to planes flying over Iowa while dusting the fields. There was a nice satisfaction guarantee; if you were unsatisfied with the travel package the company would cheerfully not care.

As for the male enhancement “package” we didn't have to call people for that. People would see one of those commercials where beautiful women are hanging all over Joe Average and talking about how different life is these days in Big Guy country. They would call us. The product was billed as “all natural.” Stupidity is all natural too, and it helped to have a generous dose if you were going to purchase this product. It was made from a special secret mixture of herbs and vitamins that would make women think they were dating an elephant. Dumbo to be exact. KFC is also made from a secret batch of herbs and spices but I don't think it's going to help me grow feathers. But that's essentially what we were promising people. Some of the guys who worked at our call center were trying it out, but I didn't notice any of them needing an extra cubicle.

I knew this job would be trouble my very first day when my trainer turned out to be a young woman whose arms were covered with tattoos and who had a pierced nipple. I know she had one because she asked once while we were working if I wanted to see it. It's not often you get a chance to see something for free that people pay good money for at the State Fair, but I respectfully declined. I hadn't eaten lunch yet and I didn't want anything to interfere with that.

Another woman I had the pleasure to work next to was kind of attractive, in a stripper sort of way. Listening to these two dolls sell male enhancement products was like listening in on the extension to a phone sex session. I'm guessing the guys on the other end of the line weren't having enhancement problems at the time.

It was pretty sad really, because the guys who call in for this stuff are coming up short in more ways than one. They were calling for a physical enhancement when what they desperately needed was a personality enhancement. But what was really sad was when their girlfriends called in for them. If your girlfriend is calling a hotline to buy a bigger bridge to the love canal I'm guessing you are having some security issues, not to mention having the self-esteem of Rodney Dangerfield. “How long does it take before you can see some difference?” they'd want to know. I would try to explain to them that it's not like a Chia pet, you can't water it and watch it grow. It takes time for nature to kick in. Whenever one of these sweethearts would call in I'd ask her; “Do you know that a dwarf apple tree can actually produce better fruit than the biggest stud tree in the orchard?” I'd be stuck when they'd reply; “I don't want no tree where I can pick the fruit myself.” Before the analogies got any further off-base I'd helpfully ask to speak directly to her lesser half. I'd try to convince him that he would be better off with our travel plan to parts unknown instead.

Anyway, the next time you get one of those annoying calls at dinner time just remember; be polite when you tell them you're not interested. They've got issues of their own.

William Henry Harrison; A Hermit Crab History Lesson

I recently was given a William Henry Harrison gold dollar. It lasted in my house about as long as Mr. Harrison lasted in the White House.
William Henry Harrison will always bear the distinction of having the shortest chapter in any book on the Presidency. This is because he only served for one month as President, though he accomplished as much in that time period as several subsequent presidents accomplished in four years. Here's a list of his accomplishments;
1.
2.
3.

You can see that it favorably compares with others if you balance in all the negatives others have managed to do.

The main reason he seems to have died prematurely was that on March 4, 1842 he gave a two hour Inauguration speech. This was the edited version too (seriously). He promised to reform the civil service, proving he had a sense of humor, and promised to use the power of the veto sparingly. He proved to be somewhat prophetic on that last point.

It was a cold, blustery day but WHH refused to wear a coat or hat, or even long underwear as far as we know. He then attended at least three Inaugural Balls. Standing out in the cold and then partying like it was 1776 all night was more than his 67 year old party animal body could take. He developed pneumonia and died on April 4th. His last words reportedly were; “Cough, cough, hack hack.”

Just kidding. Actually, his last words were; “I wish you to understand the true principles of government. I wish them carried out. I ask nothing more.” I'm sure his wife Anna appreciated that as he drew his last breaths on earth, his final words were about the GOVERNMENT. It's just an ugly rumor that she smothered him afterward.

WHH wasn't even supposed to win the Whig nomination; that was supposed to go to Kentucky Senator Henry Clay. Southern Whigs didn't like Clay because he had favored a tariff which hurt them. Whiners. In an attempt to kiss their butt and get a few votes he famously said that Congress had no right to interfere in slavery in any of the states. Somebody brought up to Henry Clay that this was a possible way to lose Northern votes, to which he even more famously replied “I'd rather be right than to be President.” While very few thought he was the former, they took him up on the latter and nominated old Tippecanoe. And John Tyler too.

When you watch today's political campaigns, with their idiotic slogans and cheap political paraphernalia, you can thank William Henry Harrison; he's credited with running the first modern campaign. The modern campaign as we know and love it today tends to be heavy on style and image, and low on actual solutions to problems. If WWH really did start this trend than maybe pneumonia wasn't a bad enough end for him.

His campaign consisted of large rallies, sign-waving yokels, off-beat campaign songs and idiotic slogans like “Log Cabin and Hard Cider.” It sounds like Thanksgiving at Glenn Beck's house. If you are wondering what a log cabin and cheap whiskey have to do with running the country you're not alone. Turns out that his handlers promoted the fact that because he was born in a log cabin; he was “one of us.” Just like the Kennedy's are “one of us.” A guy named E.C. Booz provided whiskey bottles in the shape of little log cabins to support WHH; from that we get the term booze. So WHH wasn't without his contributions.

WHH was a successful general, having defeated Tecumseh at the Battle of Tippecanoe. He won by tipping over Tecumseh's canoe. “Tippecanoe and Tyler too” may have been the first campaign slogan in history. It was sort of catchy, and much easier to remember than any stance he might have had on the issues. The slogan referred to a famous battle and its purpose was to garner enthusiasm among the voting masses. George Armstrong Custer may have held future presidential aspirations of his own, and may have hoped a similar victory over the Sioux Indians in 1876 might provide a similar slogan. Of course, it helps if you win the battle. “Long Hair was shorn at the Little Big Horn” helped Sitting Bull win reelection instead.

On a social note, in 1841, just as WHH was departing the White House for that great log cabin in the sky, Brook Farm was founded, a Utopian community near Boston. It was founded by George and Sophia Ripley (believe it or not), and was designed to be an example to the world of true socialist principles. Everybody, including women, were paid equally low. The fact that a Utopian community anywhere within a thousand miles of Boston was probably doomed from the get go didn't dampen their enthusiasm. This is because they believed in American Transcendentalism. They may have practiced Transcendental Meditation many years before the Beatles discovered it. It was different from the Maharishi's version, however, because the more they meditated on it, the more they decided socialism sucked. The community's main goal was to combine manual labor with intellectual pursuits, which put them into direct conflict with the public school system.

None of which has anything to do with WHH, but since he didn't do much I had to fill in the space with something.

Ghost Bluster

Oh my God! Did you hear that? It sounded just like footsteps coming down the hallway! It's late at night, I'm alone in a dark house, and I'm hearing footsteps coming towards my door. Either it's a prowler, or a manifestation of a former inhabitant of this old farmhouse, coming to pay me a visit.

Or maybe it's my fat cat. He just came waddling into the room, and when he waddles it sounds just like footsteps. A horse's footsteps. That cat needs to do some serious aerobics, more than running in the direction of his food dish every time I pass within sight of it.

I was thinking about ghosts because my sons are really into Ghost Hunters, a show where former plumbers investigate things that go bump in the night, or at least go bump in your bathroom. Considering what plumbers make, the ghost business must be pretty lucrative these days to get them to leave it. But then, compared to unclogging someone's septic system, trolling for spirits is pretty easy. Especially since they don't ever find any.

This last point has been the subject of some pretty interesting debates between my sons and myself. Now, before we go too much further, let me say that I would LOVE to be a ghost hunter, as long as I didn't have to work with the losers on their international edition. They all look like the type of kids who got locked in their school lockers by the jocks. You'd think they'd be used to the dark.

Anyway, it would be great to go through all those neat old houses, prisons and mental institutions. I just don't think you'd ever find anything other than the occasional rat or wino. My boys seem to think they find some pretty interesting phenomena, but I'm not convinced. I watched at least five episodes before I saw anything that I would say was even remotely convincing. And that was pretty suspect.

The plumbers were sitting in a room with a flashlight on the floor near them. The person in the room asked whatever spirit might be nearby to turn on the flashlight as a sign. As a sign of what, I wasn't sure; that the ghost wasn't a moron and could push a button? Ghosts seem a little unimaginative to me; all you see or hear from them is the occasional banging of a cupboard or the opening and closing of creaky doors. Maybe that's what hell is; you're assigned to spend eternity in an old house, opening and closing doors and cupboards. But then again, that pretty much describes a good part of my day, so maybe I won't mind being a ghost.

Anyway, the flashlight came on, right on cue. The trouble was, they greeted this with all the excitement of someone who had won a dollar on the lottery ticket he just paid two bucks for. This was actual physical evidence of a conversation with a ghost, and they treated it like they'd just taught their dog to roll over. Maybe they've taught lots of ghosts to do lots of tricks, but this was the first one I'd actually seen on the show.

It reminded of a trick, excuse me, a MIRACLE I once witnessed. A group from our church had gone to a miracle service by some big name evangelist, and he cured a blind man during the service. At least the guy said he had been blind, and now he could see, but judging from his reaction you would have thought he had been cured of post-nasal drip. He was kind of happy, but I guess he had more important stuff to get back to. The evangelist hollered; “Well, if you're not going to get excited, I AM!” I'm guessing the blind guy might have gotten a cut in pay after that. But several from our group, including our pastor, would swear on a stack of bibles (which we kept in the van so they'd be handy for such things) that they saw a miracle. People see what they're looking for.

Now most people dismiss me as just a skeptic, which I am, but I'm a skeptic who has actually seen a ghost. This was no shadow down a hallway in some dark, deserted building, it was in my bedroom in a modern apartment building, and my wife was sleeping soundly right next to me. I was aware of someone entering the room; it was so real that I was sure someone had broken in. I couldn't move or speak, I could only watch as the thing moved slowly past the end of the bed. I say moved since it was hovering and moving slowly. I got a real good look at it. It was wearing some kind of uniform with a strange fez-like hat. It moved along the foot of the bed and eventually floated through the wall, leaving me in a still paralyzed, speechless condition. I was glad that I was paralyzed because I think I would have wet the bed. Even if I could have spoken it wouldn't have occurred to me to ask him to switch on the light, maybe because it was light out. (It was a Sunday, alright? I was sleeping in). It was a full five minutes before I could move or speak. But I didn't say to my wife; “guess what honey, I just saw a Shriner's ghost. That was kind of cool. ”

So when I see some Roto-Rooters wandering around in the dark, jumping at every little sound crying “What was that?” I don't flinch. Turn the lights on guys, it'll be easier to see. Or get Casper to do it for you. When you find something give me a call.

Words You Shouldn't say in Church

I think the number one word you shouldn’t use in church is orgasm.
It’s not that we never talked about sex in the church I used to attend, it was just that it was always in a rather poor context. Oh, they would say the obligatory “Sex is a gift from God” but they would spend the rest of their time exhorting you to never ever want to give this gift to anyone other than your spouse. Even if your spouse didn’t particularly want it, you couldn’t offer it to anybody else. You couldn't even wish that you could offer it to someone else.

The time to have this discussion was in your typical monthly men’s meeting, where traditionally the talk always turned to sex, just like it used to in the locker room in high school. Only this time instead of some putz bragging about his prowess with somebody else’s wife he was confessing it. Or, more times than not, confessing about how he WANTED to do it with some beauty from the church, or, heaven forbid, some worldly beauty.

Pastors in evangelical churches like the one I was a part of get their validation from the altar call where, after delivering some mind-blowing, lightning-flashing-in-the-sky sermon, the poor convicted listeners are invited to come forward and rededicate themselves to God and his mysterious ways. To be honest, most sermons are more mind-numbing than mind-blowing, unless you are thinking of blowing a fuse. There is no more pathetic sight than to see God’s man standing like the Statue of Liberty imploring the poor, the wretched, etc. to come forward, only to be met by a mausoleum-like stillness. When that happened it was always time to play the trump card; lust.

If you wanted to get some guy feeling guilty you talked about lust. “If any man looks upon a woman to lust after her in his heart, he has committed adultery with her already.” This may be the one thing Jesus said that everyone remembers. It pretty much covers a good part of a guy's day, so by the time the preacher got through painting some rather uncomfortable pictures in your mind, the altar was full. The only ones who didn’t come forward were either lying (maybe they were still enjoying those mental pictures) or gay. Or married to a former Playboy model (the church was always packed when she gave HER testimony). There was one pastor who wouldn't take no for an answer and preached a sermon which said there were times when you could actually be lusting after your own wife, so even the playboy bunny’s husband felt the hook.

But in all these sermons and men’s meeting I never heard the word orgasm used. Until I used it. Not at a men’s meeting but at a meeting with an elderly couple from another church.

My wife and I were there to discuss the possible use of an abandoned church building for some purpose, the details of which have been forever removed from memory. The old couple asked questions of our intentions, gave us a history of the building’s use (I think it was abandoned because it had died of boredom many years earlier), and mostly concentrated on this physical structure they kept calling a church, even though no actual people had sat in it for some time.

It was at this time I decided to exhibit my superior spiritual knowledge to these two old windbags, and proceeded to explain that the church is the People, not the building. I wanted to express that the real church, as stated clearly in the Bible, was not a structure made from wood, but a living, spiritual ORGANISM of flesh and blood. Only I forgot to add the NI. Maybe it was because my wife and I were young and newly-married that I wasn’t my usual eagle-eyed focused self. Whatever the reason, I very clearly and loudly trumpeted in my superior spiritual voice that the church of God was a living, breathing spiritual ORGASM.

Now, if that were true maybe people would go to church more often than Christmas and Easter. When the pastor proclaimed that; “He is Risen” the women would start looking at their husbands. But fortunately for me, the couple didn’t even pick up on it, probably because they had zoned me out a long time ago. MY WIFE, however, heard me plain as day and she was turning a Rainbow Coalition of colors trying not to laugh. My mind went completely blank, I literally couldn’t remember what I was talking about. Since they weren’t paying attention anyway it didn’t matter, but I don’t think I had another coherent thought for at least an hour after we left. My wife, on the other hand, had lots of coherent thoughts to share with me, which she did, interspersed with thunderous laughter at my expense.

The moral of the story is that there are certain words that you shouldn’t use in church except in the proper context, and others that are better left unsaid. It is alright to talk about lust in the church, but don’t go all the way to orgasm.

Nagging Rights

When my son Paul was in college he came home on one of his way too many breaks and saw a copy of the book The Nag Hammadi Scriptures lying on our coffee table. It's a book of “missing” scriptures; books written during the time the other more accepted books of the Bible were being written. If you read some of these books, such as the The Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit, you would believe that LSD was around a lot longer than the 1960's. They seemed to be written by people a few cubits short of a floating ark.

My son, however, saw something different. He picked up the book and proclaimed; “The Nag Scriptures? Did Mom write these?”

Nagging occurs when someone tells you about something you should be doing. Over and over again.
On sunny days. On rainy days. On weekdays and weekends. In the morning when you get up until the time you go to sleep. In the Fall, in Winter (it seems worse in the winter), in the Spring and into the Summer. At least that's how the nagged see it. Or so I've been told.

My wife is a nag. She has to be. Whatever gene it is that is responsible for drive or ambition is missing from my DNA closet. Or more likely lying on the floor in there somewhere. My boys have inherited my less active genes and thus the need for kind gentle reminders about their obligations from time to time. To time to time to time and then one more time.

The bad part about naggers is that they are almost always right. If they weren't you wouldn't fight with them about why you shouldn't have do something that you know you should be doing and wouldn't take that long but you're right in the middle of something and what's the big deal anyhow? Of course, the alternative is too horrible to contemplate; doing something before it actually needs to be done.

During their school years I helped with the nagging at times, though not to hear her tell it. “I'm the one that has to nag them while you play games with them” was a frequent complaint I heard. I wanted to respond that we all have to live according to the talents given us, but such short term rejoinders reap such long term results that I would bite my tongue. So often that I no longer taste food. But the truth is; she was right.

It was part of our Good Cop/Bad Cop parenting style; She was Dirty Harry and I was Joe Friday, though I lacked his charisma. I was lucky to be the good cop because sometimes, when the boys were alone with me they would complain about their Mom's persistent ways. I liked to remind them that if it wasn't for their Mom, none of them would have finished the fourth grade, let alone gone to college. They'd still be trying to finish their book report on Freddy the Pig and the Flying Saucers. It would have turned into their senior thesis. It was mine and I only got an C.

It wasn't just the homework either. It was the paperwork; admissions forms, scholarship forms, financial aid/disclosure forms and some forms that exist only because the government likes forms. There is some lonely paper pusher somewhere who is carrying on an illicit affair with a spreadsheet and we're all paying for it. You don't just fill out these forms once either, they have to be done every year. In triplicate. Signed in blood.

My sons wouldn't have filled out these forms on their own because it would have involved interrupting a game they might be playing. Being a game player is the one talent I was able to teach them, however it doesn't look all that impressive on your resume. “1995-2004, Played XBOX. Skills learned; I have really flexible thumbs and I can scream a lot.” Admittedly, these may seem to be your current boss' only assets but that's no guarantee it will work for you.

Overall, my sons are doing very well, thanks to Dirty Harry having putting a 357 Magnum to their heads several times over the years. They have the usual difficulties with their jobs and the like, but at least they've had good jobs to have trouble with. They don't call us to tell us some customer wanted his hamburger HIS way and it involved unnatural acts with a lot of ketchup. They all did well or are doing well in school, except for my second son. He went into the Navy after having lost 60 pounds over six months. A determination he carefully kept hidden during the nagging years. He ended up seeing parts of the world he never would have if I was his only influence.

I have only one piece of advice for my wife; Honey, whenever the boys call home with any kind of good news about how their lives are going, just mentally say “You're welcome.” You'll never get the recognition you deserve for doing the dirty work, but we can sure can enjoy the results.

Political Bumper Stickers You Won’t See in 2012

Being in a democracy means that you have certain freedoms, such as being able to vote for the people who will tell what you can't do. Presidents are chosen because of their vast appeal. Vice Presidents are usually chosen because they bring some sort of balance to the political ticket. For instance, Barack Obama was young and inexperienced, and brilliant so he had to choose a running mate who was old and dumber than the proverbial box of rocks.

Back in 2004 John Kerry chose John Edwards because he was young and charismatic and didn't talk like Herman Munster. He brought balance. It also helped that he was a trial lawyer, a member of a poor, disenfranchised group of voters. He also represented Family Values; something which Ted Kennedy and Bill Clinton had ceded to Republicans like Mark Sanford and Newt Gingrich. It worked out even better than expected; John loved family life so much he started another one on the side.

What I was wondering however, was; Has anybody ever been rejected as a Vice-Presidential candidate just because of his name?

For instance, if Michigan’s John Dingell would try and save the Democrats sagging fortunes, and choose Arkansas’ Marion Berry for his running mate, their bumper sticker would read; VOTE FOR DINGELL/BERRY. It would probably carry the South but overall I don't think today's astute political advisers would allow it.

Sifting through the names of Senators, Representatives, and Governors, some current and some recent, I’ve found several pairs of candidates that just wouldn't make it based on their names alone. Take Texas’ Dick Armey and Utah’s Chris Cannon as an ARMEY/CANNON team. Too warmongering. Rhode Island’s Lincoln Almond and Pennsylvania’s Joseph Pitts as an ALMOND/PITTS ticket might sound tasty at first, but might eventually stick in your craw. Ohio's Marcia Fudge might smooth it out as ALMOND/FUDGE. (They won’t melt in your mouth) but I doubt it.

I think Olympia Snowe of Maine and Richard Burr of N.C. as SNOWE/BURR would cool the ardor of too many. Washington’s Jennifer Dunn and Virgil Goode of Virginia could simply say; Vote for us, we DUNN/GOODE. I also dug up ROBB/GRAVES (Virginia’s Charles Robb and Kansas’ Bill Graves) but it seemed too much like the Democrats newest tax idea.

What if Emanuel Cleaver of Missouri ran for president and he really thought NY's Louise Slaughter was right for the country (as Judy Tenuta would say- it could happen). The VOTE FOR CLEAVER/SLAUGHTER bumper sticker might send chills up your spine.

VOTE FOR TALENT/SHOWS (Missouri’s James Talent and Mississippi’s Ronnie Shows), sounds like it could at least be entertaining. People would quickly reject N.Y.’s Anthony Weiner and N.J.’s Bob Franks since VOTE FOR WEINER/FRANKS just reeks of too much pork. And how fast would a ticket of California’s Chris Cox and Washington’s Norman Dicks be rejected? A VOTE FOR COX/DICKS sticker on your car might get you pulled over in some states.

What if Al (the joke's on us) Franken decides to run for President? Would he choose a conservative comedian like Ben Stein to balance his ticket? I'd vote for FRANKEN/STEIN but I doubt others would.

If Bobby Bright of Alabama and Jeff Flake of Arizona ran together we could all vote for a BRIGHT/FLAKE. But that's what we have now.

California’s John Doolittle and Texas’ Pete Sessions would, admittedly, pass the truth in advertising stipulations since a sticker of VOTE FOR DOOLITTLE/SESSIONS would honestly portray most of today’s politics.

It's unfortunate that Robert Byrd has passed away. If West Virginia’s esteemed former senator had only run for president, and choose Idaho’s Mike Crapo as his running mate, then people could have proudly displayed a bumper sticker that read:

VOTE FOR BYRD/CRAPO.

Where's John Edwards now that we need him?

Love Songs for Old People

“The morning sun when it’s in your face really shows your age….”

Gee, that lyric from Rod Stewart’s Maggie May always brings a tear to my eye, probably because my wife sings it to me every morning. It used to be kind of a funny lyric, now it’s just a statement of fact. It seems that I look at all my music a little differently these days.

If you’re getting older like me you may want to play a little game; go through all your song titles and see how many seem to have something to do with being old. Just glancing through my song titles I’ve saved on my computer I found the following;

Remember When by Alan Jackson, Rocking Chair by the Band , Old Man by Neil Young, Those Were the Days by Mary Hopkin, Grow Old Along with Me by Mary Chapin Carpenter, Yesterday When I Was Young by Roy Clark, and Long Long Time by Linda Ronstadt. That was in the first minute I looked.

Then there are those songs that have elderly connotations to them; they weren’t written about being old but they might as well have been.

Paint it Black, Dust in the Wind, A Whiter Shade of Pale, The Weary Kind , In the Bleak Midwinter, Carry that Weight , Golden Slumbers , Too Late for Praying, Sundown , Don’t Cross the River , Way Over Yonder, Wandering and I know You’re Out There Somewhere (These last two go together rather nicely). Wow, these songs really speak to me now.

Then there are those songs that need only a subtitle to put them into a geezerly context;

Love Hurts (and so does everything else)

Look What You’ve Done (You’ve Forgotten Your Depends) by Bread. Or is it Moldy Bread?

You Can Close Your Eyes (The Nap Song) by James Taylor

Afternoon Delight (used to be something else, now it’s another nap song)

I Can’t See Nobody (Can’t find my glasses) by the Bee Gees

Turn! Turn! Turn! (MY wife’s driving directions song) by the Byrds.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone? (They were here a minute ago)

And two Gordon Lightfoot favorites;

Race Among the Ruins (Trying to get through a crowd of old ladies at Bingo).

A Tree Too Weak to Stand (The Viagra Song)

Well, that’s enough for now. I’ve been at this for several minutes and it’s worn me out. Time for my nap; don’t play the music too loud.

What About Bob?

A good way to be an underachiever is to be a third-born child. Third-born children tend to be more relaxed, though my relaxed nature has often bordered on comatose. This is especially true if you're a second-born boy and the first born boy is a real achiever. My older brother Bob is certainly that. He has always been smart, talented, capable, good-looking, personable, and several other things I can't remember right now but you can look them up on his website. I have not been lacking in some of these qualities myself, it's just that I've never had them to the degree that he has. As a matter of fact, girls often mention how I get increasingly better-looking as I'm moving farther away. I've been told that I look like Sean Connery from across the room. If the room is an aircraft hanger.

But I'm giving the wrong impression here; Bob and I were really close growing up and we still get along great. Bob never acted like he was better than me; he just naturally was. I was good enough at stuff so we always played together, I just never won. I could run pretty fast but Bob was one of the fastest kids in school. When we played football with the neighborhood kids they said it wasn't fair if both Bob and I were on the same team; they just picked Bob first. Bob had more real girlfriends than I had imaginary ones, and that was a lot. His most serious girlfriend was the equivalent of the class playmate; she was beautiful. Bob graduated with honors near the top of his class, the same year I was thirty-third in my class. I was often called Bob by accident in school because it was short for my full name; Bob's brother.

The earliest memory I have of Bob and myself was the time we were chucking small pebbles at each other. We couldn't have been much older than three and four, and this was the 50's , which meant you had to make up your own games at times. This one was rather fun, because what damage could a couple of toddlers do tossing little pebbles back and forth? They couldn't, unless one of them picked up a rock and plunked it right off the other's pumpkin head and sliced it open. I then did what we Schmitt boys always did in a time of crisis; I ran around the house and hid. It was my first exposure to injustice because I didn't even get credit for making such a great shot; I got spanked and sent to bed. Maybe it was that blow to the head at an early stage that set us apart. A blow to the head would certainly explain a lot about Bob.

Payback is a bitch however, and I got mine when we were in fifth and sixth grade respectively. We were swinging golf clubs in the yard and I was standing too close to Bob, who had been planning his revenge no doubt for years. I got nine-ironed right above my eye and sent to the hospital in the ambulance. The attendants wrapped my head up so much I looked like the mummy. I didn't get to lie on the gurney however, I had to sit in a seat and look out the window at all the people wondering where Boris Karloff was heading. A blow to the head would actually explain a lot about me.

We've taken different career paths; Bob graduated from college and got a job in mid-year at a high school. Bob was always into theater and the woman in charge of the theater program just happened to be retiring when Bob started. I think there was a little divine intervention at work there, preparing for the coming of Bob. He taught for several years, did marvelous plays, eventually moving up into a superintendants role and retired to be an educational consultant.

My career path has been more like an old trail that a herd of meandering cows made over a period of thirty years. I decided not to go the college and started a Trail of Tears of many jobs, most of which I'd like to forget. But if the jobs I did weren't very glamorous or exciting at least they made up for it by not paying well. Most of them provided vacation time every Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday to boot. The health benefits consisted of a first aid kit with duct tape in it.

But the difference in our lifestyles has dramatically changed, because Bob fell in love with horses. He has several horses. Big horses. Busy horses. He now spends every day, 365 days a year, shoveling horse shit. This is his hobby. This is his chosen lifestyle. And he loves it. We were recently invited to his wife's retirement party; the invitation said B.Y.O.S.; Bring your own shovel. It's amazing.

I've shoveled shit for years. But I no longer do it. That's my hobby; not shoveling shit all day. It must have been those blows to the head, his has finally kicked in while mine is clearing up. But at least I've finally found something we are both equal at;. It's just that nowadays I prefer mine to be in words, not deeds.

The Fringe Element

My mother bought me a leather fringed vest for my 18th birthday. It was genuine cowhide leather, and believe me when I tell you it looked better on me than it did the cow. It had a real Western look and feel to it; I think Dale Evans had one just like it.  When I wore it I looked like I had stepped right out of a John Ford movie; the Shootout at the Yahoo Corral. I loved it.

My mother bought it for me because I was scheduled to go to college in Montana in the fall. Montana was the Big Sky country where men dressed like men and so did the women. The only problem was that summer I had been forced to move against my will to Greece, NY, a suburb of Rochester.  Greece was the Big Mall country. The only grass found in it was the kind you smoked. Greece had taken Joni Mitchell’s lyric;  “They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot” and made it their National Anthem. The malls were packed so close together they were forever begetting little mini-malls everywhere. And nobody wore a fringed vest.

The first time I wore it out in public was when my older brother Bob and I went to a small coffee house in the basement of a local church. I was the picture of a robust cowboy hunk; jeans, boots, a denim shirt and my fringed vest. I looked like I was scouting for Custer.

The image lasted for as long as it took to walk in the front door.  Some fourteen year old kid at a table of fourteen-year old kids pointed his finger at me, giggled and said to his friends, in a voice that sounded like it was blasted from a loudspeaker; “Get a load of him!.”

Instantly I no longer felt like the Marlborough Man. I felt like the love child of Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody.  And it was so unfair. After all, I hadn’t pointed out to everybody (just Bob) the nice field of acne growing on the north forty of the kid’s face. At least I could go home and change (I did); he would still look like a wanted poster for Clearasil.

Not to be permanently dissuaded by some punk, I wore it out again, this time when Bob and I went to a strip club. As a young buck the idea of watching some girls take off their clothes seemed like a good idea at the time. But the anticipation quickly disappeared when I saw the clothing they were supposed to strip off. Vests were in!  At least for the first five minutes. And a lot of them had fringe on them.  I looked like their wardrobe consultant. I spent the night trying to tell people “No I didn’t drop a wad of hundred dollar bills to get this vest; my Mommy gave it to me.”  When they’d ask “Which one is she?” I knew it was time to go. It was also time to ditch the vest.

I thought about that vest when I moved out to Bloomfield. Bloomfield was the country! Corn in the fields and cows in every barn. It was like heaven. The local bar was a converted barn called The Purple Pig.  All the girls wore fringed vests. I would have fit right in, except for one thing. They all looked like Dale Evans. After she had been kicked by Trigger.

Today I work at home and am a little less fashion conscious. I do have my underwear sorted by days of the week. There’s Tuesday’s pair, and there’s Next Tuesday’s pair.The only vests I wear today are sweater vests, and I only wear them when I’m  covering up some stain on my shirt. 

I know it’s sad, but I still think of that vest from time to time.

Thanks Mom, you tried.