If you are anything like me, you will be happy when Halloween has come and gone.
Right now, my home is something akin to being the home of The Munsters or the Addams Family. Needless to say, my wife likes to decorate for the holidays – any holiday.
But, Halloween and Christmas have to be without a doubt her favorite two holidays. In fact, I am positive that somewhere within my home there is at least one Christmas decoration still on display from – not last Christmas – Christmas of several years ago. I know I have seen a Nativity scene that Hilda Findlater gave her many years ago sitting around. I think it is somewhere in our living room, but not very observable at this time because of the Halloween decorations.
On the top shelf of our bookcase are five – yes, five – ceramic haunted houses that light up, blink and make noises. There is also a wooden haunted house figure as well. My wife put down a bed of cotton-looking stuff to set them on. It makes them appear to be sitting on clouds to me, but she insists it is fog. There are some leave-less trees between the haunted houses and some creature figures – wolf men, zombies, vampires, mummies, etc.
On the next shelf down, there is a hodge-podge of decorations including another haunted house that you have to put a candle inside, a skull, a ceramic sack that looks like a jack-o-lantern that also needs a candle inside, a candle shaped like a skull, a plush comical ghost with a trick-or-treat bag and most of the greatest monsters of all time as miniature stuffed doll-like thingies – whatever you call them. There is also a small fish tank with a Fighting Beta. It is not a part of the decorations. It is my oldest daughter’s classroom pet that has not been taken back to her class in a couple of weeks.
One shelf down from there, my wife has a pair of small buckets that are painted up for Halloween. They could be used by a small child to go out and collect candy, but they serve as decorations in my home. While Frankenstein and his bride, the Wolf Man, Dracula and the Mummy made it on the second shelf, the third shelf is home to Quasimodo, The Phantom of the Opera and The Swamp Creature.
Dropping down one more level on the bookcase, you will find five ceramic candleholders of different styles that depict a witch and her cauldron, a jar of bat wings, a bottle of ghost goo, a kid dressed as a ghost and a black cat. There is also a ghost candy dish that makes an eerie sound when you reach for the candy.
No, I’m not finished with the bookcase, yet.
On the shelf next to the bottom, which is the one after the one I just described, there is a jack-o-lantern made of papier-mâché, a candy bowl with a Halloween drawing in the bottom, a wrought iron skeleton holding a leash that has the skeleton of a dog on the other end and two wrought iron black cat candle holders.
The bottom shelf has only one decoration, a whicker basket. The basket is painted in traditional Halloween colors and decorated with the popular figures of the holiday.
That, folks, covers just the bookcase in my living room.
If you walk up to our front door, you will be greeted by Michael Meyers or a poster of the main character of the movie Halloween. The eyes on the poster blink red and the theme music from the movie plays. And just inside the front door, you will find a black-wire Halloween tree with orange lights at the end of each branch. I am surprised my wife has not found miniature decorations to go on that tree – at least she has not found any right now. There are other decorations, but I do not have enough space in this newspaper to give you the full detail of my wife’s decorating skills for the upcoming holiday.
Yes, my wife likes to decorate for Halloween. However, it is nothing in comparison to her favorite holiday – Christmas.
Soon I will not have to look at all these decorations. They will all be removed to make room for the Christmas decorations that will join the Nativity scene Mrs. Hilda gave us. Fortunately, there is not enough room in my home for my wife to put out all the Christmas decorations she has collected over the years. She has to make decisions on which will make it out of the box each year.
But you can bet your life, and mine, that she will use up every available space in our home – even the bathroom. I sure hope she doesn’t buy a toilet seat that plays Christmas songs.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Phenix City's been in recession since the 1950s
The economy…well, I am so tired of hearing about how this country is in a recession. It ain’t. It is in a depression – as in the comment many people are saying right now, “I’m depressed because I do not have a job.”
I am very fortunate to still have a job in this economy. But, then, Phenix City has been in a recession since the 1950s. Basically, we, here in East Alabama’s East Coast Community (yes, we are on the coast of the Chattahoochee River and it sounds better than here in Alabama’s East Bank Community.) have seen little to none when it comes to economic growth since the 1950s.
We just seem to remain the same. No matter what our political leaders (and I use that word loosely) have told us over the years. We saw Phenix Plaza die with the opening of Grant City which became K-Mart. K-Mart is still around, but lost its momentum with the opening of Wal-Mart. You can drive along the city’s 280 Bypass and, if you have a good memory, remember all the stores that are now long gone – Howard Brothers, Gaylords, Goolsby Food, Big Star, South Star, Winn Dixie, Victory Auto Parts, Dixie Dog, Del Taco, Po Folks, Western Corral, Mr. J’s Steakhouse, Food Giant, Wendy’s, Torch 280 Supper Club, Torch 280 Truck Stop, Hancock Fabrics, Frank’s Warehouse, Bill, Neil and Phil’s, Neil’s Sports Shop, Pizza Inn, Brand X Restaurant, Durango’s, China Eagle, Texaco Service Station, Shell Service Station, Town and Country Hotel and whatever the name of that do-nut shop was. All are gone and some have left behind empty buildings.
Who would have ever thought – provided you grew up in Phenix City and are more than 50 years old – that the Townhouse and Lane’s restaurants would close. And, the Biff Burger, Dairy Dream and (as I choke with emotion) Chicken Comer’s. If I thought a little more, I could come up with many other stores and restaurants that have long left our tiny hamlet.
The more I think about our economic situation, the more depressed I get.
In the 1950s, Phenix City had a population of about 25,000. The population has not increased much over that – somewhere around 30-35,000 – since those days when compared to surrounding communities. Still, even with an increase of 10,000 people, Phenix City has the tax base of a city half its size or less.
About the only growing industry in Phenix City is its school system, which has seen an increase in students of about 1,400 in the last seven years. The school system, with BRAC on the horizon, may grow at an even more rapid pace in the next few years. That means Phenix City will see more and more homes built to handle the families that will relocate to the area because of BRAC.
Our city government will have to grow to meet the demands of an increasing population. We will need more police, firefighters, public works employees, utilities employees, recreation workers, etc. Our infrastructure will need to be updated – more capability to produce water and waterlines to handle the increased production to name a couple of things.
Where will the money to handle all of this come from? The taxpayers will pay dearly because of the tax base we have created in Phenix City – a tax base created by our spending habits and attitudes. Not long ago, I remember a former city council presenting a list of projects to the citizens of Phenix City for their approval and for their consent to increase property taxes by $1 per month ($12 annually) to fund those projects. I can remember when renovating the old Central annex building was suggested and proposing to move the library was presented. One of our more brilliant citizens objected, saying, “We don’t need a new library. They have one we can use in Columbus.” The same argument was used on every other project presented to the public at that time by this individual. Yes, he was right. Columbus has everything and we can pay to use those things there. We have nothing in comparison – except a growth in the number of bedrooms we have built to handle the economic growth Columbus and other surrounding communities are seeing.
All this being said, we must come up with a program of economic development for Phenix City. I have two – both extreme – and others should be considered before allowing mine to be implemented.
My first plan: declare Phenix City an independent nation and regard the bridges to Columbus as border stops. People traveling out of Phenix City is okay, but when they return they must go through Customs and pay a steep tariff on items purchased outside of Phenix City.
My second plan: remove those bridges leading away from Phenix City. I doubt anyone will want to swim back and forth across the Chattahoochee, but you never know when it comes to Phenix City folks. In many cases, they will go out of their ways to spend money elsewhere.
I am very fortunate to still have a job in this economy. But, then, Phenix City has been in a recession since the 1950s. Basically, we, here in East Alabama’s East Coast Community (yes, we are on the coast of the Chattahoochee River and it sounds better than here in Alabama’s East Bank Community.) have seen little to none when it comes to economic growth since the 1950s.
We just seem to remain the same. No matter what our political leaders (and I use that word loosely) have told us over the years. We saw Phenix Plaza die with the opening of Grant City which became K-Mart. K-Mart is still around, but lost its momentum with the opening of Wal-Mart. You can drive along the city’s 280 Bypass and, if you have a good memory, remember all the stores that are now long gone – Howard Brothers, Gaylords, Goolsby Food, Big Star, South Star, Winn Dixie, Victory Auto Parts, Dixie Dog, Del Taco, Po Folks, Western Corral, Mr. J’s Steakhouse, Food Giant, Wendy’s, Torch 280 Supper Club, Torch 280 Truck Stop, Hancock Fabrics, Frank’s Warehouse, Bill, Neil and Phil’s, Neil’s Sports Shop, Pizza Inn, Brand X Restaurant, Durango’s, China Eagle, Texaco Service Station, Shell Service Station, Town and Country Hotel and whatever the name of that do-nut shop was. All are gone and some have left behind empty buildings.
Who would have ever thought – provided you grew up in Phenix City and are more than 50 years old – that the Townhouse and Lane’s restaurants would close. And, the Biff Burger, Dairy Dream and (as I choke with emotion) Chicken Comer’s. If I thought a little more, I could come up with many other stores and restaurants that have long left our tiny hamlet.
The more I think about our economic situation, the more depressed I get.
In the 1950s, Phenix City had a population of about 25,000. The population has not increased much over that – somewhere around 30-35,000 – since those days when compared to surrounding communities. Still, even with an increase of 10,000 people, Phenix City has the tax base of a city half its size or less.
About the only growing industry in Phenix City is its school system, which has seen an increase in students of about 1,400 in the last seven years. The school system, with BRAC on the horizon, may grow at an even more rapid pace in the next few years. That means Phenix City will see more and more homes built to handle the families that will relocate to the area because of BRAC.
Our city government will have to grow to meet the demands of an increasing population. We will need more police, firefighters, public works employees, utilities employees, recreation workers, etc. Our infrastructure will need to be updated – more capability to produce water and waterlines to handle the increased production to name a couple of things.
Where will the money to handle all of this come from? The taxpayers will pay dearly because of the tax base we have created in Phenix City – a tax base created by our spending habits and attitudes. Not long ago, I remember a former city council presenting a list of projects to the citizens of Phenix City for their approval and for their consent to increase property taxes by $1 per month ($12 annually) to fund those projects. I can remember when renovating the old Central annex building was suggested and proposing to move the library was presented. One of our more brilliant citizens objected, saying, “We don’t need a new library. They have one we can use in Columbus.” The same argument was used on every other project presented to the public at that time by this individual. Yes, he was right. Columbus has everything and we can pay to use those things there. We have nothing in comparison – except a growth in the number of bedrooms we have built to handle the economic growth Columbus and other surrounding communities are seeing.
All this being said, we must come up with a program of economic development for Phenix City. I have two – both extreme – and others should be considered before allowing mine to be implemented.
My first plan: declare Phenix City an independent nation and regard the bridges to Columbus as border stops. People traveling out of Phenix City is okay, but when they return they must go through Customs and pay a steep tariff on items purchased outside of Phenix City.
My second plan: remove those bridges leading away from Phenix City. I doubt anyone will want to swim back and forth across the Chattahoochee, but you never know when it comes to Phenix City folks. In many cases, they will go out of their ways to spend money elsewhere.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
I should have attended more class reunions
“I went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends
A chance to share old memories and play our songs again
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name
No one recognized me, I didn't look the same”
Ricky Nelson, once a famous teen idol in the 1950s and the star of an early television show, sang those words in his song “Garden Party.” I understood them a little better after attending the Central High class reunion for 1973-75 last weekend at the Central Activities Center. It was a lot of fun. I want to thank all those people who worked so hard to put it together. It was the first class reunion of any kind that I had attended since I graduated.
But, I wish they had not made up those badges for us to wear.
It hit me like a ton of bricks that I no longer look like I did back in 1975. It hit me even harder that I would have worn such ugly clothing. The badge had my senior portrait – taken straight from the 1975 annual – of me in a plaid coat with a striped tie. It was ugly.
I was not the only person there that could, or should have been, embarrassed by those photos from that annual. I saw folks that no longer favored those photos. That, for most, was a good thing. We all have to grow older, mature and step aside for a new generation to take over our places as youth. I’m working on being a second generation past those days.
My hair is a lot shorter than it was back then. I still, from time to time, allow it to get a little too long, but nothing in length to compare to that 1975 style. I could grow it as long as it was back in 1975 if I wanted, but it would not be the same color without some help from a beautician. There were some folks there that were fighting the aging process by this method – and you could tell. I pointed out a spot on one fellow’s hair that he had missed. He swore he did not dye his hair – and pigs fly, too.
For the most part, the majority of people attending were content to allow the aging process to take place.
The night began with a solemn moment as classmates from the three classes who are no longer with us were honored. My class, 1975, had the most recognized – it seemed like more than 30 had left us.
Alan McDonald, the husband of a classmate and who did not graduate from Central, remarked that the 1975 class had lost more people than he had graduated with at Glenwood. He also said if my photo appeared on the screen that he was going to run out of the place. I assured him that if my photo showed up, I was going to run with him.
Thank goodness my photo was not there, but I could easily have been included with the group had I not gone through heart surgery in February. Because of that, I was among the lucky people who were able to attend the reunion this year. Hopefully, I will attend more over time.
As I mentioned last week, I am getting better at learning about Facebook. It sure came in handy at the reunion. A lot of the people who chose to attend have Facebook accounts with current photos, so I recognized more of them than I probably should have. Most people had to look at my badge – twice – to recognize me. I cannot say that no one recognized me because I see many of the people who attended on a regular basis. A lot of us are still here in this area - Phenix City, Smiths Station and Columbus. I guess we all had hopes that this area could be a better place if we planted our roots deep enough. There is always hope.
Others from our classes left and made better lives in other places. I suspect they make those places better places for their being there. It does not hurt to spread our area’s influence over a larger area. The class of 1975 has members living in places like Ariton, Ala., and Little Rock, Ark., and Los Angeles. I am glad some of them were able to come back “home” for the reunion. I am sure the members of the other two classes at the reunion can boast of the same wide-spread influence of their classes.
As anyone who knows me knows, I love to talk about sports, especially local sports. I used to enjoy talking about sports on a broader scale and I got an opportunity to talk about sports on that broader scale at the reunion with someone sitting at the table I homesteaded when no one was looking. Actually, I just sat down to eat while others were in line getting their food and remained the rest of the night because of the conversation.
I sat at a table with one of my classmates who moved away, Deborah Boddie. Her last name is no longer Boddie. It’s Birdsong now. She married a guy named Otis from Winter Haven, Fla. He played a little basketball in his younger days. When Deborah introduced us, she mentioned he played for the University of Houston. Immediately, my mind told me it just could not be so. There was no way I was sharing a table with a legend.
We chatted about athletes who played at Central who went on to play college sports and professionally as well. He knew about some of our former Red Devils. Since Deborah is a cousin of Ken Johnson, Otis was familiar with him. He also knew Joe C. Meriweather. It was when he started talking about playing against some of the people we were talking about that I realized he really could be that “Otis Birdsong.”
Some of you will remember Otis was the Southwest Conference Player of the Decade for the 1970s and was the second pick overall in the 1977 NBA draft by the Kansas City Kings. He was a four-time NBA all-star. And he married one of my classmates. Deborah and Otis have five adult children and several grandchildren.
And, yes, he was that Otis Birdsong. I had to look him up on the internet to be sure. I wish had just asked him if he was who I thought he was instead of researching his images on the internet after I got home that night.
I wish now that I had attended earlier reunions. Maybe I would have already known about Deborah and Otis. Maybe there are other stories out there I could have discovered about my former classmates. I sure wish I had attended those earlier reunions. I could have filled up a whole lot more inches in the newspaper I’m sure.
A chance to share old memories and play our songs again
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name
No one recognized me, I didn't look the same”
Ricky Nelson, once a famous teen idol in the 1950s and the star of an early television show, sang those words in his song “Garden Party.” I understood them a little better after attending the Central High class reunion for 1973-75 last weekend at the Central Activities Center. It was a lot of fun. I want to thank all those people who worked so hard to put it together. It was the first class reunion of any kind that I had attended since I graduated.
But, I wish they had not made up those badges for us to wear.
It hit me like a ton of bricks that I no longer look like I did back in 1975. It hit me even harder that I would have worn such ugly clothing. The badge had my senior portrait – taken straight from the 1975 annual – of me in a plaid coat with a striped tie. It was ugly.
I was not the only person there that could, or should have been, embarrassed by those photos from that annual. I saw folks that no longer favored those photos. That, for most, was a good thing. We all have to grow older, mature and step aside for a new generation to take over our places as youth. I’m working on being a second generation past those days.
My hair is a lot shorter than it was back then. I still, from time to time, allow it to get a little too long, but nothing in length to compare to that 1975 style. I could grow it as long as it was back in 1975 if I wanted, but it would not be the same color without some help from a beautician. There were some folks there that were fighting the aging process by this method – and you could tell. I pointed out a spot on one fellow’s hair that he had missed. He swore he did not dye his hair – and pigs fly, too.
For the most part, the majority of people attending were content to allow the aging process to take place.
The night began with a solemn moment as classmates from the three classes who are no longer with us were honored. My class, 1975, had the most recognized – it seemed like more than 30 had left us.
Alan McDonald, the husband of a classmate and who did not graduate from Central, remarked that the 1975 class had lost more people than he had graduated with at Glenwood. He also said if my photo appeared on the screen that he was going to run out of the place. I assured him that if my photo showed up, I was going to run with him.
Thank goodness my photo was not there, but I could easily have been included with the group had I not gone through heart surgery in February. Because of that, I was among the lucky people who were able to attend the reunion this year. Hopefully, I will attend more over time.
As I mentioned last week, I am getting better at learning about Facebook. It sure came in handy at the reunion. A lot of the people who chose to attend have Facebook accounts with current photos, so I recognized more of them than I probably should have. Most people had to look at my badge – twice – to recognize me. I cannot say that no one recognized me because I see many of the people who attended on a regular basis. A lot of us are still here in this area - Phenix City, Smiths Station and Columbus. I guess we all had hopes that this area could be a better place if we planted our roots deep enough. There is always hope.
Others from our classes left and made better lives in other places. I suspect they make those places better places for their being there. It does not hurt to spread our area’s influence over a larger area. The class of 1975 has members living in places like Ariton, Ala., and Little Rock, Ark., and Los Angeles. I am glad some of them were able to come back “home” for the reunion. I am sure the members of the other two classes at the reunion can boast of the same wide-spread influence of their classes.
As anyone who knows me knows, I love to talk about sports, especially local sports. I used to enjoy talking about sports on a broader scale and I got an opportunity to talk about sports on that broader scale at the reunion with someone sitting at the table I homesteaded when no one was looking. Actually, I just sat down to eat while others were in line getting their food and remained the rest of the night because of the conversation.
I sat at a table with one of my classmates who moved away, Deborah Boddie. Her last name is no longer Boddie. It’s Birdsong now. She married a guy named Otis from Winter Haven, Fla. He played a little basketball in his younger days. When Deborah introduced us, she mentioned he played for the University of Houston. Immediately, my mind told me it just could not be so. There was no way I was sharing a table with a legend.
We chatted about athletes who played at Central who went on to play college sports and professionally as well. He knew about some of our former Red Devils. Since Deborah is a cousin of Ken Johnson, Otis was familiar with him. He also knew Joe C. Meriweather. It was when he started talking about playing against some of the people we were talking about that I realized he really could be that “Otis Birdsong.”
Some of you will remember Otis was the Southwest Conference Player of the Decade for the 1970s and was the second pick overall in the 1977 NBA draft by the Kansas City Kings. He was a four-time NBA all-star. And he married one of my classmates. Deborah and Otis have five adult children and several grandchildren.
And, yes, he was that Otis Birdsong. I had to look him up on the internet to be sure. I wish had just asked him if he was who I thought he was instead of researching his images on the internet after I got home that night.
I wish now that I had attended earlier reunions. Maybe I would have already known about Deborah and Otis. Maybe there are other stories out there I could have discovered about my former classmates. I sure wish I had attended those earlier reunions. I could have filled up a whole lot more inches in the newspaper I’m sure.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Do you know the difference between a doodad and a whatnot?
Southern folk have such wonderful words and expressions. I was reminded of this the other day when talking with Myra Boutwell about her vacation.
Myra told me she spent her time off washing her “doodads” and “whatnots.” While that could be taken as something less than innocent, that was exactly what it was – innocent. I understood what she was talking about without having to take the time to think about it.
You see, I know what whatnots are – and doodads, too.
Whatnots are the same as nicknacks and bric-a-brac. They are defined as “miscellaneous curios.”
A doodad is the same thing as a thingamajig, a thingamabob, a doohickey, a whatchamacallit and a whatsis. All are defined as “something unspecified whose name is either forgotten or not known.”
My grandmother used to have shelves of doodads and whatnots. She used to get on to me about messing with them all the time. It is just wrong to mess with someone’s doodads and whatnots.
Hopefully, you understand the difference. Many people do not and get them confused all the time – if they even know the terms to begin with. Let me see if I can explain. A doodad, thingamajig, thingamabob, doohickey, whatchamacallit or whatsis can come off of a whatnot, nicknack or bric-a-brac, but a whatnot, nicknack or bric-a-brac cannot come off of a doodad, thingamajig, thingamabob, doohickey, whatchamacallit or whatsis. Understand? It is really not that difficult to understand.
Knowing the difference between the two objects is important in the South – like knowing the difference between a hissie fit and a conniption. You do know the difference don’t you?
A hissie fit is a childish temper tantrum. A conniption is a display of bad temper, usually by an adult. The proper verb associated with these two terms is “throw.” Children throw a hissie fit. Adults throw a conniption. I have seen both and must say neither is a pleasant sight. Heck, come to think of it, I have thrown both at different times in my life. In both cases, I have to say I would have been described as a bit cantankerous. That means I was bad-tempered, argumentative or uncooperative.
Understanding Southerners is not difficult, if you were raised here in the South. If you are from somewhere else, it takes a while to catch on – eh, understand what’s being said.
I have grown up knowing that a “heap” is a large amount of something. Having a “hankering” means I have a strong or persistent desire or yearning. When someone says, “I hear tell,” I understand that person is about to convey information to me that is second-handed.
When someone tells me they “like to” or “nearabout,” I understand that they almost did something or that something almost happened to them. I know that “piddlin’” means small or inferior, to feel poorly or to waste time. If someone is described as “no ‘count,” that person is good for nothing – of no account.
I know most of these things because I have lived them. I have been “ornery,” “toted” things, had to perform a duty “lickety split,” and gotten “riled up.”
Thank goodness, I have never “walked on the slant.” If I had, I would have been drunk and needed those cucumbers I wrote about a couple of weeks ago to sober up.
I know when someone says, “That dog won’t hunt,” that it is a bad idea. If someone says, “There are a good many,” it means there are a lot of whatever they are talking about.
I am Southern enough to know the difference between Redneck Caviar and a Southern Seafood platter. Redneck Caviar can be either potted meat or black-eyed peas and a Southern Seafood Platter is a tin of sardines. I am Southern enough to know that folks are talking about the American Civil War when they say, “War Between the States,” “War for Southern Independence” or “War of Northern Aggression.”
I have been “tore up.” I have tried to avoid any signs of being “uppity.” I know what a “washateria” is and what to do when I go to one. I even know where “over yonder” is most of the time.
And, if you understand all these terms, you will understand when I say, “Your druthers is my ruthers.” On that, we can all agree.
Myra told me she spent her time off washing her “doodads” and “whatnots.” While that could be taken as something less than innocent, that was exactly what it was – innocent. I understood what she was talking about without having to take the time to think about it.
You see, I know what whatnots are – and doodads, too.
Whatnots are the same as nicknacks and bric-a-brac. They are defined as “miscellaneous curios.”
A doodad is the same thing as a thingamajig, a thingamabob, a doohickey, a whatchamacallit and a whatsis. All are defined as “something unspecified whose name is either forgotten or not known.”
My grandmother used to have shelves of doodads and whatnots. She used to get on to me about messing with them all the time. It is just wrong to mess with someone’s doodads and whatnots.
Hopefully, you understand the difference. Many people do not and get them confused all the time – if they even know the terms to begin with. Let me see if I can explain. A doodad, thingamajig, thingamabob, doohickey, whatchamacallit or whatsis can come off of a whatnot, nicknack or bric-a-brac, but a whatnot, nicknack or bric-a-brac cannot come off of a doodad, thingamajig, thingamabob, doohickey, whatchamacallit or whatsis. Understand? It is really not that difficult to understand.
Knowing the difference between the two objects is important in the South – like knowing the difference between a hissie fit and a conniption. You do know the difference don’t you?
A hissie fit is a childish temper tantrum. A conniption is a display of bad temper, usually by an adult. The proper verb associated with these two terms is “throw.” Children throw a hissie fit. Adults throw a conniption. I have seen both and must say neither is a pleasant sight. Heck, come to think of it, I have thrown both at different times in my life. In both cases, I have to say I would have been described as a bit cantankerous. That means I was bad-tempered, argumentative or uncooperative.
Understanding Southerners is not difficult, if you were raised here in the South. If you are from somewhere else, it takes a while to catch on – eh, understand what’s being said.
I have grown up knowing that a “heap” is a large amount of something. Having a “hankering” means I have a strong or persistent desire or yearning. When someone says, “I hear tell,” I understand that person is about to convey information to me that is second-handed.
When someone tells me they “like to” or “nearabout,” I understand that they almost did something or that something almost happened to them. I know that “piddlin’” means small or inferior, to feel poorly or to waste time. If someone is described as “no ‘count,” that person is good for nothing – of no account.
I know most of these things because I have lived them. I have been “ornery,” “toted” things, had to perform a duty “lickety split,” and gotten “riled up.”
Thank goodness, I have never “walked on the slant.” If I had, I would have been drunk and needed those cucumbers I wrote about a couple of weeks ago to sober up.
I know when someone says, “That dog won’t hunt,” that it is a bad idea. If someone says, “There are a good many,” it means there are a lot of whatever they are talking about.
I am Southern enough to know the difference between Redneck Caviar and a Southern Seafood platter. Redneck Caviar can be either potted meat or black-eyed peas and a Southern Seafood Platter is a tin of sardines. I am Southern enough to know that folks are talking about the American Civil War when they say, “War Between the States,” “War for Southern Independence” or “War of Northern Aggression.”
I have been “tore up.” I have tried to avoid any signs of being “uppity.” I know what a “washateria” is and what to do when I go to one. I even know where “over yonder” is most of the time.
And, if you understand all these terms, you will understand when I say, “Your druthers is my ruthers.” On that, we can all agree.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Will you remember to eat your cucumber slices before bed?
From time to time, I receive an interesting e-mail from a friend. And sometimes, I share the information I receive with other friends. This past weekend, a friend (Kim Eckert) sent me the following e-mail and I thought it was filled with information I thought you would enjoy. So, here it is – with some personal comments from me:
1. Cucumbers contain most of the vitamins you need every day. Just one cucumber contains Vitamin B1, Vitamin B2, Vitamin B3, Vitamin B5, Vitamin B6, Folic Acid, Vitamin C, Calcium, Iron, Magnesium, Phosphorus, Potassium and Zinc.
2. Feeling tired in the afternoon, put down the caffeinated soda and pick up a cucumber. Cucumbers are a good source of B Vitamins (see No. 1) and Carbohydrates that can provide that quick pick-me-up that can last for hours. (Of course, I drink decaffeinated sodas – better described as carbonated mop water. Whether caffeinated or decaffeinated, neither gives me a quick pick-me-up. Unfortunately, I probably will not eat a cucumber as a replacement for my decaffeinated soda.)
3. Tired of your bathroom mirror fogging up after a shower? Try rubbing a cucumber slice along the mirror, it will eliminate the fog and provide a soothing, spa-like fragrance. (Or you could use one of those anti-fog wipes and not waste food.)
4. Are grubs and slugs ruining your planting beds? Place a few slices in a small pie tin and your garden will be free of pests all season long. The chemicals in the cucumber react with the aluminum to give off a scent undetectable to humans but drive garden pests crazy and make them flee the area. (The smell of cucumbers can drive me away if they are strong enough.)
5. Are you looking for a fast and easy way to remove cellulite? Before going out or to the pool, try rubbing a slice or two of cucumbers along your problem area for a few minutes, the phytochemicals in the cucumber cause the collagen in your skin to tighten, firming up the outer layer and reducing the visibility of cellulite. It works great on wrinkles, too. (I have found that when I eat cucumbers that my face tightens up – kind of like when you eat a lemon.)
6. Want to avoid a hangover or terrible headache? Eat a few cucumber slices before going to bed and wake up refreshed and headache free. Cucumbers contain enough sugar, B vitamins and electrolytes to replenish essential nutrients the body lost, keeping everything in equilibrium, avoiding both a hangover and headache. (In order to get a hangover, you have to be drunk. If you are drunk, do you think you will remember to eat some cucumber slices before going to bed? If you do, you will wake up with cucumber breath.)
7. Looking to fight off that afternoon or evening snacking binge? Cucumbers have been used for centuries and often used by European trappers, traders and explorers for quick meals to thwart off starvation. (To thwart off starvation – yep, that’s the time I will eat cucumbers. Or when I’m drunk and can remember No. 6.)
8. Have an important meeting or job interview and you realize that you don't have enough time to polish your shoes? Rub a freshly cut cucumber over the shoes. Its chemicals will provide a quick and durable shine that not only looks great but also repels water. (The smell will also repel anyone you come in contact with over the next few hours.)
9. Out of WD 40 and need to fix a squeaky hinge? Take a cucumber slice and rub it along the problematic hinge, and voila, the squeak is gone.
10. Stressed out and don't have time for massage, facial or visit to the spa? Cut up an entire cucumber and place it in a boiling pot of water. The chemicals and nutrients from the cucumber will react with the boiling water and be released in the steam, creating a soothing, relaxing aroma that has been shown the reduce stress in new mothers and college students during final exams. (I will avoid this as I am neither a new mother nor a college student taking a final exam.)
11. Just finish a business lunch and realize you don't have gum or mints? Take a slice of cucumber and press it to the roof of your mouth with your tongue for 30 seconds to eliminate bad breath. The phytochemicals will kill the bacteria in your mouth responsible for causing bad breath. (The taste would kill me.)
12. Looking for a “green” way to clean your faucets, sinks or stainless steel? Take a slice of cucumber and rub it on the surface you want to clean. Not only will it remove years of tarnish and bring back the shine, but is won't leave streaks and won't harm you fingers or fingernails while you clean. (And you eat this vegetable?)
13. Using a pen and made a mistake? Take the outside of the cucumber and slowly use it to erase the pen writing. It also works great on crayons and markers that the kids have used to decorate the walls. (I am sure the fragrance it leaves on the paper and walls will also keep the grubs and slugs away, too.)
Pass this along to everybody you know who is looking for better and safer ways to solve life's everyday problems.
This e-mail is not going to solve life’s everyday problems, but it gives you some things to think about.
1. Cucumbers contain most of the vitamins you need every day. Just one cucumber contains Vitamin B1, Vitamin B2, Vitamin B3, Vitamin B5, Vitamin B6, Folic Acid, Vitamin C, Calcium, Iron, Magnesium, Phosphorus, Potassium and Zinc.
2. Feeling tired in the afternoon, put down the caffeinated soda and pick up a cucumber. Cucumbers are a good source of B Vitamins (see No. 1) and Carbohydrates that can provide that quick pick-me-up that can last for hours. (Of course, I drink decaffeinated sodas – better described as carbonated mop water. Whether caffeinated or decaffeinated, neither gives me a quick pick-me-up. Unfortunately, I probably will not eat a cucumber as a replacement for my decaffeinated soda.)
3. Tired of your bathroom mirror fogging up after a shower? Try rubbing a cucumber slice along the mirror, it will eliminate the fog and provide a soothing, spa-like fragrance. (Or you could use one of those anti-fog wipes and not waste food.)
4. Are grubs and slugs ruining your planting beds? Place a few slices in a small pie tin and your garden will be free of pests all season long. The chemicals in the cucumber react with the aluminum to give off a scent undetectable to humans but drive garden pests crazy and make them flee the area. (The smell of cucumbers can drive me away if they are strong enough.)
5. Are you looking for a fast and easy way to remove cellulite? Before going out or to the pool, try rubbing a slice or two of cucumbers along your problem area for a few minutes, the phytochemicals in the cucumber cause the collagen in your skin to tighten, firming up the outer layer and reducing the visibility of cellulite. It works great on wrinkles, too. (I have found that when I eat cucumbers that my face tightens up – kind of like when you eat a lemon.)
6. Want to avoid a hangover or terrible headache? Eat a few cucumber slices before going to bed and wake up refreshed and headache free. Cucumbers contain enough sugar, B vitamins and electrolytes to replenish essential nutrients the body lost, keeping everything in equilibrium, avoiding both a hangover and headache. (In order to get a hangover, you have to be drunk. If you are drunk, do you think you will remember to eat some cucumber slices before going to bed? If you do, you will wake up with cucumber breath.)
7. Looking to fight off that afternoon or evening snacking binge? Cucumbers have been used for centuries and often used by European trappers, traders and explorers for quick meals to thwart off starvation. (To thwart off starvation – yep, that’s the time I will eat cucumbers. Or when I’m drunk and can remember No. 6.)
8. Have an important meeting or job interview and you realize that you don't have enough time to polish your shoes? Rub a freshly cut cucumber over the shoes. Its chemicals will provide a quick and durable shine that not only looks great but also repels water. (The smell will also repel anyone you come in contact with over the next few hours.)
9. Out of WD 40 and need to fix a squeaky hinge? Take a cucumber slice and rub it along the problematic hinge, and voila, the squeak is gone.
10. Stressed out and don't have time for massage, facial or visit to the spa? Cut up an entire cucumber and place it in a boiling pot of water. The chemicals and nutrients from the cucumber will react with the boiling water and be released in the steam, creating a soothing, relaxing aroma that has been shown the reduce stress in new mothers and college students during final exams. (I will avoid this as I am neither a new mother nor a college student taking a final exam.)
11. Just finish a business lunch and realize you don't have gum or mints? Take a slice of cucumber and press it to the roof of your mouth with your tongue for 30 seconds to eliminate bad breath. The phytochemicals will kill the bacteria in your mouth responsible for causing bad breath. (The taste would kill me.)
12. Looking for a “green” way to clean your faucets, sinks or stainless steel? Take a slice of cucumber and rub it on the surface you want to clean. Not only will it remove years of tarnish and bring back the shine, but is won't leave streaks and won't harm you fingers or fingernails while you clean. (And you eat this vegetable?)
13. Using a pen and made a mistake? Take the outside of the cucumber and slowly use it to erase the pen writing. It also works great on crayons and markers that the kids have used to decorate the walls. (I am sure the fragrance it leaves on the paper and walls will also keep the grubs and slugs away, too.)
Pass this along to everybody you know who is looking for better and safer ways to solve life's everyday problems.
This e-mail is not going to solve life’s everyday problems, but it gives you some things to think about.
New generation can thank Mario Galento
My grandmother, Annie Locke, was a wrestling fan. I guess that explains why I like to watch – and occasionally attend wrestling matches. As I have grown older, I have attended fewer and fewer of the events.
My children, on the other hand, still attend wrestling matches. They like to go to the GCW events here in Phenix City. They seem to enjoy them – just like I did as a kid.
As I stated to start this column, my grandmother was a wrestling fan. If wrestling was being held within 100 miles of her location, she wanted to go. If wrestling came on television, she watched – and you better not get in her way. I think she knew as many holds as any professional wrestler and was prepared to use them if you needed to be put in your place.
I can remember attending wrestling matches in the old Municipal Auditorium in Columbus, the Houston County Farm Center in Dothan, at Fred Ward’s Front Street Arena in Columbus, Darnell Field in Phenix City and on Dillingham Street in Phenix City at a place that no longer exists. In fact, none of the old wrestling venues – except the Houston County Farm Center – still exist. They are now faded memories of my youth, but not completely faded away.
My father made sure my grandmother made it to many of those wrestling matches. I sat ringside with Granny Locke while Daddy sat in the cheap seats. That was probably the best thing for him to do since he always pulled for the bad guys. I think he became friends with most of them because he was their only fan. Granny Locke always pulled for the good guys and threatened the bad guys with bodily harm – many times telling them to stay back or she would stick them with a hat pin.
I was fortunate to share the experience with my grandmother and my dad – my uncle Wallace stepped in from time to time to make sure granny got to the matches when Daddy couldn’t. It wasn’t quite a family event to go to wrestling, but we went together to those places.
Once in a while, when traveling to high school football games on Friday nights, Frankie Bell and I get to talking about the good ole days of wrestling – when wrestling was real. Well, lets say it was “real” entertaining, much more so than today. No wrestlers today can match the fear that Ox Baker put into a child’s heart when he wrestled or Abdulla the Butcher for that matter. These guys played their roles as evildoers to the hilt.
Everybody hated Ox and Abdulla, but there were others who were just as mean – Mad Dog and Butcher Vachon to name a couple. The bad guys today, well, they are comic book characters at best. Does Caine or the Undertaker strike fear into the hearts of little children? I do not think so. The Assassins were scarier than these two comic book characters.
I think my favorite bad guy was Mario Galento (real name: Bonnie Lee Boyette). Mario, who had significant roles in a couple of movies – Frontier Women and Natchez Trail – in the 1950s and 1960s was good at acting his role of villain. In fact, Mario could stir up a crowd to a near frenzy. The local police would have to escort Mario from the ring – sometimes to the ring as well.
After the matches, though, Mario had another job – selling pizza to the crowd. He and his family owned a pizzeria in Atlanta and brought their product to some of the matches to sell. Mario is also the first wrestler I knew that sold and autographed photos at the matches. Mario was a bad guy and an entrepreneur. Today’s wrestlers can thank pioneers like Mario for teaching promoters how to market their products – their wrestlers.
The guys I cheered for and against as a kid are the same kind of guys my kids go to watch today – local guys trying to make a little extra money on the side and hopefully making it to the higher levels of the sport in the future. If they do not make it to the big time, they can be happy knowing they made a lot of people happy by providing weekly entertainment – and by establishing lasting friendships and fan bases. For every John Cena, there are hundreds of Vordell Walkers out there trying to keep people interested in the sport.
Ric Flair, Shawn Michaels, Bret Hart and Hulk Hogan did not hook me on wrestling. Sure, I enjoyed watching them perform over the years, but it was wrestlers like Chief Little Eagle, Greg Peterson, Billy Boy Hines, Bill Dromo, Dick Steinborn, Tito Copa and even Mario Galento got me hooked long before I ever heard those other names. It wasn’t the guys you see on Monday nights on national television or on pay-per-view events who got me hooked. It was the guys that wrestled at the Darnell Fields, Front Street Arenas and Houston County Farm Centers that did that – just like the guys wrestling in Phenix City on Thursday nights are doing now for a new generation of fans.
My children, on the other hand, still attend wrestling matches. They like to go to the GCW events here in Phenix City. They seem to enjoy them – just like I did as a kid.
As I stated to start this column, my grandmother was a wrestling fan. If wrestling was being held within 100 miles of her location, she wanted to go. If wrestling came on television, she watched – and you better not get in her way. I think she knew as many holds as any professional wrestler and was prepared to use them if you needed to be put in your place.
I can remember attending wrestling matches in the old Municipal Auditorium in Columbus, the Houston County Farm Center in Dothan, at Fred Ward’s Front Street Arena in Columbus, Darnell Field in Phenix City and on Dillingham Street in Phenix City at a place that no longer exists. In fact, none of the old wrestling venues – except the Houston County Farm Center – still exist. They are now faded memories of my youth, but not completely faded away.
My father made sure my grandmother made it to many of those wrestling matches. I sat ringside with Granny Locke while Daddy sat in the cheap seats. That was probably the best thing for him to do since he always pulled for the bad guys. I think he became friends with most of them because he was their only fan. Granny Locke always pulled for the good guys and threatened the bad guys with bodily harm – many times telling them to stay back or she would stick them with a hat pin.
I was fortunate to share the experience with my grandmother and my dad – my uncle Wallace stepped in from time to time to make sure granny got to the matches when Daddy couldn’t. It wasn’t quite a family event to go to wrestling, but we went together to those places.
Once in a while, when traveling to high school football games on Friday nights, Frankie Bell and I get to talking about the good ole days of wrestling – when wrestling was real. Well, lets say it was “real” entertaining, much more so than today. No wrestlers today can match the fear that Ox Baker put into a child’s heart when he wrestled or Abdulla the Butcher for that matter. These guys played their roles as evildoers to the hilt.
Everybody hated Ox and Abdulla, but there were others who were just as mean – Mad Dog and Butcher Vachon to name a couple. The bad guys today, well, they are comic book characters at best. Does Caine or the Undertaker strike fear into the hearts of little children? I do not think so. The Assassins were scarier than these two comic book characters.
I think my favorite bad guy was Mario Galento (real name: Bonnie Lee Boyette). Mario, who had significant roles in a couple of movies – Frontier Women and Natchez Trail – in the 1950s and 1960s was good at acting his role of villain. In fact, Mario could stir up a crowd to a near frenzy. The local police would have to escort Mario from the ring – sometimes to the ring as well.
After the matches, though, Mario had another job – selling pizza to the crowd. He and his family owned a pizzeria in Atlanta and brought their product to some of the matches to sell. Mario is also the first wrestler I knew that sold and autographed photos at the matches. Mario was a bad guy and an entrepreneur. Today’s wrestlers can thank pioneers like Mario for teaching promoters how to market their products – their wrestlers.
The guys I cheered for and against as a kid are the same kind of guys my kids go to watch today – local guys trying to make a little extra money on the side and hopefully making it to the higher levels of the sport in the future. If they do not make it to the big time, they can be happy knowing they made a lot of people happy by providing weekly entertainment – and by establishing lasting friendships and fan bases. For every John Cena, there are hundreds of Vordell Walkers out there trying to keep people interested in the sport.
Ric Flair, Shawn Michaels, Bret Hart and Hulk Hogan did not hook me on wrestling. Sure, I enjoyed watching them perform over the years, but it was wrestlers like Chief Little Eagle, Greg Peterson, Billy Boy Hines, Bill Dromo, Dick Steinborn, Tito Copa and even Mario Galento got me hooked long before I ever heard those other names. It wasn’t the guys you see on Monday nights on national television or on pay-per-view events who got me hooked. It was the guys that wrestled at the Darnell Fields, Front Street Arenas and Houston County Farm Centers that did that – just like the guys wrestling in Phenix City on Thursday nights are doing now for a new generation of fans.
Thank goodness the case was dismissed
Let me say right off that I do not want anyone to think that all Phenix City police officers fit in the following description. But, there are some that do.
Some of our officers have become too disenfranchised from our community. In other words, they do not know us anymore. They have become too rigid in the performance of their duties and no longer understand that they are hired to “serve and protect.” Some of them must have misunderstood those words as to “harass and ticket.” But, I repeat, not all of our officers are like this – in fact very few are like this.
I remember the old days – when Phenix City was not that much smaller than today, but a whole lot more personal. Police officers knew the people they were to serve and protect by name. There was an officer in my old neighborhood in Asbury Park that not only knew the names of the kids in the neighborhood, but also the names of their parents and in which houses they lived. I bet you will find few that could claim that today.
I miss those days. I feel sorry for those people who will never know those days when life was lived at a slower pace – no video games, no 24-hour television stations and less mass transportation. In those days, kids played outside and neighbors talked with each other. We never had to create a neighborhood watch and put up those signs all over the place. In my old neighborhood, everyone watched out for each other. I am lucky to still live in a neighborhood where folks care about each other.
I especially missed those old days when I was pulled over by a Phenix City police officer on May 24 on my way to work. The officer asked why I was not wearing my seatbelt. I told her my doctor told me not to wear it because I had heart surgery recently and that the chest incision was not completely healed. She asked for the doctor’s excuse. Now, I do not know about you, but when my doctor gives me instructions he does not always write them down. I guess he feels I am intelligent enough to understand what he is saying and to follow those instructions. I told the officer I did not have a written excuse from my doctor. I did offer to show my chest incision as proof. The officer informed me that was “not relevant.”
Guess what? I was issued a ticket.
I asked the officer to have a supervisor come to the scene. I was told, “He said he ain’t coming.” I was also told a clean driving record of 38 years was “not relevant.” I was also informed by the officer that I would be arrested, handcuffed and taken to jail if I did not sign the ticket being issued. I signed under protest – actually wrote that on the ticket along with my signature.
As I began to leave, a second officer came to the scene. I stepped out of my vehicle thinking this must be the supervisor. It was not. This officer stepped out of his vehicle and, when he saw me step out of mine, held up one hand as if to tell me to halt and placed the other on his weapon. What? Was he going to shoot me for a seatbelt violation? I asked if he was the supervisor and he said he was not. I left.
I immediately contacted the City Manager and Police Chief. I informed them of the situation. I also told them to go talk to the officer and when the officer said I got ugly that she would be telling the truth. There was nothing they could do, but suggested I get a doctor’s excuse and take it to court. They said the judge would probably dismiss the charges. You think? But, why was I going to have to go to court in the first place? Could not the officer have used some common sense and sent me on my way with a warning or by telling me to be careful until I could wear the seatbelt again? The Police Chief told me the city could give the officers it employed all the training possible, but that they could not “fix stupid.” No they can’t.
I did inform the City Manager and Police Chief that before this ordeal ended it would cost the city more than the $25 dollars it would cost me if I were convicted in court. I figured at their salaries I had already gotten ahead by $50 or more for them having to deal with me over the telephone. And, I figured by going to court I would add to that total. That was the price the city would have to pay to keep hardened criminals like me off the streets.
So, I had to cancel another appointment with one of my doctors – not the one that told me not to wear the seatbelt (that was my heart surgeon) – in order to attend court on June 24. After 30 minutes of waiting, my case was called. I obtained no excuse from my doctor to take to court. I did not think I really needed that since I had proof of my reason for not wearing the seatbelt on my chest. The judge looked at me and asked if I had been wearing my seatbelt at the time I was pulled over and I said I was not. He said more than asked, “You weren’t wearing it because of your heart surgery?” I said, “Yes sir.” He said, “Case dismissed.” Finally, the ordeal was over.
Do I want you to harbor ill feelings for our police officers? No. There are far too many good officers to allow a few bad apples to taint their reputations. Do I want you to feel sorry for me for having to go through the ordeal? No. I want you to fight back like I did when you are confronted by the kind of police officer I had to deal with. Tell the Police Chief and City Manager of any problems. They will not know there is a problem if you do not tell them. And, remember the good officers who genuinely serve and protect our community, give out praise when it is deserved.
And, remember to carry your doctor’s instructions with you at all times.
Some of our officers have become too disenfranchised from our community. In other words, they do not know us anymore. They have become too rigid in the performance of their duties and no longer understand that they are hired to “serve and protect.” Some of them must have misunderstood those words as to “harass and ticket.” But, I repeat, not all of our officers are like this – in fact very few are like this.
I remember the old days – when Phenix City was not that much smaller than today, but a whole lot more personal. Police officers knew the people they were to serve and protect by name. There was an officer in my old neighborhood in Asbury Park that not only knew the names of the kids in the neighborhood, but also the names of their parents and in which houses they lived. I bet you will find few that could claim that today.
I miss those days. I feel sorry for those people who will never know those days when life was lived at a slower pace – no video games, no 24-hour television stations and less mass transportation. In those days, kids played outside and neighbors talked with each other. We never had to create a neighborhood watch and put up those signs all over the place. In my old neighborhood, everyone watched out for each other. I am lucky to still live in a neighborhood where folks care about each other.
I especially missed those old days when I was pulled over by a Phenix City police officer on May 24 on my way to work. The officer asked why I was not wearing my seatbelt. I told her my doctor told me not to wear it because I had heart surgery recently and that the chest incision was not completely healed. She asked for the doctor’s excuse. Now, I do not know about you, but when my doctor gives me instructions he does not always write them down. I guess he feels I am intelligent enough to understand what he is saying and to follow those instructions. I told the officer I did not have a written excuse from my doctor. I did offer to show my chest incision as proof. The officer informed me that was “not relevant.”
Guess what? I was issued a ticket.
I asked the officer to have a supervisor come to the scene. I was told, “He said he ain’t coming.” I was also told a clean driving record of 38 years was “not relevant.” I was also informed by the officer that I would be arrested, handcuffed and taken to jail if I did not sign the ticket being issued. I signed under protest – actually wrote that on the ticket along with my signature.
As I began to leave, a second officer came to the scene. I stepped out of my vehicle thinking this must be the supervisor. It was not. This officer stepped out of his vehicle and, when he saw me step out of mine, held up one hand as if to tell me to halt and placed the other on his weapon. What? Was he going to shoot me for a seatbelt violation? I asked if he was the supervisor and he said he was not. I left.
I immediately contacted the City Manager and Police Chief. I informed them of the situation. I also told them to go talk to the officer and when the officer said I got ugly that she would be telling the truth. There was nothing they could do, but suggested I get a doctor’s excuse and take it to court. They said the judge would probably dismiss the charges. You think? But, why was I going to have to go to court in the first place? Could not the officer have used some common sense and sent me on my way with a warning or by telling me to be careful until I could wear the seatbelt again? The Police Chief told me the city could give the officers it employed all the training possible, but that they could not “fix stupid.” No they can’t.
I did inform the City Manager and Police Chief that before this ordeal ended it would cost the city more than the $25 dollars it would cost me if I were convicted in court. I figured at their salaries I had already gotten ahead by $50 or more for them having to deal with me over the telephone. And, I figured by going to court I would add to that total. That was the price the city would have to pay to keep hardened criminals like me off the streets.
So, I had to cancel another appointment with one of my doctors – not the one that told me not to wear the seatbelt (that was my heart surgeon) – in order to attend court on June 24. After 30 minutes of waiting, my case was called. I obtained no excuse from my doctor to take to court. I did not think I really needed that since I had proof of my reason for not wearing the seatbelt on my chest. The judge looked at me and asked if I had been wearing my seatbelt at the time I was pulled over and I said I was not. He said more than asked, “You weren’t wearing it because of your heart surgery?” I said, “Yes sir.” He said, “Case dismissed.” Finally, the ordeal was over.
Do I want you to harbor ill feelings for our police officers? No. There are far too many good officers to allow a few bad apples to taint their reputations. Do I want you to feel sorry for me for having to go through the ordeal? No. I want you to fight back like I did when you are confronted by the kind of police officer I had to deal with. Tell the Police Chief and City Manager of any problems. They will not know there is a problem if you do not tell them. And, remember the good officers who genuinely serve and protect our community, give out praise when it is deserved.
And, remember to carry your doctor’s instructions with you at all times.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Pixar's Lee Unkrich is a jerk
I think Lee Unkrich is a jerk.
There, I said it.
Lee Unkrich has to be my least favorite director in the world.
You do not know him? How’s that?
Lee Unkrich is the director of Toy Story 3 – a movie that gave Pixar Animation Studios its highest earning opening weekend ever at $110 million. Before it is over, there is no doubt in my mind that Toy Story 3 will be the company’s highest earning movie of all-time.
But, I still think Lee Unkrich is a jerk.
Why?
I’ll tell you.
Last weekend, I, and eight other people, went to see the movie. It was everything I expected and more. In fact, it gave me, and the other people with me and the other people in the theater, more than we could have ever expected.
So, isn’t that a good thing? Don’t we always want more than we expected?
Well, yes and no would be appropriate answers to those questions.
And, we got all this “extra” thanks to that jerk – Lee Unkrich.
Let’s go back a bit – back to 1995 to start. That was the year the world was introduced to Woody, Buzz and the other toys in the first movie – Toy Story. Lee Unkrich was the editor for the first movie and, while no doubt having a very significant role in the first movie’s production, did not make a lasting impression like he made in the production of Toy Story 3.
Toy Story had, for the most part, a simple storyline. Woody and Buzz share an adventure and become friends when they have to find their way to the new house where Andy – the person to whom all the toys belong – and his family are moving. Did I really just refer to Andy as a person? Can you refer to an animated character as a person? That is a big problem with the Toy Story series – all the characters become real in the moviegoers’ eyes.
Anyway, Andy and Buzz rejoin Andy and the family in the end. All is happy. All is good. It was a great plot for the first movie, a very successful movie. That year at Christmas, as a 38-year-old father of two, I got both Woody and Buzz characters from my children. They are in my room in their original boxes – mint condition. I like Woody, but Buzz has always been a pain. If he ever starts to talk, it takes an act of congress to get him to stop. So, I keep Buzz hidden away so that no one can accidentally start him talking.
In 1999, Lee Unkrich became the co-director for Toy Story 2. Again, he had a significant role, but nothing near the lasting impression he would have on Toy Story 3. In Toy Story 2, Woody’s attempt to save Wheezy – a toy penguin – from being sold at a yard sale begins the new adventure. Wheezy is saved, but Woody is stolen by the evil and enthusiastic toy collector Al McWhiggin. Al McWhiggin needs Woody to complete his set of Woody’s Roundup characters – Woody, Jessie, Bullseye and Stinky Pete the Prospector. He plans to sell the characters to a museum in Japan. The other toys rally to save Woody. All is well in the end. Everyone leaves the theater feeling good.
I will not reveal the events of Toy Story 3 here, but I will repeat that Lee Unkrich is a jerk for what he did in this movie to get to the hearts of the people in the audience – what he did without fair warning. What he did was the result of a great storyline – the best of the Toy Story series. Lee Unkrich touched the hearts of both young and old. He made those in attendance – especially the adults – shed tears for a bunch of toys. Yes, Lee Unkrich took us all on an emotionally draining rollercoaster ride and he knew he was doing just that.
When the movie was played for test audiences, the tears flowed. When the house lights came up, Lee Unkrich noticed the majority of the people in the audience had not had enough time to compose themselves. So, he lengthened the movie’s credits to provide some extra time for those in the audience who needed it to compose themselves. For that, we can all be thankful.
But, Lee Unkrich is still a jerk in my book. He could have warned us that tears were possible – no, probable. At least then we could have brought along the Kleenex.
There, I said it.
Lee Unkrich has to be my least favorite director in the world.
You do not know him? How’s that?
Lee Unkrich is the director of Toy Story 3 – a movie that gave Pixar Animation Studios its highest earning opening weekend ever at $110 million. Before it is over, there is no doubt in my mind that Toy Story 3 will be the company’s highest earning movie of all-time.
But, I still think Lee Unkrich is a jerk.
Why?
I’ll tell you.
Last weekend, I, and eight other people, went to see the movie. It was everything I expected and more. In fact, it gave me, and the other people with me and the other people in the theater, more than we could have ever expected.
So, isn’t that a good thing? Don’t we always want more than we expected?
Well, yes and no would be appropriate answers to those questions.
And, we got all this “extra” thanks to that jerk – Lee Unkrich.
Let’s go back a bit – back to 1995 to start. That was the year the world was introduced to Woody, Buzz and the other toys in the first movie – Toy Story. Lee Unkrich was the editor for the first movie and, while no doubt having a very significant role in the first movie’s production, did not make a lasting impression like he made in the production of Toy Story 3.
Toy Story had, for the most part, a simple storyline. Woody and Buzz share an adventure and become friends when they have to find their way to the new house where Andy – the person to whom all the toys belong – and his family are moving. Did I really just refer to Andy as a person? Can you refer to an animated character as a person? That is a big problem with the Toy Story series – all the characters become real in the moviegoers’ eyes.
Anyway, Andy and Buzz rejoin Andy and the family in the end. All is happy. All is good. It was a great plot for the first movie, a very successful movie. That year at Christmas, as a 38-year-old father of two, I got both Woody and Buzz characters from my children. They are in my room in their original boxes – mint condition. I like Woody, but Buzz has always been a pain. If he ever starts to talk, it takes an act of congress to get him to stop. So, I keep Buzz hidden away so that no one can accidentally start him talking.
In 1999, Lee Unkrich became the co-director for Toy Story 2. Again, he had a significant role, but nothing near the lasting impression he would have on Toy Story 3. In Toy Story 2, Woody’s attempt to save Wheezy – a toy penguin – from being sold at a yard sale begins the new adventure. Wheezy is saved, but Woody is stolen by the evil and enthusiastic toy collector Al McWhiggin. Al McWhiggin needs Woody to complete his set of Woody’s Roundup characters – Woody, Jessie, Bullseye and Stinky Pete the Prospector. He plans to sell the characters to a museum in Japan. The other toys rally to save Woody. All is well in the end. Everyone leaves the theater feeling good.
I will not reveal the events of Toy Story 3 here, but I will repeat that Lee Unkrich is a jerk for what he did in this movie to get to the hearts of the people in the audience – what he did without fair warning. What he did was the result of a great storyline – the best of the Toy Story series. Lee Unkrich touched the hearts of both young and old. He made those in attendance – especially the adults – shed tears for a bunch of toys. Yes, Lee Unkrich took us all on an emotionally draining rollercoaster ride and he knew he was doing just that.
When the movie was played for test audiences, the tears flowed. When the house lights came up, Lee Unkrich noticed the majority of the people in the audience had not had enough time to compose themselves. So, he lengthened the movie’s credits to provide some extra time for those in the audience who needed it to compose themselves. For that, we can all be thankful.
But, Lee Unkrich is still a jerk in my book. He could have warned us that tears were possible – no, probable. At least then we could have brought along the Kleenex.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Hurtsboro history includes BMWs
Once each week, I make a trip to the Town of Hurtsboro in southern Russell County. The reason for the trip is irrelevant to this column, but if you are curious and must know – I am the Operator of Record for the Hurtsboro Water and Sewer Board. I check their wells each week and send in the necessary paperwork to keep the system in compliance with the rules and regulations of the Alabama Department of Environmental Management.
But, like I stated, that has nothing to do with this column.
While on that trip each week, I stop by Perry’s Hardware and visit a few minutes with Rick Perry, the store’s owner. The store has been the Perry Family business for nearly 100 years. Rick has not been working there quite that long.
The past week when I stopped by the store, Rick - a bit of a Hurtsboro historian – told me a tale that left me flabbergasted. It seems that back in the 1920s, Hurtsboro was a hot stop for BMW sales. Rick said BMW sold more of its vehicles in Hurtsboro than in any city in the state.
My reaction to that – Wow! That was unbelievable.
The information got me to thinking. How was this even possible? My feeble mind wanted to know.
I do not know a lot about BMW, but I knew some things that just did not fit this picture that Rick was painting. BMWs, at that time, were produced only in Germany. The company began in the early 1900s – about 1916 – and made engines for airplanes. The company began making automobiles in 1929 which would mean Hurtsboro’s owners were at the head of the line in purchasing the new vehicles. The first BMWs had engines that were originally engineered for motorcycles. But, Henry Ford’s first engines were not much different.
Transporting vehicles from Germany to the United States in the 1920s had to be a more difficult task than it is today. There were no real super cargo ships to transport large numbers of automobiles. So how could – according to Rick – more than 20 BMWs get across the Atlantic Ocean to Hurtsboro? How long would this take? And, did all these BMWs get delivered to Hurtsboro at the same time?
Maybe a more important question to ask is why would anyone in Hurtsboro want a BMW in the 1920s?
World War I had not long ended. If my history is correct, we were at war with Germany. I know after World War II no citizen of the United States would buy a Volkswagen so soon after that major conflict. Why would anyone in the United States feel differently after World War I? Were the citizens of Hurtsboro sympathizers of Germany? Was there a larger German population in Hurtsboro in the 1920s? I knew I would need to do more investigation into our county’s history to be able to answer these questions.
Hurtsboro was quite a hub of industry early on in its history. There were at least two soft drink bottling companies in the town around the turn of the 20th century. Hurtsboro was a prosperous community. So, there was plenty of money available to be used to purchase vehicles – even BMWs.
I had run all these questions and points of logic through my mind in a matter of seconds as Rick relayed the information he had discovered during his research of his home town. I could see he was aware I was having trouble rationalizing the information he was sharing.
It was then that Rick explained the rest of the story. BMW did not stand for Bavarian Motor Works. It stood for Brown Mule and Wagon. I had fallen for Rick’s trick – hook, line and sinker. I am so gullible. Maybe next time Rick tells me something that does not compute I will ask him for the punch line before I put a strain on my brain.
But, like I stated, that has nothing to do with this column.
While on that trip each week, I stop by Perry’s Hardware and visit a few minutes with Rick Perry, the store’s owner. The store has been the Perry Family business for nearly 100 years. Rick has not been working there quite that long.
The past week when I stopped by the store, Rick - a bit of a Hurtsboro historian – told me a tale that left me flabbergasted. It seems that back in the 1920s, Hurtsboro was a hot stop for BMW sales. Rick said BMW sold more of its vehicles in Hurtsboro than in any city in the state.
My reaction to that – Wow! That was unbelievable.
The information got me to thinking. How was this even possible? My feeble mind wanted to know.
I do not know a lot about BMW, but I knew some things that just did not fit this picture that Rick was painting. BMWs, at that time, were produced only in Germany. The company began in the early 1900s – about 1916 – and made engines for airplanes. The company began making automobiles in 1929 which would mean Hurtsboro’s owners were at the head of the line in purchasing the new vehicles. The first BMWs had engines that were originally engineered for motorcycles. But, Henry Ford’s first engines were not much different.
Transporting vehicles from Germany to the United States in the 1920s had to be a more difficult task than it is today. There were no real super cargo ships to transport large numbers of automobiles. So how could – according to Rick – more than 20 BMWs get across the Atlantic Ocean to Hurtsboro? How long would this take? And, did all these BMWs get delivered to Hurtsboro at the same time?
Maybe a more important question to ask is why would anyone in Hurtsboro want a BMW in the 1920s?
World War I had not long ended. If my history is correct, we were at war with Germany. I know after World War II no citizen of the United States would buy a Volkswagen so soon after that major conflict. Why would anyone in the United States feel differently after World War I? Were the citizens of Hurtsboro sympathizers of Germany? Was there a larger German population in Hurtsboro in the 1920s? I knew I would need to do more investigation into our county’s history to be able to answer these questions.
Hurtsboro was quite a hub of industry early on in its history. There were at least two soft drink bottling companies in the town around the turn of the 20th century. Hurtsboro was a prosperous community. So, there was plenty of money available to be used to purchase vehicles – even BMWs.
I had run all these questions and points of logic through my mind in a matter of seconds as Rick relayed the information he had discovered during his research of his home town. I could see he was aware I was having trouble rationalizing the information he was sharing.
It was then that Rick explained the rest of the story. BMW did not stand for Bavarian Motor Works. It stood for Brown Mule and Wagon. I had fallen for Rick’s trick – hook, line and sinker. I am so gullible. Maybe next time Rick tells me something that does not compute I will ask him for the punch line before I put a strain on my brain.
Monday, March 1, 2010
This time they stressed the urgency
Six months ago I wrote a column telling you how my cardiologist's office had not stressed the urgency in getting me to submit - quickly - to having some dye pumped into my system. The dye would allow them to perform a better, and more accurate, test of how well my heart was doing its job. Unless you are dead, you can appreciate the fact that you cannot live without a heart.
Well, after I finally submitted to the testing like the cardiologist wanted, I had a stent placed in my heart. That was it. That was the point of the column six months ago.
Now, there is a new tale to tell.
First, allow me to warn you that I have a doctor's prescription to hit you with a baseball bat if there are any attempts at giving me a hug over the next few weeks. You see, I am now like the title of one of Lewis Girzzard's books. I am one of those folks who can say, "I took a lickin' and kept on tickin' (And now I believe in miracles)." Actually, it was just two bypasses, but, whether it was two or 200, it takes the same opening procedure. You have to rip a hole about 10-12 inches long down the front of the chest to get inside to make repairs. So, my doctor told me to avoid hugs for a while. "Folks will see you and say, 'Praise the Lord, you made it. Come here so I can give you a hug,' when they see me in public. He said, 'don't let them. Keep them off with a baseball bat.'"
To tell the truth, I probably will not use the bat. I'll just make sure you have no contagious disease and keep my handy red heart-shaped pillow between us. The pillow, as the doctors, nurses and techs all said, is going to be my best friend over the next few weeks. Coughs are painful - so are sneezes.
But, the answer to your questions is "yes, I am alive." Oh, you already knew that because you are reading this column that I wrote on Monday afternoon. I had to return for a six-months check-up recently and learned my stent was blocked - and so was another vein in my heart. I had surgery Tuesday, 10 days ago. I came home last Friday afternoon. Can you believe that? Well, it is the honest truth. And, "yes," the drugs were - are - good drugs. Morphine, though, gave me a headache that was just gnawing.
I actually died on purpose that Tuesday morning/afternoon - I lost track of time - long enough to be placed on a machine to get me started back up. When I finally awakened in the intensive care unit at East Alabama Medical Center, the first thing I saw was a beautiful blond angel with a nasty attitude. I reached for the breathing tube (what a poorly named device), the angel told me not to pull it out. I cannot remember if she said it would hurt if I did so or if she would hurt me if I did so. Either way, I took her advice and calmed down. That, my friends, was the worst moment of my time at the hospital - except that catheter thing being removed. The angel I saw when I woke up was Jenny Wilgis-Woodham, a local girl who played softball in the Phenix City Rec leagues, at Smiths Station High and at Chattahoochee Valley Community College. Because we had some things in common, it made those early recovery moments bearable. The fact that EAMS surrounded me with angels made everything bearable.
Other than the catheter thingy getting removed as I mentioned earlier, the next most uncomfortable moment for me was getting the two chest tubes removed on Friday morning. The darn things were about a half-inch in diameter and appeared to be shoved well up into my chest cavity. Just how far they were shoved, I do not know, and do not care to know at this point. I just know they kept telling me that most people do not complain about the pain of having them removed, but rather comment on how relieved they are that the tubes are removed. I understand. When they were removed, I cannot remember any pain from them being removed. I do remember some pressure building up in my chest for a brief few seconds and then it was gone.
I did not expect to leave the hospital before Saturday or Sunday, but my doctors - Lee Roberson and Barry Crowe - had other ideas. When I returned to my room from walking on Friday morning, Dr. Roberson removed three pacer wires from my chest and said I was being released to go home. I did not argue a bit. I was ready to go. That's when he told me to carry the bat with me.
Now, when some people face the possibility death like I did last week, they come up with a bucket list of things they hope to get to do before their time expires. My bucket list had none of the drastic stuff on it. There was no sky-diving, mountain-climbing and no eight seconds on a bull. My list was simply to return home to my family and to my own bed. I'm home. I'm with family. I have not made it to the bed, yet. You cannot imagine how much I want to get in my own bed and lie on my side. When I do that, I will know my healing process is well under way.
To keep up with my progress until I can return to the Citizen, go to carepages.com and search CitizenSportsEditor.
Well, after I finally submitted to the testing like the cardiologist wanted, I had a stent placed in my heart. That was it. That was the point of the column six months ago.
Now, there is a new tale to tell.
First, allow me to warn you that I have a doctor's prescription to hit you with a baseball bat if there are any attempts at giving me a hug over the next few weeks. You see, I am now like the title of one of Lewis Girzzard's books. I am one of those folks who can say, "I took a lickin' and kept on tickin' (And now I believe in miracles)." Actually, it was just two bypasses, but, whether it was two or 200, it takes the same opening procedure. You have to rip a hole about 10-12 inches long down the front of the chest to get inside to make repairs. So, my doctor told me to avoid hugs for a while. "Folks will see you and say, 'Praise the Lord, you made it. Come here so I can give you a hug,' when they see me in public. He said, 'don't let them. Keep them off with a baseball bat.'"
To tell the truth, I probably will not use the bat. I'll just make sure you have no contagious disease and keep my handy red heart-shaped pillow between us. The pillow, as the doctors, nurses and techs all said, is going to be my best friend over the next few weeks. Coughs are painful - so are sneezes.
But, the answer to your questions is "yes, I am alive." Oh, you already knew that because you are reading this column that I wrote on Monday afternoon. I had to return for a six-months check-up recently and learned my stent was blocked - and so was another vein in my heart. I had surgery Tuesday, 10 days ago. I came home last Friday afternoon. Can you believe that? Well, it is the honest truth. And, "yes," the drugs were - are - good drugs. Morphine, though, gave me a headache that was just gnawing.
I actually died on purpose that Tuesday morning/afternoon - I lost track of time - long enough to be placed on a machine to get me started back up. When I finally awakened in the intensive care unit at East Alabama Medical Center, the first thing I saw was a beautiful blond angel with a nasty attitude. I reached for the breathing tube (what a poorly named device), the angel told me not to pull it out. I cannot remember if she said it would hurt if I did so or if she would hurt me if I did so. Either way, I took her advice and calmed down. That, my friends, was the worst moment of my time at the hospital - except that catheter thing being removed. The angel I saw when I woke up was Jenny Wilgis-Woodham, a local girl who played softball in the Phenix City Rec leagues, at Smiths Station High and at Chattahoochee Valley Community College. Because we had some things in common, it made those early recovery moments bearable. The fact that EAMS surrounded me with angels made everything bearable.
Other than the catheter thingy getting removed as I mentioned earlier, the next most uncomfortable moment for me was getting the two chest tubes removed on Friday morning. The darn things were about a half-inch in diameter and appeared to be shoved well up into my chest cavity. Just how far they were shoved, I do not know, and do not care to know at this point. I just know they kept telling me that most people do not complain about the pain of having them removed, but rather comment on how relieved they are that the tubes are removed. I understand. When they were removed, I cannot remember any pain from them being removed. I do remember some pressure building up in my chest for a brief few seconds and then it was gone.
I did not expect to leave the hospital before Saturday or Sunday, but my doctors - Lee Roberson and Barry Crowe - had other ideas. When I returned to my room from walking on Friday morning, Dr. Roberson removed three pacer wires from my chest and said I was being released to go home. I did not argue a bit. I was ready to go. That's when he told me to carry the bat with me.
Now, when some people face the possibility death like I did last week, they come up with a bucket list of things they hope to get to do before their time expires. My bucket list had none of the drastic stuff on it. There was no sky-diving, mountain-climbing and no eight seconds on a bull. My list was simply to return home to my family and to my own bed. I'm home. I'm with family. I have not made it to the bed, yet. You cannot imagine how much I want to get in my own bed and lie on my side. When I do that, I will know my healing process is well under way.
To keep up with my progress until I can return to the Citizen, go to carepages.com and search CitizenSportsEditor.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Barbara Walters is just plain rude
I am absolutely certain that if Ludlow Porch were within striking distance, he would clobber Barbara Walters smack dab in the face with a whole pan of deep-fried cheese biscuits for her rude behavior last week. And, if I were anywhere nearby, I would help him teach that old bag of bones a lesson in manners.
Yes, Barbara Walters. That snooty old witch that is the lead hen on that television show, “The View” ought to be taken to task for her inane comments.
Last week, Baba Wawa (if you watched Saturday Night Live in the 1970s you understand the reference) attacked Paula Deen – one of the South’s finest cooks - during a segment of that stupid show. Ms. Holier-Than-Thou said, pretty much, that it was Paula’s fault that kids are fat. Well, she actually said Paula was helping to promote childhood obesity with her new cookbook, “Paula Deen’s Cookbook for the Lunchbox Set.”
“This is a cookbook for kids. Obesity is the number one problem for kids today. Everything you have here is enormously fattening. You tell kids to have cheesecake for breakfast! You tell them to have chocolate cake and meatloaf for lunch. Doesn’t it ever bother you that you’re adding to this?” disparaged Walters.
Paula was taken aback by the comments of the skinny scarecrow of what is left of a former television journalist. But, she was polite and explained that she was not suggesting that children should eat everything in the cookbook at one time. “No, I’m not saying that they should eat like this every day,” said Paula.
Paula should have shoved some of the goodies she prepared for the show down Walters’ throat. Oh, I’m not saying she should have done that in retaliation for Walters’ remarks. Paula should have done that to help Walters become a healthy person. She is, after all, a poster child for malnutrition. And filling her mouth with good Paula Deen cooked food is a better alternative than allowing her to spout out any more rudeness.
Walters should have followed the lead of the other women on the show and gobbled up the goodies. Whoopee Goldberg was chowin’ down on Paula’s fried chicken and making no complaints. The other three women were shoveling down strawberry cake and little finger sandwiches made with slices of tomato between light bread with mayonnaise smeared on them for that added flavor.
You see, while Barbara Walters was out learning to be rude, Paula Deen was working for a living and trying to raise her sons doing what she does best – cooking food. She was also learning manners. That is something Barbara Walters lacks.
Any son or daughter of the South knows it is impolite to ask someone to come over and bring the groceries with them without supplying some of your own for sharing as well. You especially do not criticize your guest when she has prepared some of the finest groceries known to mankind. I have eaten Paula Deen’s cooking and I must admit it was wonderful. Uncle Bubba’s cooking ain’t bad, either. If you ever get over to Savannah, try them out yourself. Don’t invite Barbara Walters to tag along. She will only cause a bad case of indigestion.
Childhood obesity is a problem – a big problem. It is not, however, Paula Deen’s cookbook’s fault. If Barbara Walters wants to blame someone or some thing, blame fast food restaurants and soft drink manufacturers. Blame the parents of the obese children for not teaching their children about proper nutrition. Barbara Walters can also blame herself for not doing enough stories about proper nutrition herself. Instead of doing that, she was too busy hob knobbing with the Hollywood and Washington D.C. crowds to worry about children’s health.
There, I have said it. Using the same liberal logic that she employed to blame Paula Deen’s cookbook, I have deduced that childhood obesity is Barbara Walters’ fault. It makes as much sense as blaming a cookbook for promoting obesity at any age.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Happy Constitution Day to you all
I am not, by any means, a fan of United States Senator Robert Byrd of West Virginia, but today I must tip my hat to him for his effort to see that we have this day to celebrate. Yes, this day – Sept. 17. Today is Constitution Day.
Sen. Byrd placed an amendment in the Omnibus spending bill of 2004 which created this day to honor our country’s supreme document of law. Unfortunately, it seems Sen. Byrd and his many cohorts on Capitol Hill only pretend to honor our nation’s most important document. Many times they seem to view it as nothing more than a floor mat to wipe their feet upon.
But, still, I have to give Sen. Byrd proper credit for creating a holiday to recognize the ratification of the United States Constitution which was signed on Sept. 17, 1787 – 222 years ago today. The bill passed by Sen. Byrd and the United States Senate, and of course by the United States House of Representatives, does not just present us with an opportunity to honor the Constitution; it requires our schools to teach our children about this important document on this very day. I wonder if that is being done.
I asked a couple of local teachers about their plans for Constitution Day and they looked at me with blank stares and asked, “What’s that?”
Well, that was very disappointing to me. The law which created Constitution Day mandates that all publicly funded educational institutions provide educational programs on the history of the Constitution on Sept. 17 of each year. This law applies to any school that receives any federal funds. Schools that fail to observe Constitution Day and provide educational programs should, in my opinion, lose all federal funds. But, that is just my opinion.
Because most of you who are reading this column today are not attending a publicly funded educational institution, I want to share some information on the United States Constitution so that you will not feel left out on this important holiday. The first thing I want you to know is how stable this document has been over the course of its 222 years. There have been only 27 changes to it in that time – well, if you consider the inclusion of the Bill of Rights in 1892, there have been only 17 changes.
Now, do not think that there have not been attempts to make changes over the years. In fact, there have been over 10,000 proposed changes to the Constitution in 222 years. Fortunately, the great majority of those proposed changes have been rejected. Why is that? Well, I like to think it is because the document was so finely crafted by our Founding Fathers that very few of the proposed changes were necessary.
Some proposed amendments to the Constitution which were not approved over the years include an attempt to forbid religious leaders from holding public office (1876), replacing the office of President with an Executive Council of Three (1878), renaming this nation the “United States of the Earth” (1893), abolishing the United States Army and Navy (1893), an attempt to limit personal wealth to $1 million (1933), an attempt to set the maximum income tax level for an individual at 25 percent (1947) and an attempt to abolish the United States Senate (1876). If they had included the abolishing the United States House of Representatives in that last one I listed, it might have passed. I’m sure it would receive strong consideration today if left up to a vote of the people. There are several on that list that are probably still under consideration and still have a shot at being approved. As for limiting an individual’s income tax rate to 25 percent, well that will never pass. Politicians are always trying to take more of our money away from us and 25 percent is just too low for them to waste time stealing. How could they expect us to repay them for all the recent bailouts they made with our money at that income tax rate? Get real.
Since the passage of the 18th Amendment, there has been a seven-year time limit for ratification of changes to the Constitution – sort of. The seven-year rule has been the norm, but it did not apply to the 27th Amendment. It took nearly 203 years for that one to get approval. The 27th Amendment was first proposed on Sept. 25, 1789 and finally approved on May 7, 1992. The amendment prevents senators and representatives from changing the compensation for their positions prior to an election cycle.
It sure did not take our local officials 203 years to change the compensation for their positions. They did within about six months of being elected and made the change take effect immediately. And with that biased statement, I have just provided you with an example of what the Constitution provides each of us in its 1st Amendment – the right of free speech. You have a lot of other rights provided to you by the Constitution. I hope you take the time to read this document and learn what those rights are before they are taken away from you. Happy Constitution Day!
Sen. Byrd placed an amendment in the Omnibus spending bill of 2004 which created this day to honor our country’s supreme document of law. Unfortunately, it seems Sen. Byrd and his many cohorts on Capitol Hill only pretend to honor our nation’s most important document. Many times they seem to view it as nothing more than a floor mat to wipe their feet upon.
But, still, I have to give Sen. Byrd proper credit for creating a holiday to recognize the ratification of the United States Constitution which was signed on Sept. 17, 1787 – 222 years ago today. The bill passed by Sen. Byrd and the United States Senate, and of course by the United States House of Representatives, does not just present us with an opportunity to honor the Constitution; it requires our schools to teach our children about this important document on this very day. I wonder if that is being done.
I asked a couple of local teachers about their plans for Constitution Day and they looked at me with blank stares and asked, “What’s that?”
Well, that was very disappointing to me. The law which created Constitution Day mandates that all publicly funded educational institutions provide educational programs on the history of the Constitution on Sept. 17 of each year. This law applies to any school that receives any federal funds. Schools that fail to observe Constitution Day and provide educational programs should, in my opinion, lose all federal funds. But, that is just my opinion.
Because most of you who are reading this column today are not attending a publicly funded educational institution, I want to share some information on the United States Constitution so that you will not feel left out on this important holiday. The first thing I want you to know is how stable this document has been over the course of its 222 years. There have been only 27 changes to it in that time – well, if you consider the inclusion of the Bill of Rights in 1892, there have been only 17 changes.
Now, do not think that there have not been attempts to make changes over the years. In fact, there have been over 10,000 proposed changes to the Constitution in 222 years. Fortunately, the great majority of those proposed changes have been rejected. Why is that? Well, I like to think it is because the document was so finely crafted by our Founding Fathers that very few of the proposed changes were necessary.
Some proposed amendments to the Constitution which were not approved over the years include an attempt to forbid religious leaders from holding public office (1876), replacing the office of President with an Executive Council of Three (1878), renaming this nation the “United States of the Earth” (1893), abolishing the United States Army and Navy (1893), an attempt to limit personal wealth to $1 million (1933), an attempt to set the maximum income tax level for an individual at 25 percent (1947) and an attempt to abolish the United States Senate (1876). If they had included the abolishing the United States House of Representatives in that last one I listed, it might have passed. I’m sure it would receive strong consideration today if left up to a vote of the people. There are several on that list that are probably still under consideration and still have a shot at being approved. As for limiting an individual’s income tax rate to 25 percent, well that will never pass. Politicians are always trying to take more of our money away from us and 25 percent is just too low for them to waste time stealing. How could they expect us to repay them for all the recent bailouts they made with our money at that income tax rate? Get real.
Since the passage of the 18th Amendment, there has been a seven-year time limit for ratification of changes to the Constitution – sort of. The seven-year rule has been the norm, but it did not apply to the 27th Amendment. It took nearly 203 years for that one to get approval. The 27th Amendment was first proposed on Sept. 25, 1789 and finally approved on May 7, 1992. The amendment prevents senators and representatives from changing the compensation for their positions prior to an election cycle.
It sure did not take our local officials 203 years to change the compensation for their positions. They did within about six months of being elected and made the change take effect immediately. And with that biased statement, I have just provided you with an example of what the Constitution provides each of us in its 1st Amendment – the right of free speech. You have a lot of other rights provided to you by the Constitution. I hope you take the time to read this document and learn what those rights are before they are taken away from you. Happy Constitution Day!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Okay, so they did not explain the urgency
Yes, I was back at work on Monday.
No, I did not feel the best that I could have felt.
No, I was not afraid I would lose my job if I did not show up.
Yes, I have plenty of vacation days available to me if I need them.
You are probably right, it wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve had lately.
I was just going stir crazy at home and it had only been three days – two and a half, actually.
No, I was not resting comfortably in the bed or in my easy chair.
Yes, my leg is a little sore.
No, I have no heart pain right now and haven’t noticed any since I underwent the procedure on Friday.
No, it wasn’t like the procedure they performed on Lewis Grizzard. They did not tear out my heart and stomp the sucker flat. They merely sent in the roto-rooter to clean up the piping.
Does that pretty much answer your questions? Or did I just create new ones?
What happened is . . .
On Aug. 5, I spent a whole day, it seemed, going through a stress test on my heart, which was giving me no indication of a problem. It was just your routine annual-type check-up. It was not the first time I have been made to have a stress test – though I think most of a stress test has to do with the stress involved in having to take the test in the first place. Does that make sense?
Well, anyway, I took several tests – all involving a great deal of stress – on that day. Then after all the tests, I was given a monitor to wear for 24 hours. That did not work out too well. The leads kept coming loose and the sticky pads they were to connect to were not very cooperative. In the end, it really did not matter. The doctor’s office – well, one of his nurses – called and said they wanted me to return immediately for more tests. Of course, I was all happy about that. Not really.
They wanted me back “immediately.” I said okay, I would be back that way next week. My youngest child’s birthday was on Saturday. They wanted me there on Monday. I said no way. I had a newspaper edition to get out that would take up Monday and Tuesday. So, the next “immediately” available date was last Friday, Aug. 14.
I’m not sure the doctor and his staff were exactly happy with my decision to wait until last Friday, but they were not exactly stressing the urgency of the matter, either. They said they just wanted to run some dye in my system to see what was causing an “abnormality.” It was not until after I arrived and was prepped for surgery that I was informed the test might result in some immediate attention, if possible.
First of all, why was I being prepped for surgery when all I was there for was a procedure? And why is it that when I refer to it as a procedure it becomes surgery and when I say surgery it becomes a procedure? You can see my confusion.
Well, I was doped up and sent to la-la land right after the prepping. They woke me up to move me across the hall to the operating room where I was doped some more. I had been told I would be able to watch the doctor as he fished around inside my heart. Maybe I could have if I had been able to stay awake, but I slept through the whole procedure/surgery, which did in fact require some immediate attention – a stint to relieve a blockage of about 95 percent. They did not tell me the “abnormality” was that abnormal.
I was told, when I awakened in the recovery room, that I was doing well and would be released from the hospital in an hour – an hour that I had to stay lying still on my back. If I had been able to sleep through that, I would have handled it much better. That was the worst part of the procedure/operation – having to lie flat for that final hour, 60 minutes, 3,600 seconds. I was also told, if I felt like it, that I could return to work the next day, which was Saturday. They could have added that I would not feel like it, though.
Truth of the matter is, I felt like I had been run over by a fleet of 18-wheelers – however many that is. I still felt that way on Monday, but I was going stir crazy and needed to get out of the house. I was later informed by the folks that said I could go right back to work that, I would probably feel the way I was feeling for several days. My immediate thought about that was that it would probably go over about as well as that last hour in the recovery room.
I’m sure I will get better. I have to. I’m fixed. Well, part of me is fixed. I still have other problems for other doctors to deal with, but maybe some day I will be completely fixed. Until then, I will be thankful for the parts of me that do work correctly. If you have any parts that you suspect need a doctor’s attention. Get it. If the doctor and his staff tell you they want you back immediately, listen to them. Just do not believe the part about feeling good enough to return to work in a day. It will probably take a little longer than that.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Losing a family member, even a dog, is difficult
I had intended to write another rant about the dishonesty of our nation's politicians this week, but things changed Monday night and I was compelled to change my topic. After all, we all know politicians on the national level - whether Republican or Democrat - are dishonest. Otherwise, the world would be a much different place.
Politicians talk about opposing deficits, but they create them. They say they are for lower taxes, yet they are the ones that create all taxes and have the power to lower them or do away with them all together. They say they are for term limits, but will not take action to create a law to prevent politcians from serving forever - except the president who may serve only two terms.
But, enough of that or I will go full-force into my rant.That's what I had intended to write and rant about this week, but no - like I said things changed Monday night.
Sometime after 7 p.m., my wife and kids burst into tears while I was preparing to write my column. It was a sad moment. "Mr. Happy" died - that's the nickname our friends gave our dog Cudreaux. He would have been 15 years old this Christmas. We found Cudreaux at the Phenix City dog pound. He was a tiny, fuzzy puppy with a friendly attitude. He changed over the years. He grew into a very large and unfriendly dog. I guess that is an unfair assessment of his transformation. He was only unfriendly to strangers or anyone that was not a member of our family and that includes the other animals we live among.
When Cudreaux was younger, we allowed him to roam free. That was a mistake. Cudreaux would roam over to our neighbors' homes and pilfer a shoe or two, but never a pair. Many was the time one of our neighbors would be looking around our yard in hopes of finding their missing shoes. They usually found them without damage. For some reason, Cudreaux just wanted to steal the shoes. He wouldn't chew them.As he grew older, he developed a nasty attitude about people he did not live with.
My friend Phil Eckert had a special dislike for Cudreaux and the feeling was mutual. Once Phil decided to sneak outside to smoke a cigerette in our driveway. Phil was not supposed to be smoking. He had promised his wife he would quit. I guess Cudreaux knew this and wanted to express his displeasure that Phil had broken his promise to his wife, Kim. Cudreaux ran up behind Phil in the dark and almost gave him a heart-attack with the noise he made. Phil thought Cudreaux was Cujo.
On another occassion, Cudreaux pinned Phil between his truck and our house when he arrived when no one was home. Fortunately, by this time, we had put Cudreaux on a running cord, giving him some freedom, but not complete freedom to roam as he had in the past. Phil escaped unscathed.
In the last few years, Cudreaux lived most of the time in our laundry room. We would just leave the back door open and allow him to come in and out as he pleased. He loved that room. He had his own fan to cool him off on hot days. When we shut the door to the room in the evening, he would bark to let us know he needed to go out. He shared the room with any animal that lived in our home. He loved company - company he knew. There was a cat named Jack that started staying around our house. Jack was not our cat. Jack was Cudreaux's cat. At night, Cudreaux would stand in the driveway and bark until Jack came inside with him.
If, by chance, Cudreaux escaped his running cord, he would venture into the other parts of the house to check on us. He liked to lay in the living room until he was taken back to his room and put back on his cord. Sometimes I sat in the floor with him and scratch his back. He liked being scratched most of the time. When he did not want to be scratched, he would growl and snap at you. He never bit anyone, but he made it plain that he was prepared to - even the people he liked. He had strange ways, but don't we all.
The best thing about Cudreaux was the fact he never was a slacker when it came to his job of protecting us. Day or night, no one came near our home without Cudreaux sounding the alarm. Strangers would ask if he would bite and we would assure them he would not as long as he could not get to them.
We have a friend who said he was going to pet Cudreaux some day. It never happened. Our friend coaxed Cudreaux with food to gain acceptance. It did not work. Cudreaux was thankful for the food, but our friend was not going to get the opportunity to pet him. He could just put the food down and back away slowly. Our friend vowed to pet Cudreaux even if he had to wait until he was dead. That didn't happen either. Our friend was out of town when Cudreaux died. We called to let him know Cudreaux was dead and our friend was saddened. He knew Cudreaux had won the battle of wills.
Now, we have no Cudreaux. We just have memories of a dog that was a big part of our lives for nearly 15 years. It is always tough when a family loses a loved one, even one with a bad attitude and lots of fur. I have heard all dogs go to heaven. I don't know if that is true or not, but, if Cudreaux is there, he will sound the alarm for St. Peter when someone reaches the Pearly Gates. My advice to those people entering the gates - don't try to pet him.
Politicians talk about opposing deficits, but they create them. They say they are for lower taxes, yet they are the ones that create all taxes and have the power to lower them or do away with them all together. They say they are for term limits, but will not take action to create a law to prevent politcians from serving forever - except the president who may serve only two terms.
But, enough of that or I will go full-force into my rant.That's what I had intended to write and rant about this week, but no - like I said things changed Monday night.
Sometime after 7 p.m., my wife and kids burst into tears while I was preparing to write my column. It was a sad moment. "Mr. Happy" died - that's the nickname our friends gave our dog Cudreaux. He would have been 15 years old this Christmas. We found Cudreaux at the Phenix City dog pound. He was a tiny, fuzzy puppy with a friendly attitude. He changed over the years. He grew into a very large and unfriendly dog. I guess that is an unfair assessment of his transformation. He was only unfriendly to strangers or anyone that was not a member of our family and that includes the other animals we live among.
When Cudreaux was younger, we allowed him to roam free. That was a mistake. Cudreaux would roam over to our neighbors' homes and pilfer a shoe or two, but never a pair. Many was the time one of our neighbors would be looking around our yard in hopes of finding their missing shoes. They usually found them without damage. For some reason, Cudreaux just wanted to steal the shoes. He wouldn't chew them.As he grew older, he developed a nasty attitude about people he did not live with.
My friend Phil Eckert had a special dislike for Cudreaux and the feeling was mutual. Once Phil decided to sneak outside to smoke a cigerette in our driveway. Phil was not supposed to be smoking. He had promised his wife he would quit. I guess Cudreaux knew this and wanted to express his displeasure that Phil had broken his promise to his wife, Kim. Cudreaux ran up behind Phil in the dark and almost gave him a heart-attack with the noise he made. Phil thought Cudreaux was Cujo.
On another occassion, Cudreaux pinned Phil between his truck and our house when he arrived when no one was home. Fortunately, by this time, we had put Cudreaux on a running cord, giving him some freedom, but not complete freedom to roam as he had in the past. Phil escaped unscathed.
In the last few years, Cudreaux lived most of the time in our laundry room. We would just leave the back door open and allow him to come in and out as he pleased. He loved that room. He had his own fan to cool him off on hot days. When we shut the door to the room in the evening, he would bark to let us know he needed to go out. He shared the room with any animal that lived in our home. He loved company - company he knew. There was a cat named Jack that started staying around our house. Jack was not our cat. Jack was Cudreaux's cat. At night, Cudreaux would stand in the driveway and bark until Jack came inside with him.
If, by chance, Cudreaux escaped his running cord, he would venture into the other parts of the house to check on us. He liked to lay in the living room until he was taken back to his room and put back on his cord. Sometimes I sat in the floor with him and scratch his back. He liked being scratched most of the time. When he did not want to be scratched, he would growl and snap at you. He never bit anyone, but he made it plain that he was prepared to - even the people he liked. He had strange ways, but don't we all.
The best thing about Cudreaux was the fact he never was a slacker when it came to his job of protecting us. Day or night, no one came near our home without Cudreaux sounding the alarm. Strangers would ask if he would bite and we would assure them he would not as long as he could not get to them.
We have a friend who said he was going to pet Cudreaux some day. It never happened. Our friend coaxed Cudreaux with food to gain acceptance. It did not work. Cudreaux was thankful for the food, but our friend was not going to get the opportunity to pet him. He could just put the food down and back away slowly. Our friend vowed to pet Cudreaux even if he had to wait until he was dead. That didn't happen either. Our friend was out of town when Cudreaux died. We called to let him know Cudreaux was dead and our friend was saddened. He knew Cudreaux had won the battle of wills.
Now, we have no Cudreaux. We just have memories of a dog that was a big part of our lives for nearly 15 years. It is always tough when a family loses a loved one, even one with a bad attitude and lots of fur. I have heard all dogs go to heaven. I don't know if that is true or not, but, if Cudreaux is there, he will sound the alarm for St. Peter when someone reaches the Pearly Gates. My advice to those people entering the gates - don't try to pet him.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Politicians should learn to read bills first
Some people do not have their priorities in order. Consider the following argument about what is important and what is not:
Average Uninformed American: Hey, did you hear about Paula Abdul?
Me: No, and I do not want to talk about that. Let’s talk about what the morons in Washington, D.C. are doing to our future.
AUA: What about Paula’s future? Shouldn’t we be concerned about that?
Me: No, Paula can worry about Paula. We have to worry about what the politicians are doing to us. They are spending money by the billions. I saw on the television news that the politicians are spending about $11 million an hour right now and it is going to get worse. In fact, there are projects that the politicians will spend about $4 trillion on this year.
AUA: Yeah, but Paula is not getting anything. The folks at American Idol haven’t offered her a contract. Well, one report said they offered her a paltry $10 million a year to remain as a judge.
Me: That’s chump change when you consider what the politicians are spending.
AUA: You are right. They are offering Paula chump change. Heck, she is the star of the show. They gave that creepy Ryan Seacrest $15 million -- actually $45 million -- for a three-year deal. Simon Cowell, that rude British guy, is supposed to be getting $100 million a season. But, poor ole Paula is getting stiffed.
Me: She’s not getting stiffed. The American taxpayers are getting stiffed. Who do you think will pay back all this money the politicians are spending? It’s going to be us.
AUA: Well, how can Paula pay her share if she isn’t paid a living wage for her work? You think she can live off a teeny, tiny salary of $10 million? Come on, be realistic.
Me: Realistic? You think $10 million is a teeny, tiny salary? Most working Americans have to survive on much, much, much less. Most of America works for an hourly wage of less than $10 dollars per hour – many, much less. You want to worry about something, worry about how they will be able to pay back their share of what the politicians are spending.
AUA: Most people do not have the expenses that Paula has to deal with. Do you know how much it costs to have servants take care of her mansion?
Me: I would reckon it takes more than the average American makes in a year. Probably more than two average Americans make. Tell her to take care of the mansion herself.
AUA: What, you expect Paula to scrub floors and cut grass?
Me: Why not? Most people take care of their own homes – if they can still afford to own a home – by themselves. They scrub their own floors and cut their own grass. But forget about that and start thinking about what is really important.
AUA: Oh, you mean like whether Kate and Jon Gosselin will get back together?
Me: No, I mean like the health care for Americans bill that the United States Congress is considering. The bill has 1,018 pages. None of the politicians seem to take the time to read bills before voting on them. They just blindly believe what other politicians tell them about the bill and vote in favor of their passage. Have you seen what is on the sixteenth page of the bill? It calls for the end of private insurance coverage. The president said we could keep our current coverage. Well, we can keep it until we change jobs. Then we have to go on the politicians’ plan.
AUA: That cannot be true. No one in Washington, D.C. is going to do that to us – especially not the president. You must be reading it wrong.
Me: No, it says it right there on the sixteenth page of H.R. 3200; Sec. 102 (A) (1) (a), “Except as provided in this paragraph, the individual health insurance issuer offering such coverage does not enroll any individual in such coverage if the first effective date of coverage is on or after the first day” of the year the legislation becomes law.”
AUA: It’s a misprint.
Me: Nope, not according to the House Ways and Means Committee, it is right there in black and white. The committee says the bill states exactly what I pointed out to you.
AUA: Don’t worry about the wording. The politicians will straighten that out before they vote to approve the bill. All they want to do is take care of us.
Me: That’s the problem. Politicians rarely take care of us. They are too busy taking care of themselves. If they cared about us, they would learn to read bills before considering them for passage. All it took to catch this political lie was to read the first few pages of the bill. As an editorial in the Investor’s Business Daily pointed out on July 15, “It took just 16 pages of reading to find this naked attempt by the political powers to increase their reach. It’s scary to think how many more breaches of liberty we’ll come across in the final 1,002.” It scares me. It scares me a lot more than the possibility that Paula Abdul may not get $20 million to be on American Idol.
AAI: There you conservatives go again, spreading vicious rumors and innuendoes about our loving, caring, liberal leaders. And you are doing it now during Paula’s time of need. Next, you will be telling everyone that Walter Cronkite is dead.
Me: He is dead.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Lexi brought out my rule-breaking side
Any of you out there that know my family and me know we have a multitude of animals. We have three dogs (Chief, Cudreau and Copper), four gerbils (Mama, Baby Mama, Chester and Lester), a guinea pig (Cookie) and five cats (Jericho, Harrison, Pookie, Speckles and Screamer). Actually, there are six (Blackie) at times - eh, maybe nine (there are visitors from time to time that do not really belong to us, but then who really ever owns a cat?).
This past week, the number of animals in my home increased by one. My youngest daughter, Mara, agreed to doggie-sit for a friend while the friend and her family made a trip to Florida. That made our animal community number around 18- give or take a visitor. It, the dog my daughter agreed to sit, was a friendly, black cocker spaniel named “Lexi.”
When Lexi came to our home, my daughter informed us of a strict list of rules to be followed when dealing with the visiting animal. Lexi was to remain in her cage when not eating or exercising. Lexi had a strict diet to be followed. Lexi was to be treated as what she was - a dog.
Needless to say, I am not the best at following the rules when it comes to animals. I freely admit that during one particular holiday season several years ago in a place I will not I identify; I set several animals free from incarceration by local authorities. Some animals do not belong in cages. I blame my father for this trait or character flaw, if you prefer.
I know this has nothing to do with the story I am telling you at this time, but my father and I once gave a dog its freedom while visiting my grandmother in Needmore - a small community just outside Troy. Some uncaring owners had tied the animal to a rope inside of its enclosure. The dog was about to strangle itself when it climbed upon its doghouse and decided to jump off. My father untangled the rope several times during our visit to my grandmother’s home. My father later instructed me to release the poor animal from its rope and place it in the backseat of our car. We were halfway home before my mother realized what we had done. Byllie, that’s the name we gave her, lived a free life in our home for the next 15 years or so.
My father was always doing things like that because of his love of animals - especially dogs. Once he came home with a mama dog and about 15 newborn pups. He got them at the dog pound. When he heard the dogcatcher intended to put the mama dog and pups to sleep, my father informed the dogcatcher he was not going to do that to “his” dogs. No, they were not really his dogs, but they became his dogs. At that time, we had about 21 or more dogs at our home in Asbury Park.
Now you can understand how I came about my feelings when it comes to animals - especially dogs. I think I have instilled the same feelings for animals in my daughters.
Back to Lexi . . .
Well, you can see I was not about to follow the rules. Lexi ran freely in our home for a week. She jumped on furniture and wrestled with Copper and Chief. She did not wrestle with Cudreau. Cudreau is not the playful kind - just ask any of our friends. I think I may have “accidentally” dropped some table scraps, which Lexi consumed without permission. Nicky Mac and Madison, two children my daughters were babysitting during Lexi’s visit, were not as covert as I was when it came to feeding the visiting animal. The two of them openly defied the no-scrap-feeding rule. Nicky Mac and Madison fed Lexi cheese curls and chicken nuggets. Lexi even took a liking to my wife, Dolly, and she, my wife, does not like dogs - or so she says. Want to see if that is a lie? Try taking Copper or Chief away from her. Lexi quickly made her way into Dolly’s favor.
As for me, well, Lexi is a poor judge of character. She sat in my recliner with me. Once or twice when I took a nap, Lexi made the decision of her own free will to nap next to me. Lexi also slept with my daughters and even on the couch with Dolly, Chief and Copper. Lexi tried to make friends with our cats, but cats are not exactly friend-making animals.
They say confession is good for the soul, or at least that is what I’ve heard over the years. So, I freely confess to violating the rules when it came to the treatment of Lexi within my home. I hope Lexi gets to return for another visit. I promised her ice cream next time.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
These folks almost won awards
It has been a while since I checked in on the Darwin Awards Web site. So, I figured this would be a good week to do so. After all, I have been a bit serious in my writing lately. I think it’s time to be on the lighthearted side . . . for a short time, anyway.
But instead of informing you of the most recent Darwin Award nominees, I have decided to tell you about a few of the near-misses for the honor. Remember, the Darwin Awards are reserved for people who voluntarily remove themselves from the gene pool. I suspect some of them are not quite truthful – maybe all of them. They are quite funny though.
Here goes . . .
Loch Ness Monster
On Lake Isabella, in the high desert east of Bakersfield, Calif., a woman was having trouble with her boat.
No matter how she tried, she just couldn’t get her new 22-foot Bayliner to perform. It was sluggish in every maneuver, regardless of the power applied. She tried for an hour to make her boat go, but finally gave up and putted over to a nearby marina for help.
A topside check revealed that everything was in perfect working order. The engine ran fine, the outboard motor pivoted up and down and the prop was the correct size and pitch.
One of the marina guys jumped in the water to check beneath the boat. He came up almost choking on water, he was laughing so hard.
Under the boat, still strapped securely in place, was the trailer.
Note: I swear none of the women in my home have ever visited Lake Isabella.
Bodacious Bud
An Indiana man had the good fortune to raise a healthy marijuana plant in his back yard. But then tragedy struck. He received a phone call from the authorities saying he was busted, but they would not press charges if he brought the bush into the station. Roots and all. So he sadly hacked his eight-foot annual down and carried it into the lobby of the sheriff’s office, where startled officers took him into custody for suspected felony cultivation. Turns out the phone call was a prank.
Note: This is one that should have been mentioned on the “John Boy and Billy” radio show, but I’m sure the Russell County Sheriff’s Office has similar stories to tell. I seem to remember one about a meth lab bust where the not-so-smart criminal felt the local officers should have posted the proper recipe for the illegal drug on the office’s Web site.
Official Drug Test
A woman in Canada called the police with a complaint that she had been burnt in a drug deal. She claimed that a man had sold her a rock of crack cocaine, but, when she brought it home, it “looked like baking powder.” The police dispatched a narcotics agent to her house, who tested the rock and verified that, despite its appearance, it was indeed cocaine. The woman was promptly arrested for drug possession. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police are encouraging anyone who thinks they may have been fooled into buying fake drugs to come forward.
Note: See the note after “Bodacious Bud.”
Blondes and Oil Changes
Amy Brasher, 45 years old, was arrested in San Antonio, Texas, after a mechanic reported to police that 18 packages of marijuana were packed in the engine compartment of the car which she had brought to the mechanic for an oil change. According to police, Brasher later said that she didn’t realize that the mechanic would have to raise the hood to change the oil.
Note: Everything in Texas is bigger – even airheads.
Sobriety Test
In a poorly judged attempt to convince his wife he was sober enough to drive, a 29-year-old husband pulled up to a State Police barracks in his pickup truck, parked illegally and demanded a sobriety check. He failed the Breathalyzer test and was taken into custody. “Basically,” an amused Sergeant Paul Slevinski explained, “his wife won the argument.”
Note: This proves you should never argue with your wife. Just admit you are wrong and let her drive.
Well, I hope you enjoyed those stories. They are humorous, if they are not true. If they are true, all of these people are just a step away from earning a Darwin Award.
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