Falling Victim to Corporate Marketing

I admit it.  I took the bait hook, line and sinker.  The History Channel (both one and two) sucked me in with all the talk about the Mayan Apocalypse (perhaps because I've visited Chichenitza personally), Ancient Aliens, Kulkukahn, aligned planets, certain death and destruction and the possibility of sentient awakening.  Yes, I sat mesmerized in front of my television for weeks on end, superfluously engaged in television marketing carried out in perfect form.

I've prepped (just in case), considered the remote possibility that the world could end on the Winter Solstice for no good reason other than I had it ram-rodded into my brain, albeit voluntarily, for several weeks on cable television and on the Internet.  All the while I thought my own mind stronger than that storm trooper tricked by Obi Wan Kenobi on Tatooine by a Jedi mind trick.  I failed dismally.  Master Yoda would have kicked me out of his swamp on day one after realizing how easily I could fall for the simplest of mind gaffs.

Now we find ourselves moving into 2013 and I've begun scratching my head at those who fear the number thirteen for no apparent reason at all.  I have to wonder if I will fall prey to the superstition created after the Knights Templar were rounded up and slaughtered on Friday the 13th.  Yes, I've researched that too.  It would seem that many humans have both a fear of the end times AND a morbid fascination with it.  And it would seem that I am one of those many humans.  I type this both proudly and ashamedly.

Honestly, I wondered if and how the Earth would end--solar flares, alien invasion, nuclear war, Gog/Magog, power grid corruption, massive computer failure, polar shift, global anarchy, earthquakes, floods, food shortages, global warming...............aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgggggghhhh!!!

So now I am forced to face the world on the 22nd of December.  Luckily I love life and all that it offers--the bad and the good.  I have Christmas to look forward to, a new year to ring in, time with family, a road trip to make, hard decisions to face, and all the stuff in between. 

We can all thank the Mayans for their inexorable ability to tell time, Nostradamus for predicting Hitler's rise and the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Holy Bible for telling us that "no one knows the time or day" that everything will end.  Living life one day at a time should probably resonate with us all, but most especially me!

Music-Medicine for the Stricken Soul

We are all moved by certain things in life: religion, sports, politics, hobbies, movies, television, and on-and-on the list goes.  No doubt that all of those things listed above (and many more) shape and mold us as humans and separate us from the animal kingdom.  It's also interesting to note every person on the planet is motivated and moved by different things and inspired to greatness or mediocrity by his/her environment and personality.  Truly, the things that drive and captivate us make up our invisible human fingerprint.

One thing, however, has proven to be the universal commonality amongst mankind throughout our evolution as an intelligent species: music.  No matter the genre, people are drawn to the rhythm, math, melodies and harmony made by talented musicians.  Genius is often exhibited in the stories told by blues singers, wisdom of the ages demonstrated in the classics, tears ripped from our eyes by the soulful sounds of church hymns. 

What is about music that speaks to us?  I prefer to think of it as food for my soul, nourishment for a hungry spirit.  Music has the uncanny ability to make me smile, laugh, cry, dance, scream and mourn.  Nothing else on Earth has the power to move an individual like a heaven-sent song, whether that song be sung or simply played. 

Do you pay attention to the "score," or background music, during a movie?  Whether you think you do or not, I can assure you your soul hears it.  Imagine a movie or television program without music!  How boring would that be?  How would a twelve hour car ride be with no radio?  No thanks. 

The most important thing music seems to offer is healing.  Native American chanting, Tibetan Buddhist chanting, peaceful Beetles tunes or the haunting sound of Amazing Grace will stir that inner self that we all struggle to understand and know. 

I hope this moves you to listen to more music..........

  

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

You thought this title was about Christmas and New Years?  Boy are you wrong!  The most wonderful time of the year for me is the BCS national championship game, more commonly referred to as the SEC Crystal. 

This marks the seventh year in a row that a Southeastern Conference football team will play for the national championship.  It marks the fourth year in a row there has been much rejoicing about football in the state of Alabama, as The University of Alabama brought home the big boy trophy in 2009 and 2011, while cross state rival Auburn University won it in 2010.  This will also mark the seventh year in a row there is much gnashing of teeth across the nation, especially outside the SEC.  Screams of "easy schedule," "down year," "media bias," and other such nonsense permeates the minds and lips of the unknowing armchair football analyst.

Remarkably, the SEC has demonstrated its dominance in collegiate football year over year by not only winning championships, but by placing the most talented athletes in the National Football League.  Names like Mark Ingram, Cam Newton, Trent Richardson and on-and-on reverberate throughout the League.  And while the cries of a playoff resound around the country, this year alone, had there been a playoff, would have allowed for two SEC teams to play in it.

There are certainly talented athletes at every major college football program, but to deny the current superiority of the SEC is to deny reality.  Will there be a significant polar football shift some day?  Possibly.  But that shift may not happen any time soon, as the conference's focus on winning national titles is only outdone by, well, nothing.

My prediction for the upcoming national championship game, which pits number one Notre Dame versus number two Alabama is this:  an Alabama victory by no less than ten points.  After the game we will hear about the strength of a probation ladened Ohio State team and how it could have beaten Alabama, or someone will note that Bama was beaten by SEC newcomer Texas A&M, but none will want to admit that the University of Alabama has created a dynasty among the collegiate faithful. 

So, with that I bid everyone a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!  And I would also like to bid everyone a very merry Roll Tide Roll!!

Rammer jammer yella hammer

Give 'em hell Alabama!

Rooooooll Tide Roll!



A New Thought!

Writer's block, with me at least, doesn't typically occur after deciding upon a topic.  On the contrary, my sticking point normally hits me when I'm searching for a topic, attempting to force my writing rather than allowing it to just happen.  Contemplative Buddhist monks and laymen tell new followers to allow thoughts to happen naturally during meditation practices; forcing thoughts from your mind will often prove disruptive and frustrating.  Eventually, the practitioner will learn to clear his/her mind during practice providing for a more fruitful meditation. 

Following this example, I sometimes grow frustrated when I can't develop or get my head around a topic.  Frustration breeds more frustration and suddenly I find myself upset at my own inability to formulate a simple thought; the brain synapses seem to have stopped working altogether!  I grow moody and irritable and soon I can't stand being in my own presence.  I feel for those close to me who are confronted with my personal inability to form even the most simple of cognition. 

Finally, after moving through the psychological grieving steps, I accept the fact I will never again be able to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, thoughts to monitor.  Yes, as much as it pains me I embrace my defeat, finding its unsavory kiss one I want to wipe away but like a bad wreck I'm unable to move my eyes from the ghastly sight.

I move through a mundane life: arise, shower, work, home, sleep, rinse, repeat.  Day after day, I walk this Earth like a robot, my inability to put one unique thought together dragging me further down the rabbit hole.  I grow depressed and wonder about the great thinkers of the world and wonder why they were gifted with gloriously rabid minds.

And then it happens!  When I stop pushing the baby from its womb, the head appears.  Like childbirth, the thought is barely recognizable but quickly takes shape.  The proud father beaming from ear to ear, knocking those around me into walls and on the ground as I sprint to find my computer.

Okay, maybe that last paragraph is a little self indulgent and embellishing, but I do go looking for a computer or at least a pen and paper on which to jot down my idea.  I once again become engrossed in the idea, imagining a story line or theme and soon begin working.  That's where I am now--the idea, the process and the initial creative steps--and I'm very happy. 

The Common Goal

Cathy and I are very blessed and fortunate to have great jobs, as frustrating as they sometimes are, and the ability to work toward a common goal.  Since we've purchased our vacation/retirement home, we've become laser focused on paying it off and planning our future.  We don't take vacations, nor do we go out; we enjoy our time together and know we have a plan, and that makes us both feel good.

Do we think about sitting on a beach and just taking it easy after stressful days, weeks and months at work?  Of course we do.  We both long for some downtime and an escape from reality, but we keep plodding along hoping to finally realize our dream.

I would thoroughly enjoy some time on my bike, listening to the engine and loud pipes screaming along some back country highway.  Sights and smells of America are always on my mind but just a little out of reach for the moment. 

Cathy would like to hang out on a sandy beach or by a pool with little to do, with little on her constantly occupied mind, just the sound of the ocean and wind.  I know she gets weary of being the constant caretaker and needs a break, but onward we march.

Now, I certainly don't want to paint a picture that we are sacrificing anything.  Sacrificing means giving up necessities--at least in my mind it does--we are only postponing those things we want to do so we can have the things we desire.  So, neither of us are looking for sympathy, I'm simply expressing that we are fortunate and we understand that.

So, when that day finally comes....when we have that deed in our hands and I'm no longer enslaved to a bank, don't look for us, we'll be traveling and having fun.  And that is why we remain focused on our common goal.

Grand Design or Incredible Chance?

As I jogged on a nearby path in a local forest preserve, I couldn't help but take in the simple grandeur all around me.  The beautiful fall foliage, clean smells of nature and clear blue sky allowed my mind to drift as my foot falls pounded beneath me.  Magnificent yellows, golds and reds burst forth from maple and oak trees, while small purple wild flowers swayed gently in the constant breeze.  A shallow creek flowed over small and medium sized rocks while ducks and geese floated along its waters.

I breathed deeply enjoying the scents nature had to offer and wiped away a couple of tears torn from my eyes by the wind.  When my heart was steadily pounding in my chest and my breathing began to labor, I focused my mind on everything around me.  I paid close attention to the crunching of fallen leaves as my feet landed on the select few in my way.

At some point and time during my jog (I don't recall how long I had been on the path) I considered how perfectly in synch everything seemed to be.  It occured to me that those who do not believe in a higher power are looking at things too simplistically.  If you consider that our planet's orbit around the sun had to be just right to support life, that conditions have to be almost exact for a planet to support water, that our sun has to be a particular size so as not to burn us up or freeze us to death, then you are dabbling in the arena of unbeknownst statistics.  Taking it a step further, were you to look around you at all that nature has to offer, from the tranquil grasshopper thinking about which plant to jump on to the racoon scavenging for food to a grown man with average intelligence jogging in an area attempting to soak in his surroundings, then you have to believe in a higher power. 

I definitely am not attempting to preach at you, faithful reader, only offering my perspective into and on life.  The natural order of things seems to me to have been meticulously thought out and perfectly made.  That all of this may have been left to chance defies logic, or at least my logic. 

As I continued my jog I caught a drift of a skunk and thought that God must have seriously twisted sense of humor.  A couple of jogs ago I ran right behind a small possum focused intently on whatever it was trying to catch.  I remember thinking that either that was the dumbest possum in the world or perhaps it was deaf.  No matter which, Darwin obviously wasn't always right when he thought that only the strongest would survive.  I didn't mess with this nasty looking little animal and he simply stared at me as I continued to run past him.  Was it divine intervention that kept us from having a scuffle?  I don't really know, but I do know I trodded on leaving the little fellow to his own devices.

The next time you find yourself outside the confines of some man-made creation stop for a moment to decide for yourself if everything around you was a result of chance or maybe some grander design.  You might amaze yourself with your answer.

Insomnia Strikes Back

Insomnia is not funny.  Other than getting to watch movies I haven't seen for fifteen years or so, there's no benefit I can find to the disorder.  There's only so much of the news I can take, only so many bizarre websites to peruse and only so many books I can read.  Yes, I can find no good reason for an inability to sleep when my body feels run down.

The fact that I can't shut my mind down is perplexing.  Staring blankly at a darkened ceiling is extremely boring and frustrating, as is replaying the day's events over and over.  Why is it then I am forced to suffer?

There are some who will remain nameless who would claim this is my karma.  Others still prefer more poetic reasons and call the insomnia my albatross.  Perhaps they who call it the strange dead bird are correct, as I sit here typing about the strangeness of it all to you.....the faithful reader. 

I imagine my brain as lit Cloud City, a nerdish allusion to George Lucas' Star Wars films, where the planet is inhabited by humans and other space creatures in buildings high in the planet's sky.  There are miles and miles of blue sky and warm clouds, occasional buildings interrupting the aesthetics of it all.  Radio transmissions cross the sky from com link to com link, as do the synapses firing across my mind not allowing me to drift into a peaceful sleep.

And now my thoughts continue down memory lane, thinking of The Empire Strikes Back, admiring Han Solo for being frozen in carbon by Darth Vader.  When I was younger I used to imagine that Solo would have gone insane while entrapped in the carbonite, but I was wrong.  Han was able to sleep to the point of temporary blindness.  How I long to be temporarily blinded after sleeping for a year or two.  I imagine he was pretty hungry after being thawed though, but that really doesn't have anything to do with what I'm talking about here.

So, I'm hoping to drift off in a while.  Maybe Darth Vader will visit me tonight and he and Boba Fett will allow me some time to rest.

Will Someone Pass the Prozac?

Whatever shall I do with myself after the election?  So enamored with news, polls, statistics and political conversation, I fear spontaneous human combustion when I have nothing else to hold my attention.  Yes, I realize I still have Alabama football, but even the regular season will be over at the end of November. 

I have begun researching counselors and therapists to get me through the rough times, my detox certain to set in on November 7th.  Prozac and Wellbuten may be my friends for six months at least, perhaps more.  Romney-Obama.  Obama-Romney.  The chant echos in my head and comes to me in my dreams.  At what point in my life did I start caring about this stuff?  Why can't I do anything in moderation?  Why can't I get my wife to stop watching O'Reilly or Hannity?  When will the NFL be fun again?

Gallup, Pew, Rassmussen and Politico.  The presidential elections have captured my attention the past sixteen years, but moreso the past three cycles.  Joe Biden has become one of my favorite politicians ever; I would love to have this guy over for dinner and a beer.  No, I don't agree with him politically, but wouldn't I be the hit of the neighborhood if I could throw a party with Uncle Joe as my keynote speaker and guest?  I've got to compose a letter to him.  Perhaps he'll pencil me in after January!

The University of Alabama is 5-0 thus far this season.  They shut out two football teams in back-to-back victories, and during every commercial, during each time out, I found myself turning to news channels or checking some of my favorite news and political websites for information.  Those who know me probably fear for my personal safety after reading this.  It's scary!

I don't know.  Maybe I should plan a weeklong hiking trip.  No phone, no internet, no television, no human interaction.  Perhaps deep in the woods I could convulse and shake with no witnesses then return to my normal self, my addiction finally kicked. 

But in the interim I have twenty-nine days left to sate my thirst for everything political.  I can watch Ryan and Biden debate then watch the President and Romney go at it two more times.  I'll remain glued to the television and listen to the radio in hopes my candidate is winning in the polls and pulls through in lavish fashion!

And now, I must turn my attention to the most recent USA Today poll of likely voters. 

Paper or plastic: A deeper look at publishing

As many of you know, I enjoy writing.  For me, it serves as an outlet of sorts as ideas form in my mind, get shuffled around and begin to take shape.  Writing is a conduit into other worlds, realms, dimensions and lives unavailable in my current physical state.  How's that description for deep thinking?  I would quote myself, but that's simply self-righteous and way off topic, so pardon my transgression.

I enjoy telling stories; some believe I embellish (Kerry Lee) and create fairy tales from real life events.  Personally, I consider my stories to be accurate reflections of true events, colored in real life pastels for your amusement.  Much to the disdain of a few who have read what I think of as a humorous autobiographical look into a lot of silliness that has occurred over the course of my lifetime, I continue down the path of publishing peril.  What this means is someone has read my conglomeration of stories and warned me not to pursue publication.  That warning has been heeded because I need to do some (a lot of) re-writing.  Taking the excellent advice my friend has given me and using that advice as a gift (after licking my wounds from the resounding verbal kicking he gave me) has been beneficial.  His "gift" has allowed me a lot of time to reflect on my writing style and how I present my stories in written form.

I've also been forced to ask myself "why," as in "why do I do this?"  Why would I take time to put into words what I can articulate orally so people can read it?  Writing has become, or has been for a long time, an addiction for me.  Pen to paper or keyboard to monitor is no different than a painter and his canvas.  This is how I create and I thrive on it.  But there's a bigger piece to the publication of my words and stories that gave me pause for some introspection.

Seeing our, or my anyway, work published in hardback or electronically is a rush.  Knowing people are reading and enjoying what I write is a form of self-indulgence and ego boosting like no other.  I can admit my linguistic narcissistic pleasures to everyone as my epiphany has fully revealed itself to me.  As with most twelve step programs, admitting you have a problem is the first giant leap you'll take!  I wonder, however, if other writers will admit the same or at least take the time to self-reflect on why they write?

So there it is--you have looked into my writer's soul and seen my Achilles heal.  I feel better now, but this albatross will once again drape my neck and the words will have to be written.

the transition

Yesterday we sold our house in the Chicago suburbs and were able to breath a sigh of relief.  We've been very fortunate to be able pay for two houses for several months, but things were tight and luxury items were a thing of the past.  Now the discipline of not purchasing luxury items and remaining focused on being debt free is our goal.  It's really not so difficult for me because I don't like spending money, but I've created a monster in Cathy who pinches every single penny, stretches each one into a dime (I'm still perplexed with her ability to do so) and takes frugality to a whole new level.

Living in an apartment, after living in a spacious house, is a huge transition for us.  We can't get away from each other and sometimes we suffer from a tad too much "us time."  Solitude happens only with a trip to the bathroom and even that may not afford us ample refuge from one another.  Walking outside and being around this many people makes me uncomfortable; I prefer to be a social recluse but accept my prison term for a few years knowing we can get to a better financial place in a few years.

I wonder how my neighbors will react to my screams of "Roll Tide" this evening?  Will I be forced to explain my chant to local law enforcement?  Will we be evicted after only a few days on site?  How will my conservative yard signs be embraced by the other tenants and will my proclivities for planting them like some wayward yard artisan be frowned upon?  Only time will tell......

The nice thing is we are both a little closer to work and will save time and gas going to and fro our offices.  I'm certain the suburbs will raise the price of gas to compensate for the loss of revenue since our move, but in the short term it'll be good to keep a few extra cents.

But most importantly will be when we realize our goals and finally wind up "home."  Until then....

ROLL TIDE!!

A Lymric, an Ode, A Silly Rhyme, You're a Toad

Sometimes I kid, sometimes I joke

   On a cheap cigar I occasionally toke

Politics and Facebook, the two don't mix

   Sarcasm and wit really make me tick

I laugh at you, I laugh at me

  Sometimes I laugh so much it makes me pee

My kids think I'm crazy, my wife thinks I'm insane

  I'm the fruit of my dad's loins, so it's him I blame 

I go to work early, at times I get home late

  But watch Bama football on Saturdays because they're just great

On game day my neighbors they all run and hide

  And look at me curiously as I scream, "Roll Tide!"

I've been fortunate and lucky to travel this Earth
  To fly in planes circumventing its girth
And everywhere I go people make me smile and giggle
  Funny things I always see so much my belly will jiggle

I raise up my glass and toast you my friends
  And realize your zaniness knows no end
I can count on each one of you to make my day
  So for your good health and continence I pray

And to those of you who would prefer to say, "go to hell"
  I'll just look at you and type "l-o-l"

Because I know I got under your skin

  I laugh and laugh and will do it again

SEC versus Big 10 versus the Independents

I spent a day in South Bend, Indiana with a group of friends who have never been to an SEC football game.  We had put our heads together a few weeks ago and decided to attend the Notre Dame versus Purdue football game.  As God would have it, after several days of rain, wind and gloom, the clouds were forced to blow eastward and beautiful blue skies permeated the house that Knute built.  Yes, the Catholic church must have a direct line to the Good Lord because the weather could have not been any more perfect on a college game day.

My University of Alabama jersey on and national championship hat proudly perched upon my gargantuan head, my buddies and I tailgated for a couple of hours before making our way to the stadium.  One friend sported his Notre Dame jersey, another wore a Purdue t-shirt that he had apparently worn since he was eight years old, as the shirt seemed to be a "small" stretched across a "large" frame, and one fellow who elected to remain neutral out of pure fear for his own personal safety.

I was disappointed in the subdued atmosphere in the parking area where so many people were grilling food and pitching a football around.  No one dared talk smack to anyone from the opposing fanbase; no, everyone was very, very polite!  I was totally shocked and amazed at the level of civility on display, and a little embarrassed that the fans didn't know how to talk smack to one another.  Don't people here know how to carry on in the spirit of good fun or are the folks here morally superior to my kin back home?  By contrast, there is always much yelling and screaming at folks from other states and schools when my beloved Tide plays.  Sweet Home Alabama will be blasted from thousands of car stereos for miles around Bryant Denny Stadium.  The nauseating sounds of Rocky Top at Neyland Stadium in Knoxville, Tennessee are played until it is so ingrained in the rivals heads, they are singing along by the fourth quarter.  Public displays of disaffection and questions about someones sister's personal virtue are called into question at every turn.  Cam Newton jerseys are hung on statues of Paul "Bear" Bryant, giant oak trees on Toomer's Corner in Auburn are poisoned, grown women and men brawl before and after games and no modicum of civility is noticed in the region of the country known for politeness. 

As we began walking toward the stadium I grew excited.  I also was caught unaware when a couple of Purdue and Notre Dame fans yelled "Roll Tide!"  This made me both happy and confused at the same time; this would never have happened back home.

We found our "seats," or rather marked wooden bleachers.  A couple of elderly Purdue fans sat in front of us while a litany of Notre Dame fans looked bemused at my crimson attire.  An Irish fan from Boca Raton, Florida didn't hesitate to jump into a conversation about SEC football and its superiority to the rest of the country.  Not wanting to be persuaded without experiencing the game first, I kindly engaged him in chit-chat but consciously made efforts to remain neutral and unbiased until the game was over.   

Kick-off marked the beginning of the game and the fans were fairly loud, but not deafening.  Neither team could establish their running game and were forced to throw the ball on almost every down.  Neither team scored in the first quarter and played to a seven-seven tie heading into half-time.  The fighting Irish outpaced the Boilermakers ten to zero in the third quarter, but the fellas with the choo-choo mascot battled back in the fourth and final quarter.  God smiled on the private Catholic school one more time and the luck of the Irish allowed them the victory in an exciting final two minutes as Notre Dame battled back to win the game twenty to seventeen.

Insofar as the teams were concerned versus those of the SEC, here's my analysis: these two teams were SLOW.  I remarked to one of my buddies that watching the game was like watching some of the bigger high schools in Alabama, Arkansas and Texas I had seen.  There were some pretty big boys on the field and a few obvious NFL caliber players that stood out, like Manti Teo (sp), linebacker from Notre Dame.  The kid is a star and will be very successful at the next level, but I'm used to watching and seeing numerous kids on both sides of the ball that will wind up playing in the League. 

And I get back to the fanbases--they were very tame, nice and respectful.  This was pretty refreshing on one hand but the lack of junk being yelled at others was also just foreign to me.  "Where's the pride," I asked myself?! 

The saving grace for me?  As I stood and began walking toward a concession stand to buy a soft pretzel and something to drink, I heard a familiar chant behind me, "War Eagle!"

My head snapped back and my ears began to bleed just a little.  I turned to find two fellow Bama-ians decked in God-awful orange proudly pointing at their shirts and beaming from ear-to-ear.  Yes!  I would finally get to hear some wonderful smack talk and also get to throw some back.  All was right in the universe again and I knew the civil folks around me would get educated in the classroom of SEC.

The Tide

It's my most favorite time of the year.  If you follow me on Facebook, you might respond by asking, "election time?"  Nay, nay say I!  No, I get a little worked up at election time, but we all know how to tell when a politician is lying--when his/her mouth is moving.  No, my most favorite time of the year is when college football finally kicks off.

That's right--college football.  Not the overpaid cry baby "professionals" in "The League," but those kids who put heart and soul into the game and play because they love the sport.  It's that time of the year when this middle aged man dons one of his crimson jerseys, grabs a shaker (that's a man's pom-pom) and screams at the top of his lungs at a team who can't hear him. 

In victory I'm unbearable to be around.  In defeat I'm unbearable to be around.  But I keep coming back to the television every Saturday screaming and yelling, recliner coaching and wondering why my Tide won't run an option instead of play action?  I hope for our cross state rivals to lose every game and beat a path to my computer to rub it in the face of the Auburn faithful when it happens.  Yes, I'm an obnoxious fan who never attended the University of Alabama, but I was born into the crimson family.  I grew up yelling "Roll Tide Roll," worshiping at the house of the Bear and wondering why we hired Shula.

I still get tingly when I get to attend a game at Bryant-Denny Stadium.  And still chuckle at all the pork being cooked in the Quad after beating Arkansas (the Razorbacks/Hogs).  I love watching beaten Tennessee fans leave the stadium with their heads hung low and I revel in the defeat of a Georgia Bulldog. 

This past weekend at my sweet mother's house (I'm the favorite son and spend much time with my mom when I'm back home, while my younger brother pays her no attention), we watched Alabama destroy Big 10 opponent Michigan.  Michigan was ranked number eight in the nation in pre-season polls and Alabama was ranked number two.  The final score: 41-14 Alabama.

Who can't get excited about something like this?  What could make this man happier on a college football Saturday?

Wait.  There is one thing that makes me happier: when Auburn loses and Alabama wins.

That happened this past Saturday and I'm very happy.  I'm also unbearable to be around.

The Life Collector

People's personal stories fascinate me.  I'm particularly amazed by immigrants stories, and more specifically those who struggled along the way and found themselves in The States for a better life.  My wife's own family who didn't have a bad life in The Philippines but wanted to come to the United States because the promise of freedom and hope loomed everlasting.  The struggles of a Mexican family who came to this country in search of menial task labor because that labor promised so much more than what they had in their home country still sticks in my mind.  How about a Tibetan family, forced from their country by the communist Chinese, who landed in Nepal?  Their daughter was born there (Nepal) and raised in India.  Subsequently, she found herself in the United States going to college in search of the elusive dream.  Perhaps you would like to read about my Polish friend whose family fled the persecution of Hitler's Nazis, and whose family landed in New York City hoping to make a good life in a new land?

Then there's my good friend who was born in the U.S., raised part time in Jamaica then moved to Guyana for her secondary education?  How intelligent she is!  I recall a friend from Thailand whose family was still poor by American standards, but they were thankful every day for what little they had.  My Native American friend and spiritual advisor who has faced death on such a level that most grown men would have broken down long ago.  Still, his outlook for humanity is so positive and his love affair with this Earth is insurmountable! 

I have met so many people from all over the world and each has blessed me by being a part of my life and for allowing me to be a part of theirs.  And I'm reminded each day how spoiled we are here and how much we take for granted--it's simply amazing. 

But in keeping with my title, I consider myself an individual attuned to the heartbeat of the individual.  Perhaps my worldly perspective is skewed tremendously, but on the human level I am all ears because your story (whoever you are) captivates me. 

I was touched by the words a recent widow wrote about her deceased husband; the simplicity of her statement touched me to the core when she reminisced about moving to the west with her husband almost two decades ago, and the cool, crisp days spent on their farm together.  They didn't have indoor plumbing at the time but their life was perfect. 

Not long ago I spent an afternoon fishing with a man who barely had a high school education.  His learnings came through hard knocks and life lessons.  I walked away with a few fish for the freezer and a whole new respect for a self-made man.  He now owns his own company and is on the verge of retirement.  What an inspiration!

There's the story of a man I knew who fought in three different wars and was decorated beyond belief for his service to our country.  This man was a full blooded Native American and had the right to hate everything about this country and its leadership because of the way his people were treated a generation earlier; rather, he embraced and risked his life for this land.  I'm still in awe of this man.

We all have stories, some funny, some surreal and some very simple.  What's important is that we understand perspective, origins and desire.  Once this happens we can all be happier people.

A little sanity in an insane place

Let me be perfectly clear, I'm not an east coast kinda guy.  The pace of life there drives me crazy, most especially in the New York City metro area.  Northern New Jersey is New York City overflow, so it is easily quantified as NYC, which means it's not my cup of tea either.  Aside from getting to see my oldest daughter (affectionately known as "Boop" by her daddy), I don't look forward to travel to that region of the country.  People are generally seen as very rude, which may not be the case entirely, as I've found people in the metro area are typically always on the defensive, or in survival mode.  As a result, outsiders see them as rude.

So, it was with some reservation that I left Chicago's O'Hare airport this past Monday and found myself landing at Newark's Liberty International.  I grabbed my checked luggage from the carousel, hopped the air train to the P4 lot and purchased my rental car.  I drove the car onto Route 78 then turned onto the New Jersey Turnpike and finished this leg of my journey in Hasbrouck Heights where my hotel stood.  I booked a hotel close to Boop's town so she could easily drive to see me on her day off work.  My hotel was very close to "The City," as everyone calls it who live in the area, but I had no desire to head over there; who wants to pay forty or fifty dollars to park after paying a twelve dollar toll to get into the city?  Who wants to wait in line and get crammed into a train or bus to take mass transit to 41st Street, then be forced to file into a sardine can, aka the subway, to pay for overpriced food and items?  Not this guy!  I ordered food from the hotel restaurant, ate and turned in for the evening.  Boop called to tell me she would see me Wednesday night; this was perfect, as I wouldn't have to travel into the city at all, nor would I have to spend a lot of time in traffic other than driving to/from my class!

Tuesday came, and after an insomnia filled night, I found myself sitting in my training class in East Hanover, New Jersey (if you've ever watched The Sopranos, you'll be excited to know the vast majority of the show was filmed in this town).  Jeff, a guy I work with in Chicago, was in class with me, announced later in the day that he had scored a couple of tickets to the night's Yankee's game and wanted me to go with him.  By going with him, he wanted me to drive because he knew I was familiar with the area.  Ugh.  The Bronx, home of violence, attitude and a massive amount of traffic.  The upside--Yankee's Stadium.  I weighed the pros and cons and agreed to drive into the city for an evening of baseball bliss and obnoxious Yankee's fans.  And oh, I was not disappointed!

We found our seats in the bleachers--that's right, we were Bleacher Creatures for a night.  The one thing I knew about Yankee's Stadium and the bleachers was I better be representing the home team.  As a result, I purchased a Yankee's hat and put it on my head (it burned a little bit).  The hardcore fans behind us wanted to know who we were, so Jeff explained to them he had gotten the tickets from a work colleague.  These fans are lifetime ticket holders much like the Red Sox fans portrayed in the Jimmy Fallon movie Fever Pitch, which, ironically, was funny because Jimmy Fallon was present at the game Tuesday night cheering on the Yanks. 

Our conversation wafted from how much they hated Red Sox fans to how much they wanted the current president out of office.  I laughed whole heartedly in agreement with them.  They told me about the good times they had at the old Yankees Stadium and how fights would break out between fan bases.  This brought on hearty laughs by the Yankees fans.  I laughed when they added sound effects to the punches being levied on the "other guys."  We talked about gun control and I told them about being able to walk out in my back yard in Alabama and shoot a gun if I wanted to because I didn't live in the city limits.  His response?  "Thank God for the Alabama's of this country."

Nick Swisher hit a two run home run against the Texas Rangers pitcher but I missed it because I was engaged in conversation.  I didn't care, I was having a great time talking to these folks. 

The Yankee's wound up winning the game 3-0, but more importantly, I walked away with a few new friends and a new appreciation for New Yorkers (a few of them anyway).

2016 (warning: politically motivated post)

Having recently returned from a local movie theater featuring the documentary 2016: Obama's America, I cannot stress enough the importance placed upon every American to see this film.  Describing and detailing who Barrack Hussein Obama truly is as a man, a person and a president, this eye-opening documentary will leave you scared and cringing in your seat.  Without giving away too much of the film, I would like to point out a few things instrumental in Obama's desire to move the United States of America into financial ruin and moral decay:

• Obama's father, BHO, Sr. and his mother were both anti-colonialization patriarchs.
• Obama's idea of America is we are ALL part of the 1 percent he so much detests (even our poor are rich by third world standards).  As a result, he wants to displace money and power from America to developing nations.
• Because he never had his biological father in his life, he idealized and idolized his dad in his own mind.  Wanting to make his dad proud, post-mortem, he continues down the path of destroying the United States from the inside out. 
• He delays drilling for oil domestically but sends millions of tax payer dollars overseas to drill for their oil, thereby forcing oil/gas prices up domestically and simultaneously driving up unemployment in the private sector.
• He's removing America's nuclear position in the world yet takes no action against Iran's ambition to secure nuclear weapons.
• He supported Egypt and Libya's violent Arab Spring overthrow of government, but took no action against Syria's revolt that has seen massive genocide on a monumental level.

I invite each American to go see this movie and decide for yourself if the direction Barrack Hussein America is taking our country is the right one.

I must admit a high degree of nervousness about the upcoming election and hope everyone makes an informed decision before casting a vote.  Click here for more information------>2016: Obama's America

a homeowner's dilema

My wife and I live in a very nice suburban Chicago town, free of hardcore crime (I do occasionally run a random stop sign and speed through yellow traffic lights) and most of the stress that comes from living in a large downtown city.  Our town falls within the realm of the Chicago-land metropolitan area, but it's far enough away from downtown to be considered its own town, has its own mayor and police force and is generally a pretty conservative area in stark contrast to the land de la Rahm.

Our neighborhood is a part of a homeowners association.  For those of you who've never had the pleasure of belonging to a homeowners association, let me enlighten you!  In restricted neighborhoods, there is a voluntary group of home nazis who are charged with enforcing covenants and restrictions put in place at the time the neighborhood was created.  They also deal with some of the most petty, ridiculous things one could imagine.  I know this because I currently hold the neighborhood's head nazi position; I am the HOA (homeowners association) president.  We have neighbors who so utterly detest the person they live next to, they will stop at nothing to irritate them.  One guy in particular piles broken tree limbs and leaves up on the property line dividing his yard and his neighbor's yard.  This so incenses his next door neighbor that he feels the need to contact me to mediate the issue.

A group of neighbors didn't like the fact that one family wanted to put an above ground pool in their back yard.  So infuriated they became, a petition drive was formed to stop the pool from being erected, a large group of homeowners met with the board to discuss how the pool would deflate home values and would be a general neighborhood nuisance; all around disdain was forced upon the poor homeowners who simply wanted a pool for their kids. 

Recently, a couple put their home up for sale.  A real estate sign was placed in the front yard and one was placed in the back yard, which butts up against a fairly well traveled road in town.  A neighbor didn't like the sign in the back yard and e-mailed the homeowner to remove it, as the sign, he purported, violated both the covenants and restrictions AND local city code.  Laughingly, the seller responded to the complainer that the sign most certainly did not violate the covenants and restrictions, and upon further discussion with the city, confirmed there was no violation of local code.

As you can imagine, the complaining homeowner didn't take this lying down and notified the city of his intent to appeal what he felt like was a blatant violation of city code (two signs at one residence, he stated, violated a city code) and the code enforcement office lack of jurisprudence in rendering their decision to allow the homeowner to have his two signs.  Oh, the injustice of it all!

So now I have to go to a code enforcement meeting because, as you may have guessed, I am the homeowner with two signs in his yard.  Had my idiotic neighbor been a little nicer about his discontent for the second sign I might have removed it, but as it is, I will refuse until told differently by the city.  I look forward to my day in code enforcement court, which is tonight by the way.  And if I ever see this complaining neighbor, who obviously needs a hobby or a girlfriend, I'll be certain to wave to him, one lone finger flown as a greeting!

the amazing human condition

I try very hard to keep my blog from becoming a political soap box, and yet I find myself laughing at how seriously people take things that really don't amount to much (at least in the broadest context).  Somehow social issues have become a stomping ground in the arena of politics; rather, they have become a focal point on a scale almost equal to that of the economy.

The fervor that has become one man's opinion on homosexuality has now become a failed assault on the business he oversees.  Really people?  Does this guy's opinion have such an impact on you that it has determined whether or not you'll eat a chicken sandwhich from his restaurant?  Honestly, when was the last time you actually ate there?  I bet it wasn't this past Sunday was it?  What's been missed in this entire debate/debacle isn't what one man's position is on homosexual -vs- heterosexual marriage, but the position the company has had since its founding.  You got it--Christian/conservative.  So now someone has an axe to grind because this old guy has been labled a religious zealot. 

If you have so much time on your hands that you've researched this company's financial records, you have a boring life.  Wouldn't your time be better served trying to make your place of employment more efficient, or perhaps you could spend time helping your fellow man?  Perhaps you could adopt a mile and wallow in your pride as you save Mother Earth.

What I find is that people like to blame others for their own problems, or sit and think too hard and long on what might be ailing them, then figure out some strange means of placing blame on someone else for their perceived misgiving.  This, my friends, is what I find hilarious in the human condition.  And while it is hilarious, at least to me, it's also very dangerous. 

I have some very smart friends on both ends of the political spectrum, as well as friends who fall into the middle of the political minefield.  It seems the only way to get your point across anymore is to insult someone and then blame someone/anyone for your own shortcoming.  But at the end of the day, what really matters is how you've left the world.  Is it a better place or is it worse off?  What can you do today to make it better?  Can you make it better by first becoming better yourself (personally, financially, etc.)? 

Oh, that human condition.......

Smarter than the average bear!

My friends Kathy and Bob Brown thought this story pretty funny and worthy of telling here on my blog; and while I do find it ridiculous that I have to stoop to a new manly moral low in order to get out of housework, perhaps it's worth sharing.  Unfortunately, I will ruin things for a lot of guys, but I would encourage them to be creative in their approach to what I like to call "mucha casa laborious en absentia," or "out of much housework, none."

As many are aware, and as my poor wife has been painstakingly reminded time-after-time, I enjoy tooling around in the yard and in my garden.  Not because I enjoy sweating like a fat kid standing in line at a donut shop; on the contrary, I toil in the yard so I don't have to help clean house (see also: garage cleaning, car washing and driveway sweeping). 

Recently I noticed a bevy of dandelions and those prickly dandelion wannabe things growing in my yard.  Brought on by a relatively windy spring and a lot of drought, weeds and crabgrass have run rampant this year.  While many have seen this as an indication that the world is about to end, I saw this as an opportunity to be seized, molded and shaped for my personal benefit.  In our garage we have these silly weeding tools that are forked on the business end and have wooden handles on the other.  The idea is to dig under the weed, thereby grabbing the unwanted plant by the roots and removing it from the soil so that it doesn't have the opportunity to return.

My wife had announced early in the morning her desire to begin cleaning hardwood floors, vacuuming upstairs and de-bugging bathrooms.  I took this as my cue to find something else to do and to keep me out of her crosshairs--she loves putting me to work doing things I hate!

I promptly remembered the dandelions and prickly dandelion wannabe things in the yard and quickly grabbed a pair of gloves and the silly gardening tool.  I told my wife that these ugly weeds had to be removed immediately or we would run the risk of having them overtake our yard!  She agreed and understandably told me to attack the yard with much fervor--and I did!

I plopped on my butt in the back yard and went to work popping the weedy albatrosses from my yard.  Hundreds of them mocked me and I estimated two or three hours would be required to remove them all.  Approximately thirty minutes after starting the weed removal process I got an unwanted visit from my next door neighbor, David, who I would normally welcome with open arms.

"Hey," he began, "I have some weed killer in my garage if you want to use it.  You keep digging these things up and it'll take you forever."

My head snapped around and my eyes darted back and forth in hopes my wife hadn't overhead his comment.

"Dave, keep it down, man.  If Cathy hears you say that I'll have to go in the house and help her clean.  I have weed killer in the garage too, but she doesn't know that!  I'm perfectly happy out here doing this, but if she thinks I can spray some stuff on these dandelions and get back in the house, where do you think I'll wind up being?"

Dave began to laugh but I stared him down with my most intense, serious face.

"Oh," he stammered, "you aren't kidding are ya?"

"No, I ain't kidding at all," I replied.  "Now go away before she sees you over here.  She already knows you're smart and I don't need her thinking you're telling me an easier way of doing this."

Dave walked back to his house and left me to my yard work.  By days end the yard looked like a north Korean minefield with divots everywhere.  I had dug up almost thirty pounds of weeds and most importantly, Cathy was finished with the housework.

Viva mucha casa laborious en absentia!

Some sense of normalcy, please....

The world has simply gone crazy.  I look around and see people arguing and fighting about things beyond their personal control and wonder if they truly care about what they are saying.  What happened to the good old days of just slugging it out in order to get your point across?  I'm still a believer in "might is right," especially when I struggle to articulate my point of view.  A buddy of mine years ago was fond of saying, "When in doubt, knock 'em out."  I miss those days.

I spent the first six months in northern New Jersey waving at people who would blow the horn at me; I thought they were just being friendly.  Two years after my stint there, I sincerely find the people in Chicago to be nice--ain't it amazing what a little perspective will do for you?  But even mid-westerners get caught up in the uncontrollable, as do folks everywhere else.  Yeah, I'm as guilty as the next guy of this, but I have a blog and wanted to vent about it.

When I'm not ranting and raving about things political, I'm pretty calm--well, with the exception of college football season that is--and generally enjoy making folks laugh.  But I do have to shake my head when I watch people get worked up over things completely out of their control.  As an example, I work with some folks who get upset over things that have zero bearing on them getting their job done.  Another prime example is traffic: I sometimes get aggravated when I get stuck in it, but at the end of the day, I have no control over it so I just turn the radio up and sing along.  Yeah, I'm that guy.

You know what really burns my butt?  A flame about three feet high. 

Now that's just funny.

Cubbies!

At no time in my life have I been a baseball fan.  In fact, I've gone out of my way to tell people I didn't feel baseball was a real sport; on the contrary it seemed like a very unpassionate display of laziness to me.  Naturally, my prediliction for things not baseball was probably brought about by my inability to hit a ball, or catch a ball or judge a fly ball's distance from the batter to my glove.  My real disdain for baseball came about when I was playing catch with my younger brother, who was a pretty good baseball player in his own right, and ate a fastball rather than catching it with my gloved hand. 

My dad was a huge baseball fan, but most especially he was an Atlanta Braves fan.  When the braves won approximately ten games a year, he was still there in front of the television cheering them on.  For me, watching baseball on t.v. had all the fun, excitement and glamour of watching grass grow.  I thought George Carlin had it right when he said baseball would be a lot more fun if randomly placed land mines were planted in the outfield--now there's excitement!

Pops was a die hard Braves fan, and the Braves play-by-play analyst during the 70's and 80's was a gentleman named Skip Carey.  Skip did have a very contagious personality and he could at least bring the least favorite fan of the sport an occasional smile.  He was also a legacy sports commentator.  His father, Harry Carey, wasn't just the voice of the Chicago Cubs, he was the Chicago Cubs!  And while my dad hated most things yankee, he felt some weird kinship for Harry Carey and the Cubs and would tune into WGN television anytime the Braves weren't playing to watch this yankee team in what I'm certain he considered to be a foreign country (She-car-go, as he would say).

So, every now and again, I would watch part of most of a game with my dad, and sometimes we would watch a Cubs game together.  He would always laugh at Harry singing Take Me Out to the Ball Game and comment on how horrible the yankee team was (a team not so different from his beloved Braves).  Etched into my memory was the thatched looking field, cut and cared for by some guy who took great pride in his work.  The famed ivy crawling up the back wall of Wrigley Field, the bleachers behind center field and the folks on the roof tops of buildings getting to watch games for free are a few of the memories I have of the Chicago Cubs.

And here I am, thirty years later, living in the Chicago suburbs with an opportunity to see the Cubs play.  I would like to add that I've seen the Braves play a few times, both at the old Fulton County Stadium (Dale Murphy, Phil Niekro, Glenn Hubbard, Raphael Rameriz) and at Turner Field (post 1996 Olympics).  I was also at the new Yankee Stadium the night Derek Jeter broke Lou Gherig's all time hit record.  So,with tickets in hand, I told my daughter Cassidy, step daughter Abby and her friend Emma to be ready to ride to Wrigleyville by 4:00 PM on the 26th of June.  We were going to witness a terrible Cubs team beat up on another New York team, the Mets.  When I told people the Cubs were going to win, I was taunted and laughed at.  After all, the Cubs aren't that good this year and conversely, the Mets aren't that bad.

I donned a University of Alabama t-shirt and hat because I wanted to blend in with the fanbase at Wrigley.  We hopped in my wife's car and drove the thirty miles to the stadium; a thirty mile drive that took us around two hours to complete.  The traffic was lovely.  We parked (I had a parking pass--win!) then walked a block to the stadium.  Upon seeing Wrigley Field I got all excited, kinda like a fat kid in a donut shop.  It was something to behold, what with all that history and all!  I knew my dad was looking down, living vicariously through his oldest and most favorite son who didn't really like baseball, but who wanted to do this for the both of us. 

We handed our tickets to one of the ticket-takers and walked into the old stadium.  Immediately I spotted a guy with a University of Alabama hat on, and almost as quickly I yelled out, "Roll Tide!"  (Note: for those currently living on Saturn, Roll Tide is the war chant Alabama fans scream during sporting events, especially Alabama football games.  It is also exclusively used as a greeting when addressing other Bama fans, or used as a taunt when meeting Auburn fans.)  In return for my famous greeting, approximately fifteen people standing around me broke out into "Roll Tide Roll!"  It did my heart good and for a moment I thought Coach Paul Bear Bryant might be resurrected and come strolling down the halls of Wrigley. 

After grabbing a hot dog for each, at seven bucks apiece--ouch--we worked our way up the ramp to find our seats on the second level.  We sat just above the third base line in perfect territory to catch a foul ball that might float our way.  Soon the Cubs took the field and I jumped into action by cheering and just going plain old stupid.  The girls shied away from me, hoping they wouldn't run into anyone they knew.  Several folks walked up to me and gave me a Roll Tide; life was good.

Some new kid named Rizzo made his major league debut and the three girls all talked about how cute he was.  I hate girls.  Why can't they focus on the sport?  Why do teenager girls have to be all silly, smelly and boy crazy?  Anyway.....

I got up from my seat and danced to the music between innings, at least I called what I was doing dancing.  The girls, I'm certain, had a different opinion or interpretation for what I was doing, but dance I did because I was having fun.  I purchased a four dollar bag of peanuts for the girls who inhaled them pretty quickly--and I thought boys could eat. 

The Cubs went down 0-2 in the first inning and I wasn't liking it one bit.  I had predicted a win for the Cubbies and would have to eat crow when I returned to work (I work on Chicago's southside, notoriously pro-White Sox).  The girls continued to talk about the players "hotness" factor while I remained focused on the game, dancing and cheering.  I glanced over to find the girls beginning to loosen up--they were dancing, albeit in their seats.  Ha!  Things were getting better!

Our team battled their way back into the game and were soon leading 3-2.  The game was looking up!  The lights came on as the sun went down, the smell of peanuts, hotdogs and stale beer wafted through the park.  A couple of locals began terrorizing a lone Mets fan by screaming "Mets suck!"  I'll be the first to admit I expected more originality from a Chicago native, but I laughed nonetheless.  A couple of other Mets fans put orange and blue wigs on their heads, which caused my anti-Auburn radar to go off.  I controlled myself, meditated for a moment and remembered where I was.  These weren't Auburn fans, but like a bull seeing red, I wanted to charge at the them, berating them publicly for such an indecent display! 

We moved into later innings and a guest sang Take Me Out to the Ball Park during the seventh inning stretch.  The girls were up singing and swaying to the music.  Success!  They were having a good time.  I laughed and sang with them, swaying rhythmically to the old tune. 

As we moved into the top of the ninth the Cubs were leading 5-3.  And as luck would have it, the Mets couldn't seal the deal and wound up losing by that same score.  Vindicated for my prediction, I knew I could return to work the next day with my head held high.  Additionally, the girls had a blast at the old ball game.

And finally, I found two Auburn fans to accost.  This was the greatest night I had had in a long time.

dashing like a warrior

I've been athletic my entire life but I've never been a fan of running, although I do occasionally push myself on a treadmill or jogging path just to maintain some semblance of health.  After years of football, competitive powerlifting and martial arts, I elected just to try to be "healthy," but my ego won't allow for any of that.  So, as a friend began talking about this "race" she ran in last year and how much fun it was, I acted completely disinterested, mainly because I was.  Then the ultimate comment found its way from her mouth to my ears, "You should do it with us next year; it's a great time!"

She had laid down the gauntlet and I was forced to run through it.  And while Vicky probably didn't intend this to be a challenge, I took it as one.  Realizing how badly I would suffer during the race, I began hitting the treadmill during the winter months.  When registration opened on-line I begrudgingly signed up and paid my entrance fee to the Warrior Dash.  There was no way I was going to be shown up by a girl, and as chauvinistic as that sounds, I meant it.

As luck would have it, I changed jobs with my company and the amount of time I could spend training dwindled considerably, until eventually the number of hours spent working accounted for almost all of my time spent awake.  With only a couple of weeks before the cross-country 5k obstacle course, I began plotting how I would bow out.  I could fake an injury or talk about how I had to work over the weekend.  Perhaps Father's Day would supersede the race, because after all, when I signed up I didn't realize the race would fall on such an important day. 

I got bombarded with texts and e-mails asking how my training was going and what time my race was by those that were signed up to go.  I avoided all communication, still unsure of how I was going to back out, and feeling rather slimy for my lack of dedication.  On Saturday morning I changed my mind and told Cathy I was going to run.  I made sure my life insurance policy was up to date and our health insurance would cover any injury I might sustain.

Cassidy (my youngest daughter) and I hopped on Scooter early Sunday morning and rode south toward the little town of Channahon, Illinois.  Once we exited the interstate, traffic immediately picked up as the race goers were steadily clamoring into the remote parking area.  We rode uphill in a corn field and finally found a half-way decent parking spot; a spot I hoped was firm enough to hold the bike up since it had rained considerably the night before.

We tentatively walked toward the sea of tents housing event workers.  I found the tent where I had to sign my waiver then walked to the tent to get my running number, which I found out is called a "bib" in running circles.  I asked for directions to the starting line, bought Cassidy a hot dog and something to drink and directed her to the finish line to wait for me.  In the back of my mind I was hoping this wouldn't be the last time I got to see Peanut.

Back at the start line I did a few stretches.  The summer sun was already beating down at 10:30 AM, as the forecast called for a high somewhere in the neighborhood of ninety degrees.  A group of us took off down the trampled path, the course having been tamped down by the previous day's runners as well as the early risers on Sunday.  At the half mile point my heart rate was up and a small creek loomed straight ahead.  Our small pack of runners trudged through the cool water, our feet now sloshing inside our shoes.  At the one mile mark, the first obstacle loomed--the belly crawl under barbed wire through a mud pit. 

Assuming the mud was slick, I dove under the barbed wire and into the pit.  Two things happened at that point: 1.) I quickly realized the mud was very sticky rather than slick which prevented me from sliding, and 2.) landing the way I did on my front somehow resulted in my right testicle getting slammed between my body and Mother Earth.  I immediately rolled over on my back seizing my groin and groaning in pain.  No one seemed to notice or care that I was on the verge of vomiting in the mud pit, so I caught my breath, turned over on my side and belly crawled out, all the while my testicle screaming "stop!"

Upon exiting the sticky mud barbed wire thingee, I doubled over to catch my breath.  I'm sure most assumed I was already winded from the run; on the contrary, I was trying to get my testicle out of my throat.  The agony continued and got a little worse during my jog.  Obviously, I wasn't wearing a jock strap and the jostling about caused more discomfort.  Eventually, though, the pain subsided a little and I was able to refocus on the course just in time for the next obstacle--Mortimer's Crossing--a rope bridge with a single rope at its base.  We hovered only a few feet above ground, but our feet were muddy and traction was at a premium.  Fortunately, I didn't have a mishap, got across the bridge and jogged on.

The first water station was just beyond Mortimer's Crossing and I gulped happily then poured water on my sweat soaked and muddy head.  I think my testicle had swelled to approximately the size of a baseball and the pain would come and go between steps.  Onward I pressed, jogging a few more minutes before coming to the Vicious Valley--interconnected walls of plywood, each wall angled at approximately thirty-five degrees to form a "V."  Inside the walls were 2 x 4's one nailed to each wall to provide some footing as you duck walked across a few feet off the ground.  I traversed this obstacle easily and jumped to the ground almost three feet below.  My testicle screamed at me, and I, in turn, screamed back!  That hurt, but pain, as the Marines say, is fear leaving the body.  Currently, I had a lot of fear being left in this meadow.

The sun continued to bake my pasty white skin and the salty sweat from my forehead dripped relentlessly into my eyes.  I now had to walk a small parcel in order to slow my heartbeat, which was pulsing somewhere in the neighborhood of 60,000 beats per minute.  My testicle really hurt.

A small rock wall called "Vertical Limit" was up next.  Another easy obstacle for me, although I noticed several folks struggling because of the mud and water on the hand grips and foot holds.  I shimmied up the wall to find a pole on the other side, which stood to be slid down by participants with no pain in their loins.  I reached out and gingerly wrapped a leg around the post not caring if the heat baked the inside of my knee and thigh, just so long as the pole didn't come in contact with my friends down below.  I navigated this one successfully, smiled, then grimaced and took off again.

I managed through several other obstacles, up and down muddy slopes (some weren't so fortunate and had to be carted off in ambulances because of broken and twisted ankles and dehydration), finally coming to a small muddy creek.  The muddy creek quickly became a rocky creek, which turned into an overly muddy slope with ropes dangling down to help runners get to the top.  I watched a runner, who had around his neck a digital camera, fall on his chest, subsequently breaking said camera and knocking the wind out of him.  I chuckled because I'm mean like that, and seeing someone else get hurt took my mind off my aching testicle, so I laughed harder, an evil chuckle rivaled only by Vincent Price on Michael Jackson's Thriller album. 

Eventually, after slipping numerous times on the way to the top, I reached the summit and saw the Cargo Climb.  This is the wall of meshed ropes used in the military to train America's finest.  I caught my breath, overcome with exhaustion, my testicle feeling as though it would fall off my body, and scurried up and over the ropes, leaped across two small pits of fire, then jumped feet first into the last obstacle--the "Muddy Mayhem," a pit filled with water and mud about three feet deep.  I coasted and swam through the muck, the pit approximately fifty yards long, until I was able to gain my footing on an extremely muddy and slick field just before the finish line.  I watched one guy fall and slide right in front of me and as I hovered over him, I broke into my umpire impression and screamed and signaled, "Safe!"  He looked as though he wanted to punch me, but knew better because it would have turned into a guy-on-guy mud rassling event, and who wants to see that?  Besides, the pain in my testicle was giving me so much grief, I probably would have gone all Mike Tyson on him and simply bitten his ear right off.

I crossed the finish line where Cassidy was waiting on me, a huge smile on her face.  She laughed at the site of her daddy covered with mud then snapped a picture of me before I found the hose to rinse myself off.  Will I do this again?  Oh yeah!  Next year my hope is to leave injury free--my testicle has also put in that request.

A business of our own

The wife and I often throw around ideas by which we might become independently wealthy or at least independently independent.  If you look at your current situation, and you work for "the man" or the "woman" you are essentially co-dependent, due largely in part because you depend on the company for sustenance.  This is absolutely fine for those folks who have no problem with working for someone, abiding by somelse's rules and being told when/where you have to work.  As a matter of fact, I'm a lover of those who create jobs for others.  It's just that at this point in my life I have a desire to branch out and try a few things on my own. 

Without giving our double top secret plans away, I've gone through a process of elimination when it comes to my future career possibilities.  Below is a list, which isn't comprehensive by any stretch of the imagination, of those career choices I've scratched from my "maybe" list:

• Chippendale dancer--can you say Chris Farley?  My six pack abs are in hibernation but the possibility of dancing brought about by "man-scaping" has made this plausible.
• Astronaut--this was a possibility until someone told me I had to have above average math skills.  Scratch.
• Police officer--this sounded cool until my run-in with the state trooper in Indianapolis.  I can't be a douche like that guy.  Next.
• Doctor--I have to be smart.  Ain't happening.
• Actor--I have to be skinny and an idiot.  I'm halfway there.  Winning!
• Lawn service owner--my Spanish sucks.
• Wal-Mart greeter--I admire these people and wouldn't mind giving it a go, but I would probably get in trouble for telling people they can't enter the store "dressed like that."
• Master brewer--this one caught my attention and I'm keeping it on my radar.
• Lead guitarist/singer in my own band--I wanted to do this, but I can't play or sing.
• Poet--I was told that bathroom lymrics weren't recognized as "poetic."  But I say they've never heard me recite, "They paint these walls to cover my pen....."
• Cult leader--I can't sit still long enough to prophesy.
• Politician--I have to be full of crap and have lots of skeletons in my closet.  Hhhmmmm.........
• Fireman--this was a possibility, but when I attempted to negotiate only fighting fires between nine in the morning to five in the afternoon I was asked to leave the firehouse.
• Weatherman--I actually got a screen test, but couldn't stop repeating myself everytime I said, "hook echo." 
• State road employee--I can't quite figure out what fifteen of these guys do while one actually works, so I don't know what qualifications to put on my resume.
• CIA agent--I was cool with this until I was told I had to keep a secret.  Dang it.
• President of a large bank--I have a conscious and couldn't screw people out of their money.
• Master carpenter--I love building things but struggle getting corners squared.
• Electrician--I got laughed at during the interview when I kept touching the end of the wire and quickly withdrawing my hand because I simply wanted to make sure the wire wasn't live.

As I stated above, this list is not comprehensive by any means, but I figured I needed a list, recognize my own faults, flaws and limitations then begin eliminating those careers that don't necessarily fit.

Scooter

For those who follow my blog, you know I enjoy writing about my life, the funny things I encounter along the way, my personal interpretations of "things" that I find humorous and interesting and hilarious discussion or dialogue.  Riding my motorcycle is very theraputic for me; most of the time riding lacks much humor, nor does it allow me to engage in any sort of discussion.  What riding does allow me to do is to clear my mind and enjoy Americana, experiencing it through all senses, something cages (what bikers call closed in vehicles) will not.  Many times, though, there has been some funny dialogue that took place on rides when I've stopped to get gas, stay overnight somewhere or simply slowing down because there's contstruction work going on.  The book I'm still working on details a couple of those adventures and some of the events of those rides, but today I had a chance to think back on some of the more humorous things that have happened or been said while on the open road.

My buddy Kerry Lee has consistently given me a hard time because Scooter (the name I've given my bike) is Japanese made.  Harley Davidson riders always give the "rice burners" difficulty through good natured ribbing and Kerry takes every advantage of the opportunity with me--primarily because I'm a class A smart ass and wear him out at all costs.  I don't blame him one bit for taking what most would consider an easy shot at me, but while he and I were riding through the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee he lost the baffles from his 2002 Harley Davidson Heritage Softail Classic.  The baffles are placed inside tail pipes on motorcycles and both muffle and change a bike's sound and are largely responsible for the musical roar you hear while bikers throttle their engines.  While we were riding his somehow came loose and flew out of the tail pipe.  When we stopped at a traffic light he was obviously embarrassed and upset at the sound of his machine, not to mention the bike's riding performance.  Not wanting to miss an opportunity to give Kerry some grief I glanced over at him, seeing his head hanging low to avoid the confused stares proffered by curious onlookers, and said with a straight face, "Hey, your bike sounds like a rice burner.  I know a good mechanic if you need one."  With that I erupted into laughter and we rode on, his bike sounding like a sick and dying big horned sheep, Kerry fuming at my wise crack.

While riding through New Orleans Kerry Lee and I decided to stay the night and hang out in the French Quarter.  We were in a club on Bourbon Street and I told him I had to go to the restroom but would be back in a minute.  Upon my return, I found him making out with a chick.  This chick was a parapelegic and bound to a wheelchair.  I was flabbergasted and felt my body going into shock, as I was certain he was probably breaking at least twenty laws even though we were in Louisiana.  Ugh.

During another ride, Kerry and I were in Destin, Florida and had spent a gruelling day in and out of construction.  The temperature was somewhere north of hotter than the hinges of hell but things were looking up as we exited a construction zone and traversed a bridge.  On the bay below a "fishing rodeo" was taking place.  By fishing rodeo, this meant hundreds of boats and thousands of girls in bikinis.  I was twisting in and out of traffic to get a look at the scene in the salty inlet when I noticed a set of red and blue lights erupt behind me.  I received a ticket from the most pissed off cop you could ever imagine to meet.  He was approximately four feet nothing and had obviously been bullied while in high school; now it was his time to get even with the world.  "Do you know how fast you were riding," he screamed at me?! 

"Nope, but I'm pretty sure you're about to tell me," I replied, hoping he would find my retort funny.  On the contrary, I earned a ticket for speeding and riding in the state of Florida with no helmet because I couldn't produce proof of $10,000 worth of medical liability insurance.  It's true--look it up.  When I gave the officer my medical insurance card, which didn't provide the amount of liability insurance I was covered up to, he inquired as to the amount.  "Well, if you'll call that 1-800 number on the back, sir (I was attempting to be polite after he obviously didn't find me funny), you'll see that I'm covered up to....."  He didn't give me a chance to finish. 

"Do I look like your GD (you know the abbreviation) secretary?"

"Tell ya what officer, why don't you go ahead and write that ticket," I replied?

While riding through Kentucky several years ago with my good friend Becky, I accidentally sprayed her with some very disgusting spittle, as she rode her bike just behind me.  This was during my chewing tobacco years and riding a motorcyle never deterred my from putting a wad of Red Man in my mouth.  She didn't find my spit funny at all, but I cackled.  As I look back on it (and especially since I've stopped smokeless tobacco) I see her side of the issue. 

Just today, on our ride from the Chicago suburbs to Beloit, Wisconsin, my wife, who never, ever sweats, remarked, "My butt is soaked."  The outdoor temperature was 90+ degrees and much hotter than that on the open highway.  I laughed all the way to the state line. 

There's been a ton of adventures and generally funny stuff that's happened while I've ridden across this great country.  These are just a sampling of the stories that reminded me of a time......

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part V

Saturday evening brought about an end to this Bama journey but left me with an indelible taste for the state in general and the area in particular.  Cathy and I are both counting the days until our next trip and now recognize our new house as our home. 
A few other memorable moments from the trip:

• Meeting our next door neighbors who are exceptionally nice and polite.  Danny told us, when asked where we live and where we were from (and upon my telling him Marshall County is home), "Once you get Sand Mountain between your toes you always come back."
• We had a couple of bonfires while we were there and the kids roasted hot dogs and made smores. 
• We met Molly, the neighbor's dog, who will be the subject of a later writing. 
• I got to see friends and family that I haven't seen in a long time.  And I hope it'll be a long time before I see some of them again.
• We saw numerous turtles coming out of the lake making their annual pilgrimage to lay their eggs away from the water and natural predators.  Many of them made their way through our yard; apparently they weren't aware they were trespassing.
• Alabama drivers are still the worst in the country; glad to see some things haven't changed.
• I've learned that I've lost some of my patience for the pace of the South--I hope to correct this very soon.
• Alabamians love my wife but strangers don't want to talk to the yankee.
• I didn't get a ticket in Indiana, nor did I see the Indiana state trooper in the white undercover Dodge pick-up truck.
• Wintzell's has really good food.
• I'm getting tired of Cracker Barrel.
• I'm really tired of Lowe's.
• I'm really, really tired of hanging blinds and curtain rods.

This concludes my five part Bama Trip series.  Can't wait for the next road romp!

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part IV

Okay look--by Wednesday I was worn slap out, sunburned, dehydrated and wanting to do absolutely nothing.  I was going to lay down the law with the wife and tell her right quick that I wasn't working on that particular day.

As a result I went to Lowe's with her, helped pick out curtain rods, hit a few other stores and prepared to install both the curtain rods and blinds.  As I've told you all before: I wear the pants in the family....she just tells me which pair to wear.

With a ratcheting screw driver in hand, I hung what seemed like four or five hundred curtain rods.  In all actuality I put up about ten of them, but I cranked on that screw driver until I thought my hand and elbow would fall off.  I put beds together while Cathy continued putting stuff up in the house.  I was amazed at how quickly she managed to organize and situate things.  If only I could get her to hang up curtain rods I would have had it made. 

We had a security system put in and this good looking muscular kid showed up to install it.  Cassidy, Abby and my wife ogled the guy while I did the weed eating on Thursday.  Whatever keeps them occupied I reckon; I just wanted to take enough time weed eating that I wouldn't be given another task.  Hopefully the security system guy would strike a few hundred double biceps poses for the girls so I would be left alone.

Friday came and Cathy told me to take the day off.  I decided to go fishing and ran to our local Wal-Mart to buy some crickets and worms.  I asked my next door neighbor if I could fish off their pier and she agreed.  She agreed because I told her if she wouldn't let me fish off it, I would be asking her husband to build me one.  Laughing, she told me to go ahead.  The millfoil was so thick the fish didn't get to awful close to my bait, resulting in a lot of drowned crickets and worms but no bream.  I also saw a cloud blowing up so I packed it up and walked back to the house.  Cathy asked how the fishing had gone?  "Not too good."  "Oh," she replied, "why don't you edge the driveway?" 

I had never understood why husbands beat their wives.....until now.

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part III

Cathy worked diligently in the house to get things put away and organized.  I sat around and moaned about how sore I was after unloading all of our crap.  We stayed at Mom's Sunday night but moved to our new home Monday evening and met my friends Rachel and Tonya for dinner.  We got to see friends and I got to eat.  It was a win/win.

Monday saw the dawn of a new era for us--the Lowe's Era.  If we made one trip to Lowe's we made a thousand.  By the end of the week I was on speaking terms with just about every employee, knew something about most of them and probably knew a few of their kin folks.  Had there been an opportunity to run for President of Lowe's I would have been a front runner because it seemed like I politiced as much as I purchased, which was a lot.

Tuesday we had the stuff we had ordered from Lowe's delivered to the house.  Specifically, my new riding mower showed up.  I gave the instruction manual a cursory glance, threw it aside and cranked ole girl up.  The transmission wouldn't engage but my temper did--I was not happy.  For ten minutes I fiddled with the mower, actually read the manual and gradually became more frustrated.  Finally, in a huff, I got off Big Green fully prepared to give it a kick when I noticed a metal "bar" sticking out the lower bottom of the mower.  Alongside the bar was a diagram depicting the engagement of the transmission (I just had to push the bar in).  In my defense, it wasn't outlined in the manual, which made me even madder.

I hopped back on Big Green and proceded to mow.....and mow.......and mow.  When I got tired of mowing, I mowed some more.....and more....and more.  My skin tone was now a beautiful crimson, which ironically matches my favorite football team's colors.  My skin hurt like Donte' Hightower had just sacked me for a twenty yard loss.  The bugs ate on me like a bucktoothed kid would chew on a cob of corn.  I stank like a dumpster.  But at the end of the day I had mowed five and a half acres of land (with help from Harvey, my step-pops). 

I took a shower and my wife asked if I wanted to go to Lowe's because we needed something else.  I wondered if I would get the house in the divorce.

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part II

I awoke just outside Nashville, Tennessee and looked over at my wife who had taken on the chore of driving around O' My God Early.  Her eyes were beginning to glaze over but she continued on like the trooper she is, however, I didn't want her to drive through Nash-Vegas because of the multiple switchbacks on I-65 (if you've ever driven through Nashville you know exactly what I'm talking about).  She could certainly handle the drive, but I didn't want to subject her to unfamiliar roads while she was that tired, so I asked her to pull over so I could take the wheel. 

I got us through Nasty-ville and across the Alabama state line.  We pulled over at the rest stop on 65; you know, the one with the rocket.  Once again I was fighting sleep deprivation so Cathy agreed to get us to my mom's house.  She's just awesome like that.

We finally arrived at mom's place around 5:45 AM on Saturday, got a couple of hours of sleep then got up to head to a family reunion.  I had forgotten what it was like to be at one of my family reunions and laughed at the lunacy that is a redneck gathering (rather sophisticated rednecks, if you will).  I surveyed the family asking if anyone was interested in helping me unload our moving POD later in the day.  No luck!  Yep, they were already treating me like family.  Actually, I did have a cousin step up and say he would help, so that's cool (and I know he's probably reading this so he would have called me out anyway).

After destroying one of the seven deadly sins (gluttony) at the reunion, we put the car on Highway 431 southbound for our new home.  The day of reckoning had officially arrived!  When we pulled up to the house, the POD had been gingerly placed, part of my long driveway cracked and broken under its weight.  "Wonderful," I thought, "something else to fix and pay for."  We unlocked the house and opened the POD to find everything as we had packed it--crammed to the POD gills.  Much to my surprise, two of my uncles and one of my aunts showed up to help!  Had I not been so manly, I would have cried.  Instead, I jumped into the POD and began handing them really, really heavy boxes and furniture before they changed their minds.  Did I mention it was ninety-six freaking degrees and around 1000% humidity? 

We got everything unloaded pretty quickly and moved into the house where Cathy wanted it.  Couches, chairs, tables, beds, some very heavy bedroom furniture, desks, etc. were placed with care.  I couldn't have asked for better help; my mom and step-dad had jumped into the fray to help too. 

After finishing the unpacking and telling my extended family thanks and bidding them farewell, I took some time to survey our property.  The grass had only been cut once since March and was now around mid-shin height in some areas while other areas were overgrown to the point of being renamed the Upton Rainforest Preserve.  This was going to be fun to mow--insert sarcasm--but unfortunately my mower wouldn't arrive until Tuesday.  This gave me a couple of days for the wife and I to get the house in order before tackling the five plus acres of hay and faux wheat.

And thus began my two hundred trips to Lowe's.  You know why Lowe's knows?  Because you have to go there so often!