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.