F*** Off! I'm trying to breathe!

Nobody strolls anymore.

I think strolling went out about the time pet rocks took over the impulse-buy racks at the supermarkets. Remember Atticus Finch strolling with Jem and Scout past Boo's house and all the wonderful education that happened on that slow walk past the scary tree? There's no time for walking and education anymore. Much like the separation of religion and education, we now have a wonderfully pragmatic canyon between education and walking.

People are becoming genetically predispositioned to not be able to walk without placing little thingies in their ears. Generations ago, 'buds' either referred to the pre-flower part of a plant or the dried flakes you mixed with hot water to magically make mashed potatoes appear. Then, sometime in the late 60's or early 70's, 'buds' referred to something a bit more magical and mystical, something to be grown covertly in your shoe closet- away from your parents and dog - and shared (i.e. sold) to your friends.

Now, somehow, 'buds' have become metallic listening devices that have nothing to do with plants (edible or smokable) and pump music of all varieties into our ears. Without these remarkable little technological miracles, it seems we wouldn't be able to ambulate at all. Like the vestigial coccyx and appendix- remember them? didn't think so!- it seems our sense of putting one foot in front of the other and getting somewhere has disappeared. Because of our technological advanced-ness, we forgot how to walk on our own!

Walking has become a competitive sport. We buy spandex walking suits, eighty dollar walking shoes, designer hydration systems, and of course the imperative mp3 players with earbuds. We can't just walk out the front door and head up the street anymore. People would stare. We've got to drive to the trail so we can maximize our steps, ensuring the best step-to-calory-burning ratio. I believe that in our wisdom it must have been proven somewhere that fat burns off our bodies much more readily when we're pounding new government-paved pavement in an outfit that costs over two hundred bucks. Our fat has obviously mutated into some ultra-finicky beast that resists the old school cotton shirt and Converse with tube socks.

There's no room for conversation in walking. And don't even think about walking for pleasure. If you're not maximizing your stride and pushing twenty minutes into your optimal cardio-zone, you're wasting your time. If you want to socialize, get a phone and text like everyone else is doing. Don't even try to walk like your grandpa used to, clasping both hands behind his back, leaning forward a little, and stopping at every Dogwood to check on the buds (remember- we don't have those anymore) just before they bloomed. The miracles of nature can be clearly documented by well-paid videographers who'll put together a fantastic thirty-minute, slow-motion super high definition montage of flowers blooming that you can watch from the comfort of your Lazy Boy. There's no time for nature on walks. Nature should be put where it belongs - on TV. Walking is for one purpose and one purpose only - showing off expensive walking clothes.

I learned all these lessons, that are apparently blatantly obvious to all others, as I learn most of my life-learnings- the bluntly hard way. Some of us can look around and discern one or two things by observation or at least osmosis. It seems I can't.

Case in point:

Keri and I walk almost nightly. I observe all the above-notated realities of the walking world regularly. I hear the Hyper-bass pounding from earbuds as a set of well-toned legs scoots past me in some sort of slithery choreography. I see the perspiration-wicking ultra fabrics and plyo-plex boingy-bottom Italian walking shoes spring past me as I clamber along the asphalt.

But I persist in my pedantory stubborness, sporting the same washer-eaten tee shirt and beat-down tennis shoes I've walked, run, and mowed the lawn in for years. I wear my clothes like I drive my cars. If they're paid for, run the hell out of them until they send up a white flag and then THINK ABOUT getting something new. So I walk and try to do all the wrong things like look at stuff and have conversations.

Big mistake.

We were 'pushing it' up this ginormous hill we call everything from "the beast" to "that bastard of a hill" to "the widowmaker." I was looking at stuff. Keri was feeling the burn and maximizing her cardio. I was thinking about how cool it would be to pull back a branch from the woods next to us and see Sasquatch taking a dump. Keri was thinking about how freaking hot is was that day. We got to the top of the hill, and I did the absolute wrong thing. I had a thought that I shared out loud.

"Hey, honey. Did I ever tell you about the time I was running this trail, and I saw that guy whipping a frisbee golf frisbee across this whole field?"

I didn't look at her cause my scattered mind was already trying to figure out how far it was to the end of the field. I figured she was right there with me, so I continued.

"Well, this guy is just absolutely hammering these throws. I mean it must be at least a couple hundred yards. How far do you think it...???"

Then she decided to engage in the conversation.

"F*** off! I'm trying to breathe!!!"

Apparently her cardio had been maximized, and she was feeling the burn. She gave me that look that reminded me I had broken all of the cardinal rules of walking. I wasn't focused on my cardio. I was thinking of stuff. Shame on me!

She must have seen the shock on my face, so she punched my lovingly in the arm (with her non-ring finger, which always tells me she's just lovin' on me.) And, being the ridiculously stubborn non-learner type that I am, I took that as my cue to have another conversation with her.

"Ha! You kind of sounded like one of the Commitments there! This could be a scene from some sort of wild 80's hybrid movie of the Commitments starring in Vision Quest or something! You could be this cussaholic cute Irish chick from the slums of Dublin who sings and trains to wrestle against...."

...and so it went. Me, continuing to bask in the ignorance of my non-21st century-walking ways. Keri, forever putting up with my unremovable backward habits and loving me even while she maximized her cardio. That's what love's all about really, isn't it - being stuck in the backwoods of life with the one you love, while the superhighway of life breezes by you scant inches away, and you just look at it and say: "F*** off! I'm trying to breathe here!"

When the dog bites, when the bee stings... a few of my least favorite things.

I've been scared of various things, off and on, throughout my life. My fears have varied in degree of severity from the completely inane and ridiculous to the more recognizable fears of psychologically damaging events. Some of those fears that would inhabit the former list were childhood fears of my six-year-old friends finding out that I was playing kitchen with the girl down the street (and I made her run out the back when they'd ring the bell in the front!) and the fear that my mom forgot to put my pudding cup in my Happy Days lunch box. Some of the fears occupying the latter list would include my more serious fears of getting outbid on eBay and being attacked to death by killer bugs.

No, wait!

I know you're used to reading the gobbledigook on these pages and thinking, "Oh, that guy. He's such a kidder."

But this is different. I am really afraid of getting waylaid by killer bugs. It's something that grips me viscerally and tears at my innards viciously and relentlessly at the worst times. (And this innard-tearing action is, of course, how killer bugs will one day do me in.)

This completely rational fear started like most lifelong, deeply-rooted and psychologically significant fears start: with a game of barefoot wiffleball in the hazardous backyard of suburbia. I pitched one of my almost-patented sidewinder-uppercut balls and landed smack dab on a honeybee. I lifted my foot, and there he was, doing the Curly Shuffle around his stinger on my sole. I flicked him off, pulled the stinger out, and thought I better go put some ice on it.

It didn't hurt all that badly. But within a few minutes my foot was the size of a Big Bird slipper; and after about a half hour, my body was infested with madly itching red hives from head to toe. When my breathing started getting funny, I went and found my dad, who luckily had only downed a few Falstaff's while he was watching golf and agreed to drive me to the ER.

I don't remember much after that, except the ER doc said he was going to give me one shot that would speed me up a little, then another that would slow me WAY down. He wasn't lying. I was drooling in a matter of seconds and my last lucid memory of the day was of my dad laughing at my incontinence.

That was a long time ago. But in all those years, I've maintained a healthy dose of fearful respect for my little six-legged and winged stinging nemeses. I even carried epi-pens everywhere for years and years until I realized that the only thing I was allergic to was honeybees. I've been stung without consequence by plenty of wasps and yellowjackets since then, but only in small doses. So, as I tucked more years (and cheeseburgers) under my belt, I lost a little of the panicked fear I displayed when a bee would fly into an open car window. (Ever see a six-foot-two guy trying to drive from the passenger seat?)

All that changed recently. Any loss of respect for all things with a stinger was regained in scores as I made my way around the front yard with the recently-repaired mower. Life was great! The sun was shining. Bills were paid. Dog was fed and to my knowledge wasn't pooping or peeing anywhere in the house. It didn't get much better than this.

What I didn't know was that there was a subversive plot underway, scant inches from my proposed path of calculated lawn maintenance. After the de-traumatizing process and revisiting the scene of the havoc, I've pieced together the most probable sequence of events and will share them with you as follows:

Sometime in the recent past, a small and unidentified band of world-hating yellowjackets took up residence under the rotted-out wooden beams surrounding the much-hated evergreen bushes in my front yard. There they recruited and reproduced their brood, turning it into an ever-increasing, mildly-controlled mob of black and yellow ominousness. They trained in silence, zipping carefully to and from the local flower beds and wooden siding, nectaring in inauspicious anonymity, right under our very noses.

Neighbors saw them, and - thinking they were typical 'flower pollinating insects'- left them alone to help nature and all those ecological, politically appropriate things people are supposed to do. So, as we worried about things like global warming and how to maximize our Steak 'n Shake coupons, they were plotting, planning, conniving, and generally pumping themselves up for an attack so heinous - so devastating - it would rock the foundations of life as we (or at least I) know it.

Unbeknownst to me, this subversive, swarming cell of malcontents were plotting to drive me out of my house in one horrible, devastating, epic strike of terror against me, right in my own front yard during broad daylight, and in front of loved ones and friends alike. After long minutes of focused research, I've theorized on the probable cause for this attack: Take over one house in the heart of suburbia, grow their numbers to the billions silently and unobserved from the confines of what once were my living room and sock drawers, and then push out southward, probably to Destin, Florida, where all my neighbors go on vacation, ruining life as we all know it.

When D-Day arrived, I was completely unaware. It was Pearl Harbor revisited on a lawn of overgrown, almost green zoysia. I mowed contentedly along the perimeter of my yard, getting as close as I could to every edge and wall to minimize any weed-whacking, which would have to wait a week because I forgot to buy more line at Home Depot. After my first pass over their hidden murderous headquarters, they swarmed into action, pulsing like the killer mass they were, just under the strip of lawn I had mowed. They waited patiently, a black and yellow mob of seething death. When I returned, they signalled the attack buzz.

I couldn't hear them over the sound of the mower and the guitar solo to Detroit Rock City, which I was humming loudly to myself.

They attacked without mercy. They swarmed over me without me even knowing they were there. I felt something painful under my sunglass arm, reached up and - realizing it was a bee of some kind - hit myself in the head so hard my precious prescription sunglasses (which I nurse like a ten dollar shot of Patron) were sent flying somewhere unknown and uncared-about. Suddenly, pain shot up my leg. I looked down and there they were, the main attack squadron, dive bombing my leg just above my work boot (which I wear to avoid any mower-related toe injuries, which I know from personal experience of a past neighbor, is NO fun.) I swatted and they pursued the attack. Wave after wave of the sinister beasts came from the ground and headed for Objective 1 (ME!). I couldn't hit them off fast enough. They were literally stinging the HELL out of me.

Fearing for my life against a formless, swarming mob, I did what any red-blooded suburban lawn-mowing guy would do. I ran like hell through the garage and into my kitchen. (Apparently the YouTube version of my escape has been kindly documented and posted as "Suburban Moron Dances Like Idiot Over a Few Bugs.)

Eyewitness reports from my wife reveal that upon entering the kitchen I was yelling incoherently and possibly in a foreign tongue. When she arrived, apparently she thought my gall bladder had burst, or maybe I had just won the lottery but lost the ticket or something of that nature. After staring at me for a few moments, I gathered myself and told her I had just had the CRAP stung out of me.

"Oh, my God! What should I do?!?" she screamed.

"Ice!"

She put a couple measly cubes into a Ziplock. I proceeded to attempt to tend to about a thousand red welts with a tiny packet of two cubes, which were already half melted from my feverish post-attack heat.

"OH MY GOD! THERE'S A BEEEEE!" She yelled and pointed, dancing kind of like Wilma Flintstone when Fred would run into a stone wall and knock himself out. And yep, there was another one, digging into the back of my calf.

I flicked him off. He left his stinger in me as a reminder of the devastating can of whoop-ass they opened on me today. I watched him circle helplessly on the linoleum at my boot, his kamikaze mission accomplished for the greater glory of the hive.

"Die, you son-of-a-bitch," I thought as I moved my first aid cubes from one part of my body to another. "Die."

"Oh, honey! Kill it! Kill it!" she yelled. Writhing in pain and near death myself, I looked at her and sighed. I stepped on it, but it kept slipping into the waffled bottom. After several failed attempts, she got me a paper towel, and I squished the life out of it.

I figured I better inventory the rest of my parts, and sure enough I found another one lurking in my sock, waiting patiently for the second wave of attacks.

"Oh, honey..." she said, giving me that look that said something was seriously wrong with me (which I usually got when she didn't like the outfit I was going to wear out that night.) "What can I get you? A benadryl? I don't think we have any? How about one of those other things we have, you know, those one things we use for..."

"Just get me a beer."

"Huh? A beer? Do you think you sh..."

"Please. Just get me a beer." By this time my leg felt like it had a hundred Chinese guys doing acupuncture on it from knee to ankle. My head was throbbing above my ear. And I realized that I had a stinger stuck in the palm of my right hand below the thumb, which felt like it was the size of the Keep On Truckin' bumper stickers from the 70's. I figured booze was good enough for those Civil War soldiers that had to get a gangrenous leg chopped off, so getting drunk seemed like a genetically appropriate choice to prepare myself for whatever God-awful things were going to happen to me.

She got me one, and one more ice bag. (By the way, Ziplocks leak.) The beer was inhaled in about ten swallows, and by that time, I needed it. The right side of my body felt like an atomic pincushion. But I flashed back to my younger years and the honeybee incident, and realized I wasn't covered in hives and my breathing wasn't becoming all Darth Vaderish, so I figured I wasn't going to die.

"Oh, honey, you should go to Urgent Care."

"Pffffft. I'm fine. It just hurts a little. I'll be fine. How about another beer?"

"But I seriously think you should let me take you to Urgent Care. You're pretty messed up." By this point, even the dog was letting me know I was in bad shape. Typically upon entering the kitchen, he'd be slinking between my legs, tripping my every step, and divebombing my crotch and tailfins with excitement. Right now, he was hiding behind Keri and looking up forlornly at me through his Marty Feldman eyes.

I guess as a man I have an anti-UrgentCare gene blasted into my DNA or something, because the only thing that would have gotten me to Urgent Care then was a second attack of those little horrible black and yellow things chasing me there. So she relented and got me another beer, shaking her head and mumbling wifely things under her breath.

So, with typical male stubbornness, I forced myself through the rest of the day in ridiculous amounts of pain. Ridiculous, mostly, because it came as a result of a stupid little bug the size of my pinky nail (which just happened to be one of the few pain-free parts of my body.)

But, also in typical male-ness, I had one great dose of sanity left. Like Willem Dafoe in Platoon, bullet ridden and trying desperately to make it to the chopper alive, I stumbled my way into the garage. The sun had set on this day of infamy, and I - hero if only to my little patch of suburbia - vowed to leave the last mark. So, as Doolittle prepared his bombers to strike at the heart of the Japanese war machine in the first post-Pearl Harbor counterattack, I grabbed my can of Spectracide Hornet and Wasp Killer and stalked to the enemy's lair.

Reading the directions through venom-swollen eyes, I shook the can vigorously. Under the phosphorescent glow of the front porch light, I glided silently upon the hole at the bottom of the wooden beam. Taking aim, I squeezed my non-swollen thumb against the trigger and unleashed hell upon the unsuspecting infidels. The white stream pounded into their den. I pictured the liquid death tidal-waving down the tunnel, into the main hive, killing everything in its path. I visualized the filthy, segmented-body vermin gasping for life-affirming air, only to find none. And when I thought they'd had enough, just to honor the memory of my good health that morning, I let them have another round. And another.

The next morning, before painfully succumbing to Keri's "I told you so's" and letting her drive me to Urgent Care, I inspected the bombing zone of the night before. There outside the opening of the terror cell, lay scattered, battle-torn bodies of several yellow jackets. If you disapprove of my anti-ecological counter strike against those God-hating heathens, then get the hell off my blog.

I'm heading out again tonight after dark with the well shaken can for a second counter-strike.

The Long and Blinding Road

I've accepted Jesus H. Christ as my own personal Lord and Savior.

It didn't take me long, really. I've been surrounded by his teachings and logic since I was a wee lad. (Dad: "Jesus H. Christ get your finger out of your nose already!") His philosophies have permeated the fabric of my existence. (Driver's Ed Instructor: "Jesus H. Christ! Who the hell taught you how to drive?!?") And I've been able to pass along the teachings to my offspring, beginning early in their formative years. (Me changing a diaper: "Jesus H. Christ! What the hell did you eat for dinner???")

Thanks to these early and gutterally powerful messages, I've always maintained a close relationship with Jesus H. Christ. (I've also attempted to gain insight into his spiritual peer, Sam Hill, but I've been thwarted in most of those attempts. It seems Sam Hill's teachings are a bit more enigmatic, and most of his teachings are left more open-ended... "What in the Sam Hill....?") Because of this deeply powerful awareness of the 'something more' out there, I've been intrinsically dedicated to pursuing my own personal journey.

I realize that many people use their blogs as a forum for outlining and highlighting their own personal journeys to find faith, themselves, or a greater meaning in life. In an effort to not shortchange either of my two readers, I'll relinquish my privacy and upend the stone walls of my lifelong silence on the matter.

Honestly, I've been taking my own personal journey for the better part of my adult life. And I've been taking it barefoot. I find shoes very restricting most of the time, especially on personal journeys. Sure I've stepped on lots of sharp pebbles, some broken glass, and one unfortunate newt. But the important thing is, I'm finding myself.

I pity those that can't find themselves. I've been finding myself for years now. Interestingly enough, I usually find myself in the bathroom. I love the bathroom. Nobody ever follows me in there, except the dog, who follows everyone everywhere, regardless of their religious beliefs or personal journey status. The bathroom is a wonderfully private place where I can collect my thoughts in solitude, or maybe exclaim "Jesus H. Christ!" or "What the Sam Hill is that???" without interfering in others' personal journeys or beliefs.

I'm finding myself in all sorts of other places too. Recently I found myself at the service station looking over the car-repair bill and again praising the name of Jesus H. Christ. I found myself loitering in Best Buy and Borders; I found myself between two incredibly tall drunk guys at urinal row at the bar; and I even found myself late for work one day when I overslept after a late night of blogging. No matter, though. It's all a step on my barefoot journey through this thing I call life.

And ultimately, because of my podiatrically painful journey, I have arrived at answers to many of life's questions. I read constantly about 'wise men' and 'sages' who spend the entirety of their lives pondering the great mysteries of life. Well, maybe if they'd have taken their shoes off, they'd have gotten the answers sooner, like I did.

Let me enlighten you with the answers to some of life's eternal questions, deemed 'unanswerable' by so many for so long:
"What is the sound of one hand clapping?" - people with one hand clap by slapping their hand on their thigh, so it sounds a lot like 'hambone.'
"If a tree fell in the woods and no one was around, would it make a sound?" - it does, because I actually found myself in those woods once, when no one else was around, and it almost landed right on me.
"What is the meaning of life?" - spaghetti (with or without meatballs.)
"How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?" - none. He doesn't have opposable thumbs.
"What's the greatest rock band of all time?" - KISS, of course.
"What was the best episode ever of Happy Days?" - the one where Fonzie jumps over the sharks on water skis. That guy could do it all!
and
"Which would win in a fight... a gorilla or a bear?" - a gorilla.

And that's that.

It really wasn't that hard. I don't know what the big deal was all about.

I'm glad I'm on my journey. It's cool finding out about stuff, even if it's so difficult for so many other folks. I'm going to stay on this journey, I think, for awhile more. I've got some other answers I've got to figure out, like "What's the best scent of air freshener to use in your car?" and "Creamy or Crunchy peanut butter?" I love them both!

So I'll continue my personal barefoot journey, and hopefully I'll find myself in new and interesting places. I'd like to find myself awakened in a pile of Benjamins one day... And if I happen to pick up a splinter in my bare foot, I'll just summon the power of my personal savior and continue on the time-limited, non-eternal search for answers. "Jesus H. Christ that hurts!"

Theory of an Expanding Universe... or - My Waistline

I believe my love of eating is genetic. I can never remember not loving to eat. It's not something I 'grew into,' which only leads me to believe I was born with it. As a young lad, I know I ate plenty. I remember snacks at all hours of the day consisting of everything from bing cherries to Cheez-whiz on crackers (or- when desperate - taken mainline straight from the pressurized container into the esophagus.) Saturday mornings were the stuff of legend, with entire boxes of Frosted Flakes inhaled before the hour of 8am, usually straight from the box. Ding Dongs, Twinkies, even those oft-reviled Snoballs were pounded regularly before my second foot entered the kitchen door after school.

Despite this relentless gastric attack, my body never relented. I was thin as a rail, skinny as a whip - all arms and legs with a bony ol' chest and hips that barely supported my plain pocket jeans with patches on both knees. I could eat ten pounds of non-nutritious garbage a day, and at bedtime I'd be two pounds lighter and starving for a bag of JiffyPop.

This phenomenon perfuddles (if you don't know what this means, read my earlier blogs, lazy!) me in my state of older age. Mind you, I never gave it a second thought in my teens, twenties, and most of my thirties. But at some point after my accomplice-to-childbearing years, I began to notice my rail was less thin, and my whip was far less skinny. I figured there had to be a logical and reasonable explanation for all this. So after at least a solid night's research on the subject, I gave up and forgot about it until a few days ago. By this time Wikipedia was invented, the internet was on computer, and my ability to thoroughly research the source of my perfuddlement was secured.

After another long night of beer drinking, all-star-celebrity poker reruns and serious internet research, I've arrived at the answer.

Let's start at the beginning with some basic science I learned on Wikipedia. The reason I was so skinny throughout my childhood and early adulthood is because I had a very rapid metabolism. This word, it appears, is from the Latin root "bolis" meaning things in your innards and "meta" meaning a whole, helluva lot 'em. As it turns out, scientists (known then as "barbers"- which, of course, was accurately depicted in a SNL skit with Steve Martin in the scientifically advanced 1970's) were accurate in their belief that living things inhabited your innards and helped you digest your food. In young people, which I was once one of, these innard-dwellers run amuck, eating everything that comes down the chute. Picture thousands of Pac-Man-type critters lurking in your intestines, waiting for that next surge of Cheez-whiz or undigested Suzy-Q.

Wikipedia went on to explain that in healthy young 'uns, of which I was one, these critters living in your stuff did everything from helping regulate your weight to causing you to talk back to your parents, which I sometimes did. Thanks to the joys of internet research, my entire childhood was explained in one all-encompassing click!

Apparently, however, some people lack these little regulators inside them. Reasons for this (according to various scholarly posts on the site) include a lack of sleep, wearing underwear that's either too loose or too tight, and living in the wrong zip code. Luckily my stars aligned in my youth. My underwear fit just right, and I lived in a zip-code that was metabolically friendly. Thus, some kids were chubby. I now realize that chubby kids weren't the result of eating too many oreos dipped in chocolate milk and whipped cream. I apologize wholeheartedly for my ignorance in this matter. I understand now that it's probably their moms' fault for living where they did or not checking their Fruit of the Looms.

Consequently, I am now able to piece together the misconstrued nuances of my current physical state. I now realize (according to someone named 'gdawg69' who posted a scholarly Wikipedia study)that my current weight 'condition' is not my fault at all. Apparently sometime after my fortieth birthday, the innard critters need rest. They take vacations and go on sabbaticals and such. There's less of them left around to take care of all the stuff heading down my intestinal track. So it appears that I'm getting a bit heavier. Well, I am actually, but I learned it's not my fault. I've just got less help inside me to help me metabolize all that wonderful grub.

There are obviously varying schools of thought on how to counter this condition. You can take the word of so-called 'experts' in the medical field who quote their research and statistics that 'prove' that a combination of diet and regular exercize can bring your weight back into 'healthy' proportions. Or you can put your faith into the wisdom of our 14th century forefathers, passed along to the current generation of computer-literate Gen Y'ers who are obviously a lot more informed about this subject matter than I am. I choose this route. After all, the internet brought us the wonders of eBay, YouTube, and eBlogging! And I know that I trust everything I write on this blog, so I might as well bank on the wisdom of gdawg69. I wouldn't lie to you. And I'm sure he (or maybe she) wouldn't lie to me!

So, as I rest my laptop on my expanded belly, I know it's just a matter of time before my little crumb-eating regulators return from their sabbaticals, ravenous with a long-awaited hunger for more crumb cake and little smokies. I know then my figure will return to an outline quite similar to my rail-thin boyishness. I have faith in the findings of ancient science and Latin-root derivations posted online by my newfound scientific heroes.

You can sweat in the heat while you walk around a paved track in the county park, counting your calories and monitoring your portions. I'll stay on my course as well. I might not be able to see my toes right now, but I know that my metabolizing friends will return. And when that day comes, I'll drive by you as you walk the trail, roll down the window of my air-conditioned car, and give you a silent salute of pity with my Pepsi and my SlimJim.

Requiem for the original fly tyer

I missed a call from my dad when I was in the middle of something at work the other day. A missed call from my dad can be anything from "I'm hungry. Let's go out to eat at Macaroni Grill" to "Come over after work so I can show you where I keep my will." Consequently, I always call him back as soon as possible.

On the phone, he told me that my Uncle Frank just died.

Now, every boy has those special people in his life, those adult males that he looks up to and just thinks are flat-out cool. (And you can't count your dad, because he's in the inner circle, every day. It had to be someone outside that circle.) I had two. My Uncle Dan is my mom's little brother, and he'll be written about later for sure. My Uncle Frank was on my dad's side and wasn't my uncle at all. My dad was the youngest of a bajillion siblings, and my Aunt Dorothy was actually his niece, and was about his age. She married Frank, probably when they were adults, and he became my dad's nephew. When I was born, he was as old as my dad, so he instantly became my uncle, although Ancestry.com would only identify him as my cousin.

In my youthful eyes, Uncle Frank was the man. Ever since I can remember, my folks would get together with him and my Aunt Dorothy on weekends and play everything from golf to cribbage, from Skittle Bowl (Google it - better yet, just buy it on eBay!) to tennis. He taught me to fish. We started on the lakes at Busch Wildlife area catching catfish on chicken livers and bass on plastic worms. Now, these were no ordinary plastic worms. Uncle Frank made his own freakin worms! He even loaned me the molds, the plastic pellets and the heater to melt them. Good Lord I concocted some psychadelic worms. Never caught a darn thing with them, but man was it fun!

I used to hang on his every word. He was incredibly funny. His jokes had jokes. He broadened my horizons. While my friends were stuck reading the TV Guide, Uncle Frank had me learning the first stanza from 'The Jabberwock' ('Twas brillig in the slithy toaths... is that right?- that was from memory from about 30 years ago.) He had a reel-to-reel tape recorder from the 40's or 50's that was in pristine condition. I had never seen one before. He let me talk into the microphone at slow speed, then he'd play it back and let me hear myself as a chipmunk. Way cool! He taught me an F#m chord on the guitar before I ever had an inkling to play. He sang some kind of hilarious song from the 40's at my request. I can't remember the lyrics, but it ended like this: "You may think - this is the end - well it is!" Hilarious! And he loved Pepsi. I have no idea if my addiction to Pepsi is owed to him or not, but I do know that it was encouraged by him. There was ALWAYS a cold bottle of "Peps" in the fridge.

He was a walking mail man and always offered up larger-than-life stories about his high adventures on his route, including ultra-fascinating epics involving vicious dogs that succumbed to his personality and pocketful of dog treats.

And he had this trout mounted on the wall above his TV set. It was a beautiful rainbow trout, 5 pounds even, caught at Bennet Springs State Park. It was beautiful and always well-dusted. And draped over the wooden mounting board was the fly he caught it on. When I first saw it, as a very young lad, I thought it was an actual bug or piece of lint or something. As I grew older and bold enough to ask, I learned that he caught that monstrous fish on that nearly microscopic fly. And thus began one of the passions of my life.

The greatest thing my Uncle Frank ever did for me, and the thing for which I shall be forever indebted to him, was to teach me how to fly fish. It took several years of build up. Lots of stories about monster fish and Hemingway-esque battles filled childhood years. Then, when I was ten years old, Uncle Frank told me he was going to teach me how to fly fish. It was very much like Mr. Miagi and the Karate Kid. It started with some backyard lessons involving a fly rod with a piece of cotton tied to the tippet. He set up a Jarts (YES JARTS!) ring by one of the chain link fences and taught me the art of flycasting. One o'clock, wait for the line to tighten, ten o'clock, let it fly. He was critical, like Miagi, but still funny.

While he taught me how to cast (patiently untangling every bird nest of fly line and tippet), he taught me how to fish. He explained how trout feed, waiting in the current behind rocks and next to logs, stalking a feeding lane and expending minimal energy to inhale their food (which is about 90% insects smaller than my pinky nail.) He taught me to cast silently upstream from the feeding fish or likely hot spot, allowing enough distance for the fly to sink and smack the picky thing right in the shnoz.

When I had learned to drop the cotton into the JARTS ring, imagining the pounding a 50 pound trout would give my cotton ball (I had high hopes as a boy) Uncle Frank told me it was time to learn to play the fish. Wow. This was complicated. So I cast into the ring. Uncle Frank grabbed the cotton ball and imitated a gargantuan rainbow, pulling the line tight. He yelled at me, "Rod tip up! Hook the line under your index finger! Rod tip up!" He let me play him into me, then told me to cast it back out and we did it again and again.

The sun was setting, my hands were cramping, and Uncle Frank needed a Pepsi. WAX ON was complete. WAX OFF began next week.

The next lesson was knot tying. He got out fishing line and taught me several knots with fancy fishing names, something like "blood and guts knot", "shephard's pie knot" and the all-important "hammer jowl lock knot" (or something like those.) After a few weeks of practice, I had just enough ability to NOT KNOT my fingers together. I was ready, at least ready enough.

We went to Bennet Springs. We left at 3am so we could get there for the siren, which sounds every morning and evening to officially announce the beginning and ending of the fishing day at the park (and wake up the siren ringer's ex-wife out of spite.) Oh, did I cast my arm off that day. I cast all morning. I cast all afternoon. I had a couple tugs, but hooked nothing. I was frustrated. I was young. I thought I was in over my head. I couldn't believe I woke up at 2am, ate cold egg sandwiches in the back seat at 4am, stood in freezing water up to my hips all day, cast until my shoulder almost separated, and was going to go home empty handed.

Uncle Frank to the rescue. He went to the far side of the stream in mid-afternoon, after he had fished next to me all day and caught a gazillion fish, which he promptly released. He watched the water through polarized lenses and gave me a Jack Buck-esque play-by-play of the underwater antics of my foe. "Easy... he's turning... he's looking at it... NOW! NOW!" I set the hook several times, several seconds late.

Then, miraculously, he yelled "NOW!", I pulled up on the rod, and felt something akin to a small boulder on the other end of the line pull back. I panicked as the line zipped through my fingers, and the fish, which must have been at least 35 pounds, took off away from me. My cheeks started throbbing, and I realized my heart had lept up through my throat and into my mouth.

"ROD TIP UP!!!!" he cried from the far bank. Oh, geez, that's why I practiced. I pictured a yellow JARTS ring downstream and lifted my rod tip. This time, however, that stupid fish kept pulling back. He pulled a lot harder than my Uncle Frank, who I guessed weighed about 175. So by my logic, I had a fish hooked that weighed at least 180 pounds. COOL! I'd be the hit of the school when I lugged that thing in on a wooden plaque!

But my fingers, hands, elbows and knees were trembling so much, things weren't going as smoothly as playing my Uncle Frank in the back yard. This thing was tearing me up. I'd pull him in a few feet; he'd take off and try to pull the rod out of my hand. I'd inch him in a few more, and he'd dive to the bottom of the hole. Several times I heard him taunting me, I swear, like Flipper would do if he got caught in a net or something.

And after what seemed like 2 hours, Cardinal's hat drenched with sweat, I held the net in my trembling left hand, leaned forward into the water, and scooped up the exhausted fish. I held it up, and Uncle Frank whooped it up. It was a half pound monster. How a midget fish could put up that much of a fight was beyond me. But who cared! I landed my first trout!

Uncle Frank was there with the camera, and took the picture of me and my first trout which still stands on my dad's basement bar. The smile on my face was priceless to this day. I didn't mount that fish, but I'm sure it tasted good out of my mom's skillet.

This story was courtesy of my Uncle Frank. It's a shame that I'm writing this after returning from his funeral. I hope you have access to blogs in heaven, and I hope my Uncle Frank reads this and understands what a huge part of my life he was.

Thank God for false alarms!

When I shower, I'm separated by three barriers: the bedroom door, the bathroom door, and the shower curtain. I figure that if there's a security breach in the outer perimeter, I've still got two layers between me and any potential threat to my privacy. Let's face it, in a house with three teenagers roaming rampant, scavenging predator-like for food and money at all hours, privacy is a top-tier commodity. I have a new respect for the gazelles in those nature shows that have to eat, drink and pee with their eyes rolling in all different directions in case some hungry lioness is looming in the high grass (which just so happens to resemble the grass in my lawn.) Honestly, sometimes the bathroom's the last safe haven of the watering hole I call home - the last refuge for a frustrated reader and alone-time-seeker. If it wasn't for the bathroom, I'd never get anywhere near the midpoint of the books I'll never finish.

Some time ago, I was basking behind my triple layers of safe privacy, whistling the theme from Sanford and Son and loving life for my eight solitary minutes under the shower head. Suddenly and without warning, came the sound of the security alarm.

"HONEY!"

The perimeter had been breached!

"HONEY-YOU'VE-GOT-TO-GET-OUT-HERE-RIGHT-NOW-THERE'S-A-BURGLAR-OUT-THERE!"

Keri was an extremely loud and fast talker when she breached the perimeter.

My sense of panic was significantly less than hers. Maybe it was the soap in my eyes, or perhaps it was the memories of past 'intruder alerts'- (Keri: Honey, there's someone in the house. Go out there and check it out. ME: Isn't that what we have the dog for? Let's wake him up and send him out.)- but I was really more concerned with making sure I got the soap out of my nooks and crannies (I hate soap in my crannies) than I was of burglar hunting. But, recognizing the need to be the man (albeit grossly under-dressed) of the house, I cut short the theme from Laverne and Shirley and threw shorts over my wet body. I walked through the perimeter, shorts dripping and leaving wet footprints in the carpet, to be greeted by Keri, who immediately threw me in front of her in the hallway.

"He's in the garage," she whispered frantically. "There was a huge crash, and I think he's trying to break in the door."

I made it to the dining room. Keri was long gone. I saw before me three teenagers in various stages of hilarity, stalking through the room with butter knives, wooden spoons and what I think was a chiselled-down dog bone, securing their own perimeter and peaking out the window.

"There was a huge crash from the garage," came a voice of teenage wisdom, at which point they resumed giggling and crept in line behind me. Now, granted, I'm not a fan of being burglarized or pilfered from in any way. But their giggles caused me to worry even a bit less than I might have. We crept to the garage door. I readied my fist - why? I thought it seemed appropriate. I eased the door open and reached my hand into the garage to turn on the light.

Peeking into the garage, I witnessed a sight almost too horrible to mention. The shelf had collapsed, and there in front of me was strewn tools and other implements of destruction across the garage floor. Ultimately, the little box with the dozen compartments to hold nails and screws and such had fallen, and there were thousands of nails and screws and such all over the garage floor. It seemed like they lined themselves up all around the car tires too.

I would rather have had the burglar.

Theoretically, I guess, that was a false alarm. Thank God we weren't burglarized. The flat tire I got later that week from a nail in the tube was nothing compared to losing something of real value, like the laptop or the Magic Bullet. But there was, I must admit, a true sense of relief at not having to worry about being burglarized.

And recently our house was blessed with another false alarm. (Well, a couple actually if you count the keys we found (that we thought were lost) in - of all places - the bottom of Keri's purse.) But in order to describe this 'near miss', I must warn you that I'm going to be describing things that are almost too horrible, too grotesque to mention in polite conversation (which, of course, I have very little of.) I'll be delving into the deepest, most forlorn depths of the human psyche to relate a tale so utterly devastating you might not recover after reading it.

The sound from the TV went out a couple days ago.

The amount of panic that permeated the house was staggering. Panic on multiple levels and of extraordinary degrees.

"Why did the sound have to go out?!?"
"My God! Did you try turning it all the way up???"
"WHAT ABOUT THE MUTE BUTTON!?! FOR GOD'S SAKE SOMEBODY HIT THE MUTE BUTTON!!!!!"
"When are we getting a new TV? Will it be HD? Can I have the new TV in my room and use the old one out here?"

I must admit, when I first found out the sound didn't work, I was a little disconcerted as well. "I guess I'll have to watch the World Cup games without the cheesy commentary..." But, after several moments of reflective introspection, I began to think of just all the possibilities presented by a television-free household. Conversation. Music. Dinners at the table. Wow. That would be old school.

When Keri found out, she seemed to share my momentary glimpse of what could be. Then we looked at each other, rolled that bad boy away from the wall, and unplugged it to hopefully use the magical "reset" feature that worked several times in the past. (What the hell happens when you unplug the thing anyway? Do the magic TV gnomes have instant access to slip into the casing and rewire things?)

And, of course, we immediately got in the car and headed to Best Buy.

"Well, I suppose we should just go look and see how much we're gonna be lookin' at, I suppose."

We scoured the walls of flat screens before us and each uttered the same phrase at the same time: "These things are freakin' expensive." Holy crap, it's been awhile since we bought a new TV. It felt more like we were buying a car. Do the guys in blue shirts take you into the back room, where you're expected to haggle a little, and they go to their boss and bring you back a counter offer scribbled on a napkin?

After several minutes of listening to some guy talk about screens, and calibration, and pixillation, and I believe something about plaster of paris, my brain began to hurt and I faked a leg cramp. (Actually I had a real leg cramp earlier that day from dehydrating after spending several hours in the overheated garage on the hottest day of the year fixing the shelf that collapsed during the last burglary attempt.) Keri and I decided we'd at least figure out what size TV we could get by with. We already agreed on the first level of the purchase: We couldn't afford any of them, and would the kids notice if we replaced the TV with a toaster, which we both agreed, we could afford. So we walked further away from the wall and decided how far we usually sat from the TV, which was about five feet. Hell, from that distance we can get the tiniest screen they had up there, which the Best Buy scalliwags had hidden around the corner, nearest the warehouse and sandwiched between some models that had probably been around to receive the broadcast of the first lunar landings.

We decided that if we put some artwork around it, it really wouldn't look that small. And if we used the right color scheme, it would really make it 'pop.' So we spent the night in the living room, listening to music and reading, each of us wishing the TV had sound. I had moments of nostalgia and longing for all those hobbies I've been wanting to take up: model training, whittling, dog training. Eh, but let's face it. Those things are better when you do them in front of the TV.

And when I walked out of the bedroom the next morning, and I saw the teenager on the couch, and I heard the guy from Sportcenter discussing the overpaid NBA player, and I asked incredulously if the sound was coming from the TV, and he said, "uh, what do you think?" - well, I knew my hopes of learning to whittle would never progress beyond a sharp point on a stick.

For the sound had returned to the TV that day. And, oh, what a grand day it is indeed. And thank God for another false alarm.

Get out of town. No, really. Get out of town.

Remember when blackberries were nothing more than a fruit?

I do. I remember bowlfuls of them with sugar sprinkled over the top. I'd mix the around to make sure some of the sweet stuff got on every berry. And blackberry cobbler will always be my favorite, warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top. It's like a smile in a bowl.

These days when I hear the word "blackberry" I wince rather than smile. A couple years ago I 'received' (read "was forced to use") one for work.

"You'll be surprised how much more efficient you'll be and how much more you can get done with one of these babies." Those were the words that led to the phenomenon I refer to as the loss of anything that resembles any real escape from work. Resistance at that point was futile. I needed the job. I still do. So, instead of drifting off to sleep with the taste of warm cobbler flowing through my gullet, I check this ridiculous silver device to make sure the little red light isn't flashing. Who knows, I could be triple-booked at 8am, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it because it's already midnight and the people who scheduled me don't care about the knots forming in the middle third of my intestinal tract.

Many years ago, when I was a man in my early thirties, I suffered from debilitating stomach aches. These things would double me over in pain, cause me to adjust my breathing, and sometimes keep me from eating (which is a fate worse than death itself to many of us- well me, at least.) I was referred to a GI doc who ran a series of tests on me. Now, I learned through the process that a GI doc has nothing to do with the army. I thought maybe my regular doc - who of course I trust with my life, as he's been to areas of my body that even I wouldn't venture - wanted me to go to an army doc. I'm a trusting suburbian. Sure. Why not. Just tell me what's wrong with my stomach.

I learned that, in fact, GI in this context has nothing to do with "GI Joe" or "GI Jane." It in fact stands for gastro-somethingorother, which must be Latin for "let's stick lots of tubes into your nether-regions and see what's shakin'." After much probing and prodding and drinking vile liquids so the intestinal superhighway is free of debris and rubble, I met with GI Rodriguez. I almost saluted, but he was wearing a white coat and sitting on a rolling chair looking at what must have been results of my innards'-pounding tests.

"Your intestines are perfectly clean. Very good, in fact."
"Wow. So no cancer or ulcers or anything?"
"Nope. Nothing at all."
"Hmmmm. Then what the hell's wrong with my stomach?"
"Well," he said, sort of like the man-behind-the-curtain in the Wizard of Oz. "What do you do for a living?"
"I work with severely emotionally disturbed kids in a treatment center."
He dropped his pen and laughed.
"HA! YOU HAVE IBS!" It was like he discovered a new element on the Periodic Table and was going to name it "Rodriguezium".
I was perplexed and befuddled. I was perfuddled.
"You know what IBS is?"
I shrugged perfuddledly.
"It stands for Irritable Bowel Syndrome."

He went on to explain in medical terms how IBS was in fact a medical condition in which thousands of tiny rodents invade your intestinal tract and perform military maneuvers around your insides. They do obstacle courses, firing ranges, grenade lobbing, claw-to-claw combat, and even mess hall dining all up-in-ya, which ends in your intestinal tract being tied up in knots. Or something like that. It's pretty similar, I suppose, to the birdnests of knots I have to untangle any time I want to use an extension cord at my house.

At any rate, he let me know it was stress-related. So all I needed to do was live a monk-like, stress-free (and probably low cholesterol) lifestyle, and I'd NEVER have to worry about a bout of IBS again. I began to picture myself snorkeling for conchs off Fiji, but when I realized the conch market isn't all it's cracked up to be, I went back to work, so I could pay my DirecTV bill. Watching reruns of "Little House on the Prairie" is about as stress-free as I get.

So with the addition of this wonderful Blackberry, I realize I have an additional diagnosis: IJS - Irritable Jowl Syndrome. It happens frequently at night after feasting on a late-night snack of metallic Blackberry. Those rodents storm into my head and work their ways down to my jawbone. There, they slide it back and forth, causing my teeth to grind without my knowledge of any of it. When they're done see-sawing my jaw, they pour concrete into the hinge so I can't move it when I wake up. Then they flee to parts unknown, probably back to my bowels where they'll start their five-mile hike during my 8am meeting.

I was losing hope quickly, when I realized the answer was there all along. When problems get overwhelming, when life's answers seem out of reach, when the rodents have taken over your body, when molehills have been mountains for months, there is only one solution.

Leave.

Get out of town.

Never mind the old Chinese proverb about 'how do you eat an elephant?.... one bite at a time' or 'a thousand mile journey begins with a single step.' Screw that. Who wants to eat an elephant or walk a thousand miles anyway? All I want is for my guts to stop hurting and my jaw to open so I can yell at the dog in the morning.

So, we rely on the genius of perhaps the greatest invention ever known to man. No, I'm not talking about electricity, the wheel or even fire. I'm talking about the sick day. Ah, yes, the sick day. That wonderful excuse to throw every seed of responsibility to the wind and sow your oats at a location to be determined later. If you didn't know, it's impossible to sow any oats if your intestines are knotted or your jaws are concreted shut. Trust me; it is. And even if the fields of your life seem barren, seeds still need to be sown, dammit. Seed-sowing is biblical, you know. Don't mess with that biblical stuff. Sow those seeds. Take that sick day and sow those seeds, preferably out of town somewhere where the rodents can't find you and your Blackberry loses its signal.

And one of the best ways to sow seeds out of town is to pretend like you're someone else, especially a foreigner. Foreigners sow some great seeds. Put on a funny shirt and make up a name and accent and introduce yourself to Fern the waitress as Ivan Bytchurcockov, Russian man-at-large.
"Oh my," Fern would marvel. "What's a man-at-large do, anyways?"
"Vell," you'd reply in your best faux-Communist dialect, "a bit more than a man-at-small but a lot less than a man-at-XL does."
With that you'd toss a ruble on the table and hit your four-wheeled seed sower and drive further out of Blackberry range.

And if you can make it to Fiji, try snorkeling for conchs for a day. I hear it's great for the bowels and jowls.

Graceland

I never understood Elvis. Sure he could sing, and of course there was the wavy hair and boyish charm. I missed him in his prime. My parents were too old. It was just bad timing. I was born in 1964. My parents enjoyed music, but only easy-listening remakes. So I thought “Love Me Tender” was originally done by Andy Williams and “Suspicious Minds” was written and performed by the Ray Conniff Orchestra and Singers. It took me well into my teenage years to understand that many of the songs I had come to love were not written for a full orchestra and female chorus. After hundreds of childhood listens, I only appreciated the original version of “Teddy Bear” after concerted effort at fact-finding and source-seeking.

I remember the day Elvis died. The only reason it remains even vaguely in my mind has nothing at all to do with the man himself or his effect upon me. Rather, I remember seeing my neighbor Marilyn on her back porch that day visibly upset. I asked dad, “What’s wrong with Mrs. F--?” and he replied with some unenergetic reply about how she must be upset that Elvis died, because she was a huge Elvis fan. He was pulling dandelions from the back lawn. That added at least an extra hour to the mowing, and I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just mow and spray, like the rest of the neighbors. But he always pulled the weeds. His lawn was lush beyond belief. I remember that a lot more than anything about Elvis.

And the subsequent boom of Elvis-mania never made sense to me either. The Elvis mystique eluded me. I didn’t own any Elvis records. I didn’t want any paraphernalia associated with the King. And I never gave a second thought to ever having an iota of desire to visit his home in Memphis. This never changed (although last year I did buy his CD of 30 number one hits, most of which I’ve heard, but still don’t know well enough to sing along.) Visiting Graceland was something that people from Tennessee or Mississippi did. It made no sense to me, a suburban St. Louis kid content with his daily doses of classic rock and strip malls.

But earlier this week, driving south on I-55 through Memphis to get to Florida, Keri spotted the billboard for Graceland. I barely noticed it. In fact, I ‘un-noticed’ it. I glimpsed a sequined Elvis with some slogan next to him and looked away. “Hey, let’s go to Graceland on the way back!” she stated. She was happy, giddy with the sun. I was in a great mood too, away from the grind of work and the complaining of kids for almost a week while Keri went to training in Pensacola. What did I care if we wasted a few hours and probably way too much money for a few hours in some cheesy tourist trap in Memphis? One thing I know with certainty about myself is that I’m not opposed to blowing some money foolishly on vacation. If you can’t do that, why bother going anywhere anyway?

“Sure, honey. Absolutely.” I only half-believed it when I said it. She often forgot where she puts her car keys, so I wasn’t about to believe she’d even remember wanting to go several days from now. Florida here I come! But her spontaneous comment planted some sort of spore of an idea, and the soil in my mind must not have been so barren as to prevent it from at least partially germinating. Graceland, huh? Well, I’d think about that after the sunburn and dolphin sightings.

Honestly, I thought about it off and on throughout the week. The interest, dare I say excitement, built incrementally each day of my overcast yet relaxing week in the panhandle. On the eve of our return, I googled ‘Graceland’. I was resigned on blowing the fifty six bucks admission fee and undisclosed parking charge in a relatively guilt-free fashion.

“What do you think about going to New Orleans on the way home, honey?”

What? This was more than just forgetting where she left her car keys. There was a little bit of hope-crushing happening here. Despite my best efforts, I found myself needing to press my newfound desire to tap into this Elvis-drenched Americana I avoided for forty four years. I told her the truth. “I was kind of looking forward to going to Graceland, though.” I held my breath, not like a tantrum, just that hopeful breath-holding you do when you’re unwrapping the final present under the tree and hoping it’s the new sweater you’ve been secretly praying for.

“Oh, honey, that’s fine.” She was still giddy with the sun, apparently forgot all about Graceland, and was just happy I remembered something that she wanted to do. Bingo! I get to go to Graceland, avoid the self-stereotyping of having it be ‘my idea’, and can quench my ever-growing curiosity of all things Elvis. I couldn’t believe it, but I was excited about going to Graceland.

Did Elvis realize he lived in the slums? Well, I was glad enough to get to the parking lot and even overlooked my usual guilt at paying double digit dollars to park in a ‘secure’ lot. (Could the pimply-faced kid with the oversized walkie-talkie hanging from the wasteband of his Graceland-issued khaki’s really keep my car safe from the prowling neighbors I suspected were lurking just outside the haven of asphalt I stood upon?)

It was Graceland, for God’s sake, and I was here!

There were no overextended waiting lines or throbbing masses of humanity to wade through to reach the starting point. We were greeted by twin jets, his and hers I supposed, etched with the letters “TCB” on the tailfins. “Takin’ Care of Business” was apparently Elvis’ motto. I could only imagine that while the pilots were TCB in the cabin, the King was TCB on a sequined-leopard skin couch in the back. That rascally King. I smiled and savored my newfound pride in this American legend as Keri and I walked hand in hand past the flashing electronics urging us to purchase the VIP tour package so we could have instant access to Elvis’ car and jet collection. Maybe the parking fee had taken its toll, but somehow my sanity crept back from oblivion and glimmered at the surface. “How about just the mansion tour, honey?” Her feet were probably hurting already from the trek across the asphalt, and she gladly agreed.

One overpriced souvenier photo later and we were in line for the shuttle. I donned my Graceland mansion tour headset and began hitting buttons like a madman. It was an automated tour, I began to realize, and the buttons corresponded with stops on the tour. By the time I stepped onto the shuttle, I think I was listening to something about Elvis’ living room. I hunkered down in the seat, smiled at Keri, and prepared for a ride through downtown Memphis, ready to soak in the sights on my way to the mansion. One minute later, we were there. It doesn’t take long to cross a street with armed guards stopping traffic for you. Wow, the King rules even from the grave.

Not wanting to waste a precious cent of my admission price, I desperately tried to figure out my headset, which was offering static-laden verbage about pressing the red button to return to the main menu. The red on my button was probably shared by the fingertips of visitors from the 48 contiguous states as well as some pygmies from third world countries, because it sure wasn’t on my controller. I began to panic. Keri was smiling pleasantly and nodding along with something unheard as she looked at the mansion. The eastern European family behind me were laughing and yipping phonetically in their native tongue, obviously able to understand the English directions better than I, an almost-English-major, could.

“HONEY, IS YOUR THINGIE WORKING?!?!?”

It was the headphone phenomenon. You know, with the headphones on you yell loud enough for you to hear over the noise in your own headphones, which is actually loud enough to call for lions across the Serengeti plain.
She hit me in the chest, which was her way of saying, “I love you, but knock it the hell off ‘cause you’re acting like an idiot”.

I shrugged and mouthed, “…whaaaaaat????” and pointed at my headphone thingie. She rolled her eyes and offered a nonverbal ‘harumph’, which was both an exclamation of exasperation and victory. She hit the red button -where’d that come from? – and I was miraculously transported to the front of the mansion, right where I was standing!

Now that was my kind of mansion. It wasn’t as gargantuan as I thought it would be. Apparently the King maybe started as just a Prince or maybe an Earl and then worked his way to the top, upgrading along the way. It was like a mansion version of suburban sprawl. Not so huge in itself, but it just kept going! The rooms were like walking through an antique store in which you couldn’t touch anything and if you haggled about buying something, some uniformed assistant would gladly escort you outside the mansion and hit your red button for you.

It’s probably impossible to leave the mansion without secretly wishing you possessed at least several of the things that were displayed tantalizingly behind the bullet-and-camera-proof plastic display windows. On the drive home, I kept fantasizing about the gold jumpsuit and the obnoxiously elongated white couch. Boy could I build a room around that.

But after we put a few miles between us and the King’s palace, I began to realize that TCB for me meant finding the nearest Chic-fil-a and hoping it had a clean bathroom.

On spontaneous Chicks and Eagles

When I was in grade school, I had to take swimming lessons at the YMCA. I hated it. The building was old and ramshackle and even at that young age I could tell that it was full of hoosiers. I was scared to death of drowning. (It must have been genetic because apparently my mom almost literally drowned during a swimming lesson at the same Y when the instructor told them to enter the water, and my mom - being the trusting Catholic girl raised on a farm - promptly jumped into the deep end. She sunk like a rock and had to be fished out with that long hooky thing. She was fine, but she never did learn to swim.) Well, I guess she wanted a better, more aquatic life for me, so she insisted on the lessons.

Those lessons ruined many after-school football games on my friend's zoysia; they ruined numerous Saturday morning cartoon fests; they got me sick in the winter when I went home with wet hair on a frigid day; and they made me hate that building to this day!

But there was one positive about all those lessons (ok, ok, besides the fact that I actually learned how to swim passingly.) I carry a memory and a love from the drives to the lessons. I can picture a sunny Saturday morning, begrudgingly sitting in the front seat of the 74 Chevy Nova, the silver bomb. The A.M. radio was tuned to 63 KXOK, home of the hits. And then I heard it. "One of these nights. One of these crazy, ol' nights." Oh my. I loved that song. To this day I love that song. Something clicked. Something emotional, primal, musical, whatever. But I remember, all those years ago, hearing that song for the first time and loving every moment of it.

That was the first time I ever heard the Eagles. Well, I found out they were all over those A.M. airwaves, and I searched them out. As I got into late grade school and high school, I listened endlessly for them. I loved the Eagles. The guitars, the bass, the solos, the musicianship, and the tight vocals. I loved everything I heard from them.

And I still do.

But, though I went to a preponderance of concerts during my youth, I never saw them live. What a shame. As I hit adulthood and, later, middle age, I began to regret my youthful lack of initiative in the pursuit of an Eagles concert. What the hell was wrong with me? Why did I miss my chance? I always loved them. They came to town at least a few times in my concert-going prime. What was I (or more likely wasn't I) thinking?

Like my opportunity to purchase a pet rock, waffle-stomper boots, and a wallet with a chain, I blew it.

In my middle age, I resigned myself to be content with the "Eagles Farewell Tour" on DVD, which with each viewing made me only regret not seeing them all the more. When i found out that the cheap seats went for a hundred and fifty bucks on that tour, I knew I failed my quest. With private school tuition, car insurance, and ever-increasing anti-aging cream budget I was living within, Eagles' tickets were a dream tucked away in the box under the bed that I mostly forgot was there.

So when I saw the advertisement for their summer tour on the bus stop frame, I didn't give it a second thought. Well, actually I did. My first thought was "too expensive," and my second thought was, "why was I such a dumbass when I was younger and didn't have such expensive kids and I still had long hair and could fit in my cool jeans and could have gone and seen them when they were still drinking and had long hair and were really cool?"

At any rate, I never gave it another thought. Then, today at work, almost at the end of the day, I happened to strike up a conversation with a coworker. She's extremely nice, quiet, polite, friendly, and young - like about 30 - and has a little baby that's several months old and cute as a button (even from a crotchety middle aged man's point of view.)

I was making pleasant small talk.
"How's it going?"
"Great."
"How's your cute little one?" As a guy, I'm notoriously horrible at remembering what sex women's baby's are, much less their names or ages. I've given up trying to even pretend I remember those things.
"Well, tonight's her first sleepover with grandma away from me."
"Oh, wow, you must have plans, huh?" At this point, I'm figuring I need to end this conversation, because I'm beginning to lose interest, mostly due to hunger or thirst or both.
"Well, I'm actually going to the Eagles and Dixie Chicks concert tonight."
I must have drooled. I composed myself quickly.
"Really? Wow. I love the Eagles! You're so lucky!" I flashed back to swimming lessons, AM radio, and pocket combs.
"Oh, yeah? Well, I actually have two extra tickets, I think. Do you want them."
And just like that, there it was. A lifetime fulfilled.
"Nah. I don't think so. We've got plans tonight."
"Oh, ok then."
"Thanks anyway." I walked out of her office to the drinking fountain.

I really do believe in God, and I believe He affects our lives directly from time to time. So I think God inserted himself between my ears at that moment and said something to the effect of: "WHAT? Wake up, you freaking idiot! Do I have to strike you down with a lightning bolt? Jesus H. Christ you MORON, I'm practically handing them to you myself!"

Far be it from me to not heed God's calling. I turned on my heels and skulked back into her office.
"Hey, you know, I think we could probably cancel our plans for the night. Could I still have the tickets?"
"Sure!"

And just like that, destiny was fulfilled.

Not only was I going to see the Eagles, but I was going to see the Eagles SCOTT FREE! So Keri and I rushed home. She panicked over her hair and her outfit, as usual; and we paid too much for parking, but who cared? Our seats were ok, way off to the right side of the stage, but who cared? And after all the follicular fussing, Keri pulled her hair into a ponytail once we got to our seats.

The Dixie Chicks were outstanding!

And when the lights went down, and all the smokers ran like hell to get back to their seats on time, and the boys harmonized on "Seven Bridges Road" under a full moon and the soft glow of downtown luminescence, all those swimming lessons were suddenly worth it. Because if it weren't for those stupid lessons, and that one Saturday morning, the Eagles might not have meant so much to me; and I might not have been enjoying the fulfillment of a lifelong dream; and I might not have been yelling the lyrics to "One of These Nights" with Keri; and we might not have held our cell phones up for an encore because we didn't have lighters; and we might not have even cared about being there and went home and walked around the trail instead, as we usually do.

But I took those swimming lessons, dammit. And the Eagles were better than I could have hoped. I would have loved another hour of them on stage, stars shining above, harmonies lilting through the air. But I guess, like me, they've grown older. They probably had to rush backstage and take their prostate medication and blood thinners. But if it keeps them alive for one more round of "Desperado", then keep skipping that second encore boys. I'd like to see you one more time - even if it is on a new concert DVD.

Let's face it - he's one of us.

It's funny how we become entangled in the way we live our lives. I was watching a community of groundhogs (that's the same thing as a gopher, ya know) pop in and out of their holes and realized how much like my bucktoothed rodent friends I have become. I pop off the couch at various times during the day, graze around the kitchen or maybe the living room coffee table, nibble on some chips, then dive back on the couch when there's any sign of danger - danger being the likelihood that someone is about to steal my place on the couch.

And so it goes - jobs, hobbies, patterns, ruts, and habits lead us down their familiar paths and lock us in.

But every once in a while you do something that jolts you, that changes things up- for better or worse - and starts rewriting the pages of the life you weren't even thinking about editing because you weren't paying attention. That decision was made for our family by my beautiful wife this February. You have to understand one important attribute of my wife to appreciate her fully: she always gets what she wants, even if she doesn't want it. The most recent and significant realization of this occurred when she went on a three-month spousal barrage in which she requested, whined, researched, eye-batted, and pouted her way into a cute little puppy for a Valentine's Day present. I had to hand it to her. We got a Puggle for free. She went online and found a lady in a town an hour and a half away who was giving one away. Of course, she didn't supply us with a picture because she had "too much else goin' on to be postin' pitchers up on the intranet."

The ride there was hysterical. We didn't tell the kids what we were doing, just in case. We laughed through our apprehensions about the whole thing:
"What if it's only got three legs or a third eye or something?"
"She doesn't even know our names. We'll just ask where the bathroom is and get outta there."

But of course he was precious and perfect, and my wonderful wife came out smelling like roses (and Puggle after the hour and a half ride home with it on her lap.)

Preston Pugglesworth III joined our family that day. He was that spontaneous jolt of life-altering, rut-eliminating energy that started a new chapter in our family novel. In fact, he re-wrote it single-pawedly. He was cute beyond belief and so tiny you could hold him in the palm of your hand. My wife had me in the palm of her hand, and now she had a puppy there too.

But then the chapter took an interesting turn; the plot thickened; the main character began revealing his inner self to the audience.

Preston started growing up.

His cute little puppy yelps turned into obnoxious Beagle howls at the unsuspecting neighbors. His puddles and piles began popping up all over the house. His midnight pouncings totally rearranged our sleep habits. And he ate his poop.

Coprophagia is not, contrary to popular belief, an island resort off the coast of Italy. It's the scientific term for canine poop-eating; and what began as a cute little puppy exploring the makings of his little innards turned into a daily nightmare of a larger dog scarfing down his turds almost as they came out his rear end. It was quite disgusting. Cutest dog ever. Grossest, most disgusting dog ever. Yes, the reality of dog ownership was taking over.

Several months later, I sit here alone on the couch while Preston spends the night at the animal hospital, recovering from the neutering he received today. Snipped and clipped, he'll return home tomorrow. But tonight we had a taste of the old life, the pre-Preston life of luxury and ease, clean carpets and full nights of sleep.

I can't help but miss the little guy, though. Yes, we have to shy away from his cute little puppy kisses to the face, for fear of getting "the hook" (our euphamistic way of announcing to others that hookworm has already been successfully vanquished once in our household.) Yes, we have to smell some of the grossest, most disgusting farts we've ever smelled as he falls asleep on the ottoman and his bowels relax. Yes, we have to shield all garbage in triple-secure, NASA-grade trash containers. Yes, we have to follow him outside at 5am with a hand shovel to pick up his poop as it hits the ground so he won't eat it immediately. Yes, we have to listen to roll his water dish around when he's thirsty. And yes, come tomorrow, I'm sure we'll be watching him bang into the furniture with a cone around his neck because he refuses to leave his stitches alone.

He's a humongous pain in the neck. But he's our pain in the neck. I miss his little paws stretching out to touch my leg, just to make sure I'm still there. I miss watching him crawl under the bed to go night-night. He's disgusting, gross, and incredibly high maintenance. But he's cute, loveable, and flawed; and let's face it- he's one of us.

On surviving teenagers.

Upon marrying my second wife, I found myself in charge of - at one time - four teenagers, three boys and one of the other ones. As I write this, one has turned 21, and I can't legitimately claim him as a teenager any longer. I can, however, claim expertise in the area of not only raising teenagers, but surviving the ordeal. Doesn't it seem backwards to say it like that? Shouldn't I have said "not only surviving the, but successfully raising them and sending them to adulthood?" Yeah, whatever.

Ever try to live with a teenager, much less two, three, or four of them? Well, the 'raising' part is a cakewalk. They raise themselves. In fact, the growing up part seems to never end. You say goodnight to one about 10:30pm when you're too exhausted to outlast him, and he greets you about 12:15pm the next day, 6 inches taller and eating the entire box of Frosted Flakes right out of the box with a spoon. "Hey, pop, I need new shoes," suffices for the cute "g'morning" you used to hear before the evilness of puberty latched on to him and drew him down into a life of endless showers and money leeching.

Teenagehood is relentless. Typical days for parents of teenagers consist of waking up before them, starving for the omellette you were dreaming about, then finding the refrigerator cleaned out sometime after you went to bed. The sink is full of a conglomeration of dirty skillets, spatulas, napkins, half-eaten yogurt cups, and a sock. Of course there's only one egg left, so you make your toast and drink it with a nice cup of coffee. Coffee is an adult luxury that you can rely on, since it involves several steps and takes longer than a microsecond to make, both qualities that teenagers will never possess. If you don't drink coffee, then you learn to love ice water, because every other beverage in the fridge was also inhaled after you fell asleep.

You head off to work, and then wait unconsciously on the job for your cell phone to ring. You answer it expectantly and are greeted with, "Hey, dad, are you gonna go grocery shopping tonight cuz we're out of milk? Oh, and could you pick up some more of those frozen pizzas cuz the guys are comin over tonight? Oh, yeah, and could you spot me some gas money; I'm about on E." Good morning to you, too. Yes, my day is fine, thanks for asking. Of course you can have a friend over later. Why, thanks so much for doing those extra chores for the gas money. So after a hard day at work, you stop by the store on the way home, spending the last of your unspent money on frozen food that probably won't make it out of the grocery bag before it's inhaled.

Evenings are a flurry of cooking, straightening up, throwing laundry in some sort of machine that always seems to break or leak or both, pulling laundry out of a dryer, sorting through piles of clothes that you had folded and sorted yesterday, but have since been demolished and reorganized somehow on the floor or the top of the dryer, and driving teenagers places.

Let's talk about the driving. It NEVER ends. The amount of driving you do with teenagers is unfathomable. It requires its own scientific formula to appropriately demonstrate the disproportionate amount of driving to the hours in an evening. In fact, I believe wholeheartedly that the amount of driving a parent of one teenager does is scientifically impossible. I think the time spent driving a teenager around is actually GREATER than the amount of actual time present that evening. Add extra teenagers and the issue becomes a conundrum wrapped in an enigma sheathed in a perplexity. How is it possible? I'd love some Theoretical Physics major to tackle that one, please.

Ultimately there's the money lending. I 'use' lending loosely. Lending is something libraries do, with the expectation they'll be getting their books back. What parents of teenagers do is more akin to what Jesse James did to banks and trains. "Hey dad, how's about spotting me a Hamilton?" really translates to: "If you don't loan me twenty dollars, I'll park in front of your spot in the garage so you can't get out, invite Smelly Melly over for dinner every night this week, grow my hair over my eyes, turn my amp up two numbers when I'm 'practicing', and mess with the internet so only those of us under 25 will know how to get online." Here, take the twenty and leave everything else alone, for God's sake!

I know all this sounds like a lot of gloom and doom. But please remember that all of that just concerns raising teenagers. That stuff happens all over the country, every day of the year. Poor parents are succumbing to the onslaught of teenage-dom even as I write! So what's the answer? How do you SURVIVE teenagehood?

Easy. The answer is FOOD MAINTENANCE. Yes, you'll have to spend most of your second mortgage on frozen and carbonated food and drink items. That's been clearly delineated earlier. But I'm not talking about food maintenance for your teenagers. The secret to surviving life with your teenagers is taking control of your own food maintenance. I have discovered the secret, the Fountain of Eternal Parental Happiness. YOU MUST CHOOSE FOODS TO EAT THAT YOU AND ONLY YOU COULD EVER POSSIBLY ENJOY! Stop buying Frosted Flakes and expecting to ever eat a bowl of them. Think 'BRAN'. Teenagers are allergic to it; and with enough sugar (that you'll have to hide in your sock drawer) even bran is edible. I hope you've given up your youthful desires for pizzas containing typical pizza toppings like pepperoni, sausage, and extra cheese. Those delicacies will never make it past the gluttonous, ever-chomping jowels of your 14 year old. Choose instead those toppings despised by anyone under middle age, or perhaps vegans: artichokes, capers, leeks, and goat cheese. With enough practice and Beano, you'll learn to love those toppings that you once thought inedible. And finally, forget about ever making it to the fridge and finding a Hunt's Snack Pack of chocolate pudding for yourself. Tapioca is the key! Those little pearls of adult goodness send teenagers running for the Quick Trip.

So, hold your heads high, parents of teenagers. The secret is revealed: Dogs love it! They'll eat anything. And so can you.

Ode to Prairie Rehab

I always thought it would be a great gig to work for the highway department. I have an ultra-high-stress job, and I've always wondered what it would be like to be able to make good money and hold a sign with "STOP" on one side and "SLOW" on the other. I marveled at the amount of brainpower it must take and the stress level one must endure to avoid turning the sign at the wrong time and causing a devastating collision. What would happen if you inadvertently lost track of which side was which? Traffic bedlam and anarchy would ensue! But seriously, lots of days as I pass them on my way home from work, nails bitten to the quick and intestines tightened from another daily bout of IBS, I would trade with them in a heartbeat.

But my admiration for the highway department reached its pinnacle years ago when I began noticing the "Prairie Rehab" signs posted in the 'grassy' cloverleaf loops of the local interstates. Genius! I'm sure the heads of the highway department had a series of closed-door meetings to discuss the serious nature of how to best use the no-man's land in the middle of all those onramps. The conversations probably went something like this:
Head Honcho: What do we do with all the crap left over from the last highway expansion?
Lackey: What crap do you mean?
HH: You know, the left over gravel, rubble, tire shreds, bulldozer treads, two-sided signs, cones, and that seat that fell off the Bobcat.
Lackey: Oh that. I dunno.
HH: Hey, I've got it! Let's dump it all in the middle of that crappy area between the cloverleafs off the interstate.
Lackey: And bury it there?
HH: Bury it hell! We'll just dump it there.
Lackey: But people will complain. Won't it be unsightly?
HH: Unsightly hell! We'll let the grass grow around it. No one will see it!
Lackey: But there's no grass there.
HH: Grass. Weeds. What's the difference?
Lackey: But the taxpayers won't stand for overgrown weeds in the middle of their cloverleafs!
HH: Weeds-schmeeds. We'll slap a big metal sign on the edge of it that says "Prairie Rehab". Those tree-hugging suburban do-gooders will eat it up! Pretty soon, they'll be stopping their cars on the shoulder to look for wildlife! And you know what the best part is?
Lackey: No...
HH: We never have to mow it again! It's a "Prairie Rehab"! God forbid we mow through the natural flora!
Lackey: Genius!

Genius indeed. I'm so jealous of not thinking of that on my own. I am, however, not opposed to borrowing the idea for my own front yard. Think of the possibilities. Just slap a metal sign next to the curb that says "Prairie Rehab." The neighbors will think I'm a complete environmentalist. I'll never have to mow again! Folks can bring their kids to walk through a real prairie, just like Laura Ingalls! I could stand outside in overalls and pick a weed and stick it in my mouth, looking very nostalgic, while I DON'T mow my lawn. Dogs can mark that prairie all they want. I won't see it. I won't care! Even the rednecks on the block would appreciate it. ("Hey Ma! That wacky enviro-mental guy's a'lettin his grass grow. Now's the time to get rid of that old Ford in the driveway. We can just dump it in that there prairie!") If I push hard enough, perhaps I can gain status as a State Park and charge for parking along the curb. The possibilities are appearing astronomical...

Genius indeed. Thanks highway department. I might not ever experience the challenges of operating the two-sided sign, but I can still bask in the grandeur of your "Prairie Rehab" ingenuity.

Like watching your favorite uncle grow old...

I discovered Jason and the Scorchers in the mid-eighties. I was a guitar-playing college student with thick brown hair perfectly parted down the middle and feathered on the sides. I heard "White Lies" on KSHE 95 on a beautiful summer evening and heard the dj announce that they were actually in concert in town THAT NIGHT! Fortuitousness prevailed throughout my youth, and that night was no exception. My cousin was dating the owner of the bar they were playing. One call to her, and I was on the guest list. None of my friends were available, so I went by myself. I stood in the back, leaning against the divider of the under-21 section, and just like that my life changed.

We stroll, amble, peruse, stumble, trip, stagger, and run headlong through our own odysseys and things smack us along the way. Some we seek. Some seek us. Some occur through pure happenstance, but are none the less significant. Such was my experience that night.

That night I was absorbed into an unintentional musical phenomenon. Jason and the Scorchers rocked my world, while rocking the entire crowd at Mississippi Nights. They were loud, exciting, musical, and TALENTED. Hearing Jason's voice was akin to drinking your first beer. "I'm not sure I like this, but wait, maybe after another swig... yes, it's not so bad" and then, several Busch's later - ahhh. Not too shabby. Perry's drumming was hyperactivity without the Ritalin. Arms and legs flailing, tongue wagging, and vocals blending perfectly with Jason's. Jeff was the stalwart, iconic, solid-as-his-steel-strings bass player, stage right. But Warner, oh Warner, on the guitar- was the stamp without which the letter home could never be mailed.

Warner Hodges was (and still is!) the guitar-player's guitar player. Licks aplenty. Obnoxious skill and energy. A tone to die far. And showmanship that would make Hendrix arise and take notice. Cigarette hanging from his lip; long, black hair framing a face that mirrored the occasion of the music- serious as a Harvest Moon or playful as a bird out on a wire. He owned stage left. He prowled; he scowled; he laughed; he whirled with his guitar held parallel to the ground in a kind of ax-dervish; and he raised his eyebrows as he picked out an audience member, hit an open string,let it ring, and spun the guitar on its strap over his left should, past his right armpit, and back into his left hand, which picked up the run without missing a beat. And in case you didn't know he was no-bullshit, he wore SPURS on his boots. Nuff said. I was hooked.

I bought every record (yes, record) I could find of Jason and the Scorchers, of which there were dismally few. There's still not enough. Critics always loved them. They all seemed to think, "right band; wrong time." My opinion: there was never a wrong time for them. When I'd catch them in concert on each of the many passes through town, that confident feeling that they WERE the right band was always reinforced. Their shows were energetic, positive, affirming EXPERIENCES. How much could a bunch of young mostly white folks jump, sway, bump, high-five, backslap, sweat, and sing communally at maximum volume? A LOT! I always got there early. I always stood close to stage left. And I got their autographs on a concert jersey.

I haven't fit into that jersey in years. But I still have it.

And last night I thought of putting it on one more time. My wife, wonderful beyond belief, got me two tickets to their show when my free sources (like so many other things in life) dried up. It was an early Father's Day gift. And I'm not even her father!

I called Tom, my best friend of 30 years and fellow Scorcher-phile from the great ol' days. Tom, alas, has aged as I have. Seems his daughter had a birthday party. Priorities change as we get old. There was a time when we'd have ditched our girlfriends for a Scorchers show, but those days are long gone. So Keri, loving soulmate that she is, said she'd love to go with me. Now, please keep in mind that I've tried to Scorcherize Keri several times since I've known her. She's never been able to make it past the yodeling twang of one song before she excuses herself with the 'thanks but no thanks' smile. But she committed, and we planned it.

I showered at 5:30. She was already doing her hair and getting ready. "Why?" I asked, knowing that a Scorchers show is a dress-down affair. I knew her look, so I just cranked my Scorchers mix disc (I know, I know. Even CD's are outdated now.) I had a beer in the shower. Why not. It was almost show time! That's when I thought about my autographed jersey. It was a brief fleeting thought, extinguished by the grim reality that - like records and now CD's - my youth was also a thing of the past. Who was I kidding? I couldn't squeeze into that thing any more than the pair of stonewashed jeans I have snugged away somewhere. (Just kidding, honey.) So, with a sigh and another preparatory beer, I slipped into my relaxed fit jeans, button down wrinkly shirt, and my Scorcher-approved cowboy boots. I triple-checked the tickets. Keri triple-checked her hair. We said farewell to the kids and all other domestic obligations and headed to the show.

Two opening acts and a couple equipment fixes later, the Scorchers took the stage. Perry and Jeff were long gone. The band had been through intoxication, rehab, breakup and God-sworn dismemberment. But here they were, at least Jason and Warner. They were loud and they were proud.

But they weren't the Scorchers of old.

And it made me think of my Uncle Frank. My Uncle Frank taught me how to fly fish when I was ten years old. He taught me to tie my own flies and showed me the joy of catching a trout on a self-tied fly while laughing at those that didn't! He had several new jokes every time I saw him. He played guitar and owned a reel-to-reel tape recorder and would let me make chipmunk recordings on it by recording it slow and playing it regular tempo. He was a walking mailman and had fantastic dog stories about his routes. He was in the army when he was younger. He played stickball. He played tennis and golf and even made his own plastic worms for bass fishing! He owned the first trolling motor I ever saw. He taught me the first verse of The Jabberwock. He constantly made me laugh. And his car was always impeccably neat and air conditioned. But I got married, had kids, and saw less and less of Uncle Frank. Then one day several years ago, Uncle Frank had a stroke. He's been in a wheelchair ever since and has been in and out of nursing homes during that time. The fishing, the excitement, the neverending jokes, the external fires are gone. I'll love him forever; but things will never be like they once were.

The Scorchers were like my Uncle Frank. They had grown old. They could still rock hard, but the experience was much, much different. I loved every minute of it, but it was not like the Scorchers of the 80's. The volume was bearable (I didn't even pull the tissue out of my pocket.) They played an overabundance of songs from their new album, which is always disappointing live, as the sing-along effect is minimized. And they left out an enormous amount of classic Scorchers concert essentials. The show was great. But it was old. I wasn't sweaty, hoarse, or tired (unless you count the normal everyday fatigue I felt since it was 1 am, and my prostate was pushing me in the direction of the nearest urinal.) But i was satisfied.

And Warner, oh Warner, was just as good as ever. He whirled, he twirled, he owned, he ripped, and he wore his spurs.

Keri (as expected), hated it. But smiled and watched the whole show. (But she is the newest fan of Warner Hodges!) She was glad I had a great time. Of course I did. I love seeing my Uncle Frank. I always will. And I'll always love seeing Jason and the Scorchers, even if I'm not sweaty and can still talk afterwards.

Time to go home.

I live in the suburbs. I always have. But I have roots in the country. I'm kind of half-and-half. My mom was a poor country girl. My dad was a poor city boy. What better place for me than the suburbs - that hodgepodge of identity crisis whose battles consist of Sam's vs CostCo and Zoysia vs a hearty Rye blend. Not having the balls to commit to either the relaxed pace of the Ozark hills or the frantic, eye-twitching sleeplessness of bullet-ridden nights has landed me comfortably amid mega-malls and neatly manicured summer lawns. Genetic practicality has afforded me an ever-increasing skillset, including the ability to edge my lawn with a weed whacker rather than investing in an actual edger.

But I love to stick my toes into the waters of the extremes. I can't wait to go out to eat at an adventurous ethnic restaurant in the city, some place where the food contains ingredients I've never heard of and is cooked by people who don't live down the street from me and are maybe from a different country even. And I love to take trips to the country. I love to fool myself into thinking that I belong there, with the smell of cow manure and roadkill passing briefly through my open car windows, just long enough to remind me that I like the smell of smoke from the flame grill at Burger King a little more.

So I relished the opportunity to go train for my company in Small Town, Missouri for two days this week. Yes, back to the country for me. Earlier this week, I went downtown to a Cardinal's game and saw people working in the parking lot and concession stands that probably lived in the city. My urban fix was secure. So, I packed light - the camera, the book I secured from (where else?) Borders, and a Nutrigrain bar for the road - and I was off to educate our country cousins for a couple of days.

I was excited on the ride there. Company car, free gas and meals, and a free night at the Days' Inn. Hmmmm. The Days' Inn. I hoped it was up to my high motel standards. I'm used to the Holiday Inn Express, after all, with pillows labeled 'Firm' and 'Soft' and bathroom fixtures that they will actually sell you online. Now that's a premium on comfort, by God. I actually asked people at work if they'd ever stayed at the Days' Inn before I left. I didn't understand their lack of interest.

I arrived at the training facility, which was actually moved from the training room to a different building that housed a room attached to an actual horse arena, complete with obstacles for the horse (or whoever) to jump over. The smell was, well, equestrian. The sun was up, the day was hot, and the air conditioner was set to 78 degrees, which was about 8 degrees above the tolerable temperature in that particular room. So, with festering nostrils and sweating forehead, I trained the locals on our way of business.

I noticed during the training that eyeballs frequently darted from my presentation to the arena window. During a break I realized that there was a girl all decked out in horse riding garb atop a sleek-looking black horse of some kind. She had the funny hat, high boots, white pants, red jacket, and whip thing in her hand. The horse had white tape on both front shins. They looked fantastic. I watched as she led the horse gracefully to the obstacles, all of which the horse knocked down without ever leaving the ground. Wow. I leaned over to an observing trainee, who in hindsight was probably the girl's mother, and mentioned jokingly, "I don't know much about horses, but isn't the object to jump over those poles?" She wasn't amused. Maybe it was my suburban accent.

Training ended for the day, and I discovered to my great delight that my room at the Days' Inn was not only tolerable but downright comfortable. I showered away the arena sweat, grabbed the camera, and headed for the park just outside town to take some pics of the local scenery. The kind lady in the entrance booth informed me it would cost me five bucks to enter the park. What? I think I said that aloud. She smiled and said, "Y'all can turn around right there if you want?" So I (and whoever else made up y'all) turned promptly around and yelled, "Our parks in the suburbs are FREE!" Well, I yelled it in my head anyway. I am from the suburbs.

The next day I got adventurous for lunch and headed to McDonald's. I almost went to the local diner, but figured they didn't take my company American Express card, so I played it safe. You know me. Well, I was heading back down the two lane road to the facility, angus burger digesting pleasantly and the air conditioner maxed, when I saw him. Gross jeans and a grimy tank top with long black greasy hair looking right at me from atop his green riding lawn mower. Now mind you, this man was not sitting on a large tractor. This was just a small riding mower, so small his knees buckled over the edges as he headed down his lawn towards the road. I was driving 55. He was looking right into my windshield. I was driving 55. He was cutting his grass on a small riding mower and approaching the edge of his yard (not lawn) doing about 4, and looking RIGHT AT ME. I was driving 55, but now hitting the brake. He was ENTERING THE HIGHWAY FROM HIS FRONT YARD LOOKING RIGHT AT ME. I was swerving onto the six inch weedy gravel shoulder. He turned the small riding mower towards me, smiling a toothless, meth-infested smile as he caressed the inside of the yellow line while my company car with air conditioning maxed and flowing over my forehead blew past him at almost 55 miles an hour.

I think I laid on my horn when I was past his property line. That's just crazy. People in the suburbs don't play chicken with cars while riding a small riding mower with their knees buckling over the side. Good Lord. It was time to go home.